“I told you you should have gone with a toga.”
Louis stops fiddling with his cummerbund long enough to roll his eyes and mutter, “Whatever, you lazy fucker, I’m going to look like James Bond and you’re just going to look like an overgrown frat boy.”
“I think you mean awesome,” Niall corrects, twitching the hem of his toga so it billows around him.
“Good luck snogging Melly looking like that,” Louis says, eyeing the hastily thrown together toga. “That is literally one of your bedsheets, Niall.”
“Yeah, so? I watch movies, I know what a toga is. Come on, Tommo, the party started an hour ago, we’re going to miss all of the free beer.”
Rolling his eyes again, Louis makes a final adjustment to his cummerbund and buttons his jacket. He leaves the bowtie on the dresser, though. The tux looks just fine without it.
The party is in full swing when Louis pulls into the car park. He stares up at the building, nearly every light on the top three floors blazing so that it’s lit up like a beacon against the hazy London skyline. There are people silhouetted against the windows, but Louis can’t tell what they’re wearing from the ground level. He’s not sure what to expect from this party, had been skeptical when the memo had gone out that it was a black tie, lingerie, and toga party. Last year’s New Year’s Eve party had been a simple one - dressy casual with snoozy music, too many party poppers, and not enough hors d’oeuvres - but the neverending free booze and the chance to watch Liam from advertising get smashed and make a fool of himself by dancing on a table again was too much to pass up. Plus, he gets to wear a sick suit.
They can hear the music the moment the elevator doors slide open, something with a deep, resonating bass line, and Louis looks at Niall, wide-eyed. “Did we take a wrong turn and end up at a club?”
Niall shrugs. “I guess they learned their lesson from last year. We might not even have to hijack the music system this time.”
“Perfect,” Louis breathes as the elevator comes to a stop. He just wants to party for a few hours, then make his exit. He squares his shoulders and straightens his jacket, then steps out into the fray.
There are people everywhere, in various states of dress, many of whom Louis has never even seen before. He’s pretty sure most of them don’t work here. Then again, he hardly ever ventures out of his own department, so he can’t be sure. Louis nods at people here and there as he makes a bee-line for the alcohol on the other side of the room, somehow manages to make it to the bar without being stopped by anyone. As badly as he just wants a beer, he feels like he needs a vodka martini to complete the look. It will get him drunk faster, anyway, so Louis orders two and tosses the first one back, then takes the second to go.
Louis makes pleasant conversation with a few of his coworkers and a group of women from accounting who keep fussing over their cocktail dresses and losing track of the conversation, manages to find a table of canapes, and dances with Niall for a bit before he splits off and leaves Niall on the makeshift dance floor. Just over an hour till midnight, then he can go home and pass out. In the meantime, though, he just needs a short break from the thump of the music and Niall’s braying laugh.
It’s surprisingly quiet in the toilets, music muffled and the room quite empty when Louis enters.
He’s just zipping back up when the door swings open with a swell of noise and someone shuffles up next to him, shoes tapping loudly against the tile floor. Louis turns to see who’s walked in and just violated the code of the men’s toilet by taking the urinal next to him and is met with wide, green eyes and red lips stretched into a brilliant smile.
“Happy new year,” the guy grins, shaking long, curly hair away from his face. “You look sharp. Sorry, do you mind holding this for a minute? I don’t really have any place to keep it and it’s kind of a hassle, getting out of these things. Don’t want it to fall in.”
He indicates his legs with the hand clutching a pale pink phone, and Louis’ gaze drops. He nearly chokes when he sees what this boy is wearing, manages to catch himself just in time and disguise it as a sneeze.
“Bless you,” the guy chirps, wiggling his phone in Louis’ direction.
Cheeks flushed, Louis chokes out, “Let me just...” He scoots toward the sinks to wash his hands, then shuffles back over to take the phone, eyes still locked on the guy’s legs. His gorgeous legs, clad only in a pair of black thigh-highs held up by a silky black garter belt. He’s wearing heels, too, sparkly gold things that make his legs look endless. Mouth dry, Louis raises his gaze, careful not to peek at his bits while he has a wee, and finds that the boy has got on a sheer corset-type thing with delicate lace flowers woven into it.
“Is it too much?” the guy asks, smiling wryly at Louis as he turns around and catches Louis staring. “I’m not really one for a toga, and this sounded fun.”
“No,” Louis croaks, voice embarrassingly hoarse. “No, it’s - you look. Nice.”
“I think I’m the only guy here in lingerie, but.” He shrugs and heads over to the sink, twisting to get a glimpse of himself in the small mirror. “I’ve had this basque for ages and no chance to wear it, so I figured why not.”
Louis finally gets a look at the complete outfit while the guy is drying his hands, from the lacy basque to the silky black panties to the little bows on the garter clips that are holding up shimmery thigh-highs. He drags his gaze back up to the guy’s face, to bright eyes and cherry red lips parted around a pleased grin.
“You look lovely. It’s a good look,” Louis rasps, handing him back his phone.
“Yours, too,” the guy says, looking Louis up and down. “I like the ‘no bowtie look’. You look like James Bond. Handsome and rugged.”
“Good, that’s exactly what I was going for,” Louis says with a wink, pleased when the boy laughs in response. “Do you work here? I know I’d remember if I had seen you before.”
“You flirt,” he giggles, smiling so hard his eyes have squinted up into happy little slits. Louis’ not sure how he manages to look like a cherub and a pin-up at the same time, but it’s working for him. “I’m in the fashion department. ‘M Harry Styles.”
Louis raises an eyebrow at that and Harry rolls his eyes, still smiling.
“I know! Yes, it’s my real name, and no, I didn’t plan it that way. It was just meant to be, I suppose. What about you...”
Harry looks at Louis expectantly, so Louis holds a hand out, says cheekily, “Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson.” He grins at Harry’s guffaw of laughter, completely and utterly charmed. When Harry places his hand in Louis’, he does it without thinking. He lifts their clasped hands to his mouth and brushes a lingering kiss against the back of Harry’s.
Harry’s gasp echoes in the small, tiled room, and Louis pauses, lips still pressed to the back of Harry’s hand, eyes locked on Harry’s wide, green ones. Before either of them can respond or make a move, the door swings open, letting in a sharp burst of noise, along with Liam from advertising.
“Oh.” He stops short in the doorway, eyes slightly unfocused and swaying gently on the spot. “Hello Harry, Louis. Are you...”
“Just leaving,” Louis reassures him, smiling easily as he drops Harry’s hand and shifts his own to the small of Harry’s back. Louis guides him around Liam and out of the toilets, pauses just outside to shout, “Did you want something to drink?”
He doesn’t remove his hand, and Harry leans back into the touch as he nods. Hand still low on Harry’s back, they squeeze their way through the crowd toward the bar. Louis gives up on the martinis and orders a beer, and Harry asks for a glass of champagne in honor of New Year’s Eve. His smile is bright, eyes sparkling and locked on Louis as he takes an experimental sip, then declares it delicious.
“It’s the perfect mix of sweet and bubbly,” Harry declares, tucking his arm through Louis’ and pulling him aside so they’re next to one of the windows, an easy surface for them to rest their drinks on. “Now dance with me.”
Harry kicks his shoes off, then whirls around and fits himself to Louis’ front. Throat suddenly very dry, Louis gulps down half his beer before setting it aside and fitting his hands around Harry’s hips, a cautious first touch. Shaking his head, Harry grasps Louis’ hands and pulls them around his waist, tips his head back so he can whisper in Louis’ ear, “You can touch me, I don’t mind.”
Louis suppresses a shiver and pulls Harry closer. He’s not going to argue when he’s got a pretty boy wrapped up in his arms. They spend the next hour huddled in the corner, nursing their drinks and grinding to the music, Harry’s bum pressed snugly against Louis’ crotch and one arm looped around the back of Louis’ neck. The lace of Harry’s basque is pleasantly rough under Louis’ hand where he’s got it splayed across Harry’s belly, keeping him close. It’s boiling hot, but Louis’ not sure if it’s the temperature of the room, or if it’s Harry.
Whatever it is, he has to let go of Harry for a moment so he can set his beer down and shed his jacket. Harry watches him with hooded eyes, cheeks flushed and hair mussed. One of the straps of his basque has slipped off his shoulder and his nipples are hard, pressing against the lace despite the heat in the room. Lust rumbles low in Louis’ belly. He nips the champagne flute out of Harry’s hand and sets it aside as well, so that he can tug him in chest-to-chest and wrap Harry’s arms around his neck.
He likes this much better, likes being able to see Harry’s face, the hazy glint to his eyes, the way his lips part and his tongue slips out to wet his lips when Louis’ hand slides lower on his back, fingertips skimming across the sliver of skin between the bottom of the basque and the top of his panties. Louis barely registers it when the room begins to chant a countdown, vaguely hears them roar ‘ten, nine, eight.’ Harry’s fingers are in his hair, twisting and tangling and scratching lightly at his scalp as he strains closer and tips his chin up.
‘Four, three, two -’
Louis closes the last bit of distance between them just as someone blares a horn and confetti streams down around them, but everything fades to silence the moment Harry parts his lips underneath Louis’ and moans. Tugging Harry in even closer, so they’re crushed together from head to toe, Louis deepens the kiss, nearly bending Harry back from the force of it. Harry answers him right back, hands grasping desperately at Louis’ shoulders as he strains to get even closer. He shivers when Louis slides a hand down to grip his bum, fingers slipping against the slick satin, and presses back into his grip with a pleased little hum.
“Fuck,” Louis wheezes, wrenching himself away so he can look at Harry, wild-eyed, chest heaving. Confused, Harry’s eyes flutter open and he blinks up at Louis, hazy and blissed out.
“What?” Harry pants. “What’s wrong?”
Louis laughs, the sound tinged with hysteria. “Nothing, darling, you’re.” He groans when Harry ducks down to nip at the side of his neck, bites out, “You’re perfect.”
When Harry lifts his head again, his eyes are sharper, filled with intent. He arches his back and rolls his hips against Louis’, murmurs, “I think there are some empty offices behind us.”
“Fuck,” Louis repeats, leaning in for one more rough, hurried kiss before setting Harry back and reaching blindly for his jacket. He wraps it around Harry’s shoulders to try and hide the way his half-hard dick is straining against the thin material of his panties, then leads him over to the door Harry had indicated, hopes that no one is watching as they slip through the door and into the secluded office area beyond.
They have to try a few doors before they find one unlocked, and they shuffle into the small space quickly. Harry locks the door behind them, then Louis crowds him against it with hands bracketed on either side of his head, hips pinning him to the wood.
It's dark in the room, only weak lamplight filtering in through the small window to cast pale shadows along the planes of Harry's face, but Louis can see that he looks wrecked already, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen, hair a mess of curls tumbling over his shoulders. He's gorgeous, standing there in his delicate lingerie, eyes heavy and locked on Louis’ mouth.
Before Louis can kiss him, though, Harry is pushing Louis back a step and sliding to his knees, chin tipped up so he can keep his eyes on Louis’ as he fumbles open his flies. His eyes are wide and liquid in the weak light, lips a vibrant red despite his lipstick being long gone. Want unfurls in Louis’ belly, spidering down his limbs until his fingertips are tingling with it. Unable to help himself any longer, Louis buries his hands in Harry's hair. It's just as soft as it looks, curls wrapping around his fingers like ribbons, and he doesn't miss the way Harry shivers when he tugs a bit.
Eyes still locked on Louis’, Harry leans in to nose at him through his pants. Louis’ hands clench involuntarily in Harry’s hair, earning him a moan that goes straight to Louis’ dick. He’s already embarrassingly hard just from the sight of Harry on his knees in front of him. Harry’s chest is straining against the fitted lace of the basque, material stretched tight across his soft hips, the little satin bows of the garter belt catching faint light from the window. He’s like nothing Louis has ever seen before, and he wants so acutely, he can barely breathe. Shaking his head, Louis slides a hand around to thumb at Harry’s bottom lip, lets out a breathless laugh when Harry parts his lips and slips his tongue out to meet it. He’s obscene.
“This is going to be over embarrassingly quickly,” Louis whispers.
Harry’s eyes glitter with the challenge. He nudges Louis’ hand aside so he can duck down and mouth at Louis’ cock through the thin cotton of his pants. Louis’ eyes flutter shut and his head tips back, every nerve in his body focused on Harry’s mouth, on his tongue, on the faintest scrape of teeth along the underside of his shaft, muffled through the damp cotton. He feels Harry’s fingernails scrape against the skin of his hips a few moments later as he tugs his pants down, tilts his chin back down so he can watch Harry wrap a hand around the base of his cock and close his mouth around the head.
“Fuck,” Louis hisses, belly clenching at the sight, at Harry’s wide eyes, his lashes casting long shadows over hollowed cheekbones, at Harry’s plush lips stretched tight around his cock. That one syllable quickly turns into a string of unintelligible curses when Harry swallows him down in one go, eyelids fluttering as the head of Louis’ cock hits the back of his throat. “Oh, fuck,” Louis chants, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Harry pulls off of him with an obscene slurping noise, eyes watering but looking well pleased with himself. “It’s a skill,” he rasps before wrapping his lips around Louis’ dick and taking him down again.
Louis watches, transfixed, as Harry’s head bobs between his legs, his cock pushing further into Harry’s mouth with every move. It’s too much at once, warm, wet heat and blindingly hot pressure as Harry’s cheeks hollow around him. Louis’ not sure he can stand much longer, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already about two seconds from coming, embarrassingly quickly, just like he had predicted. He’s about to close his eyes and ride his orgasm out on feeling alone when he hears a rustle of fabric, looks down to see Harry with his panties shoved down his thighs so he can tug desperately at his own cock, head already slick and shiny with precome.
“Harry,” he groans, fingers clenching into fists in Harry’s hair. Harry whimpers, cock twitching as he pulls himself off, and that shoots Louis over the edge.
It is, inarguably, the best orgasm of Louis’ life, thus far. Harry sucks him through the aftershocks, doesn’t pull off until Louis’ oversensitive and has to ease back himself. Louis takes two seconds to tuck himself back into his pants, then drops to his knees before Harry and tugs his hand away so he can wrap his own around Harry’s dick. Harry slumps forward, forehead resting on Louis’ shoulder as he slowly shakes apart. Hand tight on Harry’s cock, Louis sets a punishing pace that has Harry trembling against him. He slides his free hand up and down Harry’s side, scratching lightly across his belly and thumbing at his nipples through the thin lace of the basque, until Harry is being pulled in so many directions, overwhelmed with stimulation.
Heat is pouring off of Harry and his limbs are shaking, soft noises bursting from his mouth, muffled against Louis’ tuxedo jacket. Shushing and soothing him, Louis slides his hand up Harry’s back and buries it in his hair, uses his grip to gently tug Harry’s head back so he can kiss him. Harry’s head falls back with the tugs on his scalp and he comes with a loud, shuddering moan, spilling hot over Louis’ knuckles. Louis kisses him through it, kisses him until the tremors have subsided and they’re just breathing into each other’s mouths.
Louis wipes his hand on the carpet without thinking and wraps both arms around Harry so he can gather him close. Harry’s gone all loose, hazy and pliant, and his head lolls against Louis’ shoulder when Louis pulls him onto his lap. He strokes his hand up and down Harry’s back in broad gestures, nuzzles the soft hair at Harry’s temple and murmurs, amused, “You’re a bit useless after sex, aren’t you, love?”
Harry just mumbles incoherently, burrowing further into Louis’ embrace and mouthing absently at the side of Louis’ neck. Louis buries a grin in Harry’s hair and settles on the floor so he’s leaning back against the desk. He figures they have a bit of time before they have to show their faces again, may as well get in a good cuddle.
He’s humming quietly, fingers still tripping up and down Harry’s spine, when Louis’ phone starts to buzz insistently in his pocket. Frowning, Louis decides to ignore it. It doesn’t stop, though, just keeps on vibrating. So, grumbling only a little, Louis shifts onto his hip so he can wiggle his phone out of his pocket and glare at the screen. It’s Niall.
Sighing, Louis hits accept and lifts the phone to his ear. “‘Lo?”
“Where the hell are you, Lou?”
“I’m...” Louis trails off when Harry starts to stir, watches quietly as Harry lifts his head and blinks sleepily up at him.
“You wanker, did you leave without me? If you left without me, I’ll steal your mouse and hide all of your tea, I swear to god, Tommo -”
“Christ, shut up,” Louis laughs, cutting off Niall’s tirade. He brushes a hand through Harry’s hair, pulling the tangled curls off his face. “I’m just back in one of the offices, what do you want?”
There’s a pause on the other end, and Niall’s voice is amused when he says, “It’s gone one in the morning, Lou. Who’ve you got back there with you? I’m coming back -”
“Fuck off, Niall, I’ll be out there in a minute, just wait a sec.” Louis ends the call and drops his phone to the floor so he can cup Harry’s face with both hands and kiss him, soft and sweet. He pulls back a millimeter to murmur against Harry’s mouth, “I’m sorry love, I have to go.”
“‘S okay,” Harry murmurs, stretching languidly in Louis’ lap. “I should probably head out, as well, my flatmate was expecting me back an hour ago.”
They struggle clumsily to their feet and take a few minutes to straighten clothes and hair, to try and make themselves look as presentable as possible. Louis is afraid it’s a bit of a lost cause. There’s a patch of drying come on his trousers and several runs in Harry’s thigh-highs, and their hair is mussed beyond repair. Shrugging, Louis tugs Harry out of the office and back toward the door to the party.
It’s just as loud as when they left, the party still raging on. When they slip through the door, there are a few whoops and cheers from the people nearest them, but Louis just rolls his eyes and squeezes Harry’s hip before letting go to try and spot Niall. Louis shuffles around a bit, trying to see over people’s heads, but they won’t stop bloody moving. He finally spots Niall by the vacant bar and waves him toward the elevator, then turns to face Harry, except -
“Harry?” Louis calls, looking around him. Somehow, he’s been swallowed up by the crowd of dancers without realizing it, and Harry is nowhere to be seen.
Louis fights his way back toward the door to the offices, but he’s not there, either. Teeth sunk into his bottom lip, Louis cranes his neck to try and find him from there, is considering wading back out into the crowd in search of him when his phone starts to buzz again.
“Yeah,” Louis answers vaguely, still looking around for Harry.
“Come on, Louis, I’m by the elevators. Let’s go before all of the other parties get out and we’re stuck in traffic for two hours trying to get home.”
“But I -” Louis cuts off with a small noise of distress. He hadn’t even gotten Harry’s phone number.
“Are you coming, or do I need to come get you?” Niall asks, impatience apparent in his voice.
“Fine,” Louis sighs, disappointment weighing down the corners of his mouth.
He keeps his eyes peeled as he works his way toward the opposite side of the room, but it’s no use. Harry has disappeared. There’s a vague, unhappy tug in his gut as the elevator doors slide shut and they begin to descend, but Louis ignores it. He can feel Niall staring at him, eyes boring into the side of his head, but Louis steadfastly ignores him until they’ve gotten into the car.
“Soooo,” Niall draws out, but Louis just shakes his head. “Was he fit?” Niall asks, but Louis ignores that, too.
He can’t believe he hadn’t thought to get Harry’s number before they left the offices. Trying to lift his own spirits, Louis reasons that Harry does work for the same magazine, so even though he’s never seen Harry once in the three years he’s been working at the magazine, he figures that if it’s meant to be, they’ll see each other again. Hopefully before the next New Year’s Eve party.
Louis leans back in his chair with an almighty groan, arms stretched toward the ceiling and ankles cracking as he rolls them underneath his desk. He’s been sitting hunched over his computer for the past three hours, working on a piece about the upcoming World Cup and the English national team. He’s got about half of the article written, but he desperately needs a break so he can pee and make some tea.
It’s been three weeks since the New Year’s Eve party, and he’s thrown himself into his work so that he won’t have as much time to think about it. About Harry in his pretty lingerie, about Harry on his knees for him, about Harry cuddled up in his lap, all sleepy and fucked out. About losing Harry in the crowd afterwards, before he’d had a chance to even get his number.
Sighing heavily, Louis shoves his chair away from his desk and clambers to his feet with a groan, knees protesting. He needs to get out of this office for just a few minutes. Venturing out into the hall, Louis pees first, then stops by Niall’s office for a quick chat on his way to the little kitchenette. It’s quiet in the kitchen, everyone either locked away in their offices or out of the building. Humming quietly to himself, Louis walks straight over to the kettle and flicks it on, before grabbing a mug and tugging the basket of tea bags over so he can sift through them. The water is only just beginning to boil when he finishes sorting the bags with a frown.
“Oh, bollocks,” he mutters, shoving the basket back and scowling around the room. They’re out of his favorite tea. He has to either drink something else, or venture to another floor and grab a bag from another department’s kitchen.
Louis takes a moment to weigh the pros and cons, grumbling at the unassuming basket stuffed full of peppermint, Earl Grey, and chamomile. Who even drinks chamomile? “No one, obviously,” Louis mutters to himself. “That’s why it’s all that’s left.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Louis flicks the kettle off and heads back out of the kitchen toward the elevators. He heads up a level, rather than down toward marketing and advertising. He doesn't trust Liam in advertising to have the good tea.
The floor above is a flurry of activity. There are people hurrying from one side of the floor to the other, offices to studio and back, dragging racks of clothing or carrying boxes and bags and enormous file folders. Louis is nearly mowed down by a woman with her face glued to her cell phone as he tries to find a clear path to the kitchen, and he scowls after her when she doesn't apologize or even acknowledge his existence. Luckily, he manages to get to there without further incident, and ducks inside with a sigh of relief. No wonder he’s always been warned to avoid the twelfth floor, it’s a madhouse.
Louis is halfway to the tea kettle, a determined set to his jaw, when he realizes he’s not the only one in the kitchen. He pauses mid-stride, heart stopping in his chest when he realizes who’s stood over by the tea, watching him quietly. Louis curses himself internally for not preparing for this possibility. He hadn’t even glanced at himself in the mirror beforehand to make sure he doesn’t look like shit. Butterflies begin to flutter madly in his belly and he takes a hesitant step forward, says with as much mustered bravado as he can, “Hiya, Harry.”
“Hi, Louis.” Harry smiles shyly at him, hands clasped tight around a steaming mug.
It’s only been three weeks since their night together, but Louis swears Harry has gotten even prettier. He doesn’t have any makeup on this time, that Louis can tell, just what looks like some tinted lipbalm and a bit of red polish on his fingernails, but his hair is long and lush, and he looks fresh and beautiful, peering up at Louis from behind his tea.
Harry leans back against the counter and crosses his legs, and Louis’ gaze drops to take in his outfit. His leopard print button-up is sheer and billowy and his jeans are sinfully tight, hugging the curves of his thighs like he was sewn into them. Louis has sudden flashbacks to New Year’s Eve, to the sheer, lacy basque and the thigh-highs, held up by a slim, silky garter belt. He thinks about that outfit every day. Louis swallows around a sudden bolt of lust, has to tamp down on images of himself hefting Harry up onto this kitchen counter, of Harry’s legs wrapped around his waist, Harry’s mouth, Harry’s body under his, soft and supple and giving.
Louis shakes those visions from his mind and takes another step forward, clears his throat awkwardly. “How’ve you been?”
“Good.” Harry nods toward the door, says, “Pretty busy, with only a few weeks until London Fashion Week. Lots of preparations to do.”
“Oh, yeah,” Louis responds softly, “I can imagine.”
Harry cocks his head and moves aside, giving Louis room to get to the kettle. “What about you?”
Louis only hesitates for a moment before approaching the counter. Harry hadn’t moved far, and Louis can feel the heat from his body as he turns the kettle on, then sifts through the cupboard for a mug. He hadn’t thought to bring one from his own kitchen.
“It’s not been too bad,” he replies, ducking his head to riffle through the bags of tea. He needs a distraction; Harry smells heavenly and is too close after two weeks without. He looks up with a noise of triumph once he’s found a sachet of Yorkshire, wiggles it happily at Harry. “We’ve run out downstairs, so I’ve come to nick one from you lot. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Harry murmurs with an amused smile, dimples flirting prettily in his cheeks. Louis wants so badly to tuck that one loose lock of hair behind his ear, kiss that pretty smile. He takes a step back, instead, and busies himself unwrapping the teabag and setting it carefully in his mug.
There’s not much room left for small talk before the kettle clicks off, and Louis tries not to let the relief show on his face. He’s rubbish at small talk, and Harry is all too tempting. He puts undue concentration into filling his mug with water, then sets the kettle carefully back on its stand and backs away.
“Well,” he clears his throat, holding his mug up in cheers, “thanks for the cuppa. I’ll bring the mug back, promise.”
“Anytime,” Harry says sweetly, a curious expression on his face. “Don’t be a stranger, Lou.”
Louis’ eyes go wide at that, and he just gives a jerky nod and turns to go, not quite sure how to respond just yet. What does Harry want, he wonders as he darts across the room, trying to get back to the elevators without spilling his tea on anyone. Does he want to be friends? Does he want to have sex again? Does he want to marry Louis and have his babies?
Louis rolls his eyes at himself as he steps off the elevator and back onto the safety of his own floor. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters to himself. “He doesn’t want to marry me, he barely knows me.”
Heaving a sigh, Louis sets the borrowed mug down on his desk and slumps into his chair with a shake of his head. Fantasies can wait; it’s time to get back to work.
By the time Louis resurfaces, the first draft of his article is complete, there’s a wicked crick in his neck, and it’s completely dark in his office, save the glow from his computer monitor. He looks around in confusion, doesn’t understand where the light has gone. It’s only when he sees the clock in the corner of his screen, tiny numbers reading off 7:32 PM, that he realizes the sun has gone down and he hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t bothered to turn on the overhead light.
“Fuck,” he mutters, sitting up slowly to try and ease the stiffness out of his spine. He pokes at the mug on his desk, frowns down at the cold dregs of tea sitting at the bottom. Now that he’s finished the first draft, he’s quite ready to go home, but he feels like he should probably wash and return the mug first. Especially now, while it’s after hours and there’s less of a chance he’ll run into Harry again. Not that he doesn’t want to see Harry again, he wants nothing more. He’s just nervous, is the thing. He needs time to collect himself, to formulate a plan.
Pushing back from his desk, Louis saves the article, then gathers up his things, grabs the mug, and heads out. He’ll just go up to the twelfth floor, wash and return the mug, then head straight home.
It’s dark when Louis exits the elevator, the only light coming from the kitchen and one of the offices toward the back. Louis heads straight for the kitchen, grateful that he doesn’t have to deal with the chaos from the afternoon. He sets his wallet and phone down on the counter, then moves over to the sink so he can wash the mug. He’s just rinsing it out and turning toward the drying rack to set it down when a voice says from the doorway, “Louis?”
Louis jumps, heart pounding in his ears and thundering in his chest, and whirls around, dripping mug still clutched in his hands. Fuck.
“Harry?” he says weakly, willing his heart rate to slow down.
Harry’s eyes are wide, cheeks pink, and he takes a few steps into the kitchen, hand held out in front of him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, it’s.” Louis clears his throat and tries again, attempts to lighten the atmosphere a bit by joking, “It’s fine. I was creeping around, anyway. Deserved it, didn’t I?”
Harry cocks his head, lips curling up into a smile. “What are you still doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Louis counters, smiling to let Harry know he’s just messing with him. Shrugging, Louis holds the mug up, waves it back and forth in the air. “Was just returning the mug I borrowed. I stayed late to finish an article.”
“Me too. Well, I was working on a spread and inspiration hit, so I just rode it out.”
Louis tries not to think about Harry and riding in the same sentence while he watches Harry approach slowly, doesn’t move a centimeter when Harry stops in front of him. They stare at each other in silence for a moment, the dripping mug like a physical barrier between them. Louis shifts his weight from foot to foot, not sure why he’s so nervous, but this feels... important, somehow. Harry feels important, and Louis doesn’t want to fuck it up by being too assertive, too flirty before he’s gauged what exactly Harry wants from him.
In an effort to break the heavy quiet, Louis lifts the mug and waves it through the air between them. “Where do you want this?”
“I’ll take it,” Harry responds, reaching out for the mug. He sets it on the drying rack beside the sink, then touches the tips of his fingers to Louis’ wrist. Heat spreads from those small points of contact like wildfire, and Louis feels his lips part, hopes Harry can’t feel the way his heartbeat has sped up again. The rhythm of his pulse seems to spell out important, every beat, every letter like a tattoo against his ribcage.
“Hey, do you want to come see my spread? Maybe give an outsider’s opinion? I can’t decide if I like it or not...” Louis feels himself nodding without being completely sure of what he’s agreeing to. He just knows he’d do whatever Harry asked, as long as he stays close, as long as he keeps touching him. Harry’s answering smile is beautiful, and he breathes, “Great, thank you. It’s a pretty big spread, and Vicky’s entrusted me with it completely. Scary.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Louis says without hesitation as he follows Harry out of the kitchen and toward the lone office with its light still on.
He takes a moment to look around before following Harry around his desk. It’s a tiny office, one much like the office they’d snuck into on New Year’s Eve, with a small, rectangular window, a desk that takes up half the room, an extra chair, and a narrow file cabinet tucked into the corner. Despite the lack of space, Harry has managed to make it his own, leave his imprint on the room so that it feels snug and homey. He’s draped scarves across the window and hung colorful, artsy prints on the wall. There are a few knickknacks here and there, pictures of himself and who Louis assumes are family and friends on various surfaces, and two rainbow-colored stuffed bears sitting on the window sill, overlooking the small room.
Harry watches him as he looks around, eyes soft and face lit by the glow from his computer. Smiling, a little bit in love with this small office and the stamp Harry has left on it, Louis scoots around the edge of the desk and crowds in next to Harry so that he can see the computer screen.
“I like the bears,” Louis comments, nudging Harry with his elbow. He smiles at the bark of laughter Harry lets out, pleased he was able to make Harry laugh like that.
“Thanks.” Harry points at one, then the other, explains, “The big one was a gift from my secret Santa last year, and he needed a friend.”
“Naturally,” Louis agrees, looking down at Harry where he’s now leaning on the desk, one hand bracing himself and the other on the mouse.
Harry glances up at him, eyes bright, and murmurs, “Of course.”
Silence drags on for a minute, heavy and thick, before the computer’s screen saver flickers on. Blinking, Harry clears his throat and turns his attention back to the screen. He clicks around a bit until he’s found what he wants to show Louis, then starts to explain.
“So, this is a spread for London Fashion Week. We have model photos already, but we’ll add runway photos once the shows are over. I thought we would start off with Saint Laurent, since they’re set to be quite popular this season.” He indicates toward the screen, where there’s a photo of a woman in a floral printed romper. “See, we’ve got the spring line here.”
He clicks through a few of the photos, explaining some of the pieces, but Louis’ attention wanders, and he finds himself watching Harry’s face, rather than the screen. It takes Harry a few minutes to realize, but when he does, he trails off, smiling sheepishly.
“I’m sorry, I’m boring you, aren’t I?”
“No,” Louis whispers, shaking his head. There’s a soft smile on his face, one he can’t seem to control or hide.
“I am. You could have said something, I wouldn’t have been offended. Promise.” Worrying his bottom lip, Harry lets go of the mouse and straightens up, expression apologetic. “It’s late and I’ve been keeping you. You can go, don’t worry about it -”
Rolling his eyes, Louis cuts Harry off the only way he can think to - he grasps Harry’s hips and yanks him into a kiss. Harry melts into it immediately, hands coming up to grip Louis’ shoulders and lips parting on a sigh.
Louis sinks into it, sinks into Harry. He wraps his arms around Harry’s narrow waist and turns them so he can crowd Harry back against the desk and slot himself between Harry’s thighs, kisses him like he’s drowning and Harry is his only source of air, his lifeline. Harry kisses back with fervor, with the same sort of desperation Louis feels, and Louis loses track of time, loses track of everything but the feel of Harry’s body beneath his own, the soft noises Harry is making, the desperate cling of Harry’s arms around his neck.
Harry’s shirt is soft and thin beneath his palms, but Louis wants it off, wants to feel Harry’s skin against his own, wants to kiss along the edges of the butterfly he saw tattooed across Harry’s stomach on New Year’s Eve and suck marks into the laurels along his hips. He slips his hands around to Harry’s chest and pauses with his fingers on the top button of his shirt, a silent question. Harry’s only response is to fist his hands in the back of Louis’ shirt and tug until Louis leans back and lets him pull it over his head.
Harry traces his fingers across Louis’ chest and stomach distractingly while Louis works on the buttons of his top, and by the time he’s got the last one undone and is sliding the shirt off Harry’s arms, he’s trembling, skin hot everywhere Harry has touched him. He’s so hard he aches, cock straining against the front of his jeans, but he just. Needs to get his mouth on Harry first.
He ducks down and closes his mouth around Harry’s nipple without warning, satisfaction rumbling in his belly when Harry gasps and arches back, moans filling the small room and filtering out into the hall. He’s so sensitive, responding to every press of Louis’ fingers, every flick of his tongue and scrape of his teeth. Louis nips his way across to Harry’s other nipple, biting and sucking until it’s puffy and red and Harry is squirming against him, soft, desperate noises falling from his mouth in a constant, steady stream.
Ignoring Harry’s soft pleas, Louis does exactly what he had been fantasizing. He pushes Harry back onto the desk so he can get his mouth on the butterfly tattoo, traces the wings with his tongue and sucks vivid red hickies into the unshaded spots along the edges. He can feel the hard line of Harry’s cock where his hips are pressed to Louis’ chest, and he leans into it, lets Harry grind against him mindlessly for a moment before leaning back and letting go of him completely.
He waits until Harry blinks his eyes open and looks up at him, confused. His voice is thick and throaty when he asks, “Louis?”
“What do you want, love?”
“You,” Harry murmurs, reaching out for him and wiggling his fingers impatiently. “Want you.”
As tempting as Harry looks like this, shirtless and hard and spread out across his desk, Louis doesn’t give in. He wants to know what Harry expects from him tonight, how far he wants to go. How far he will let Louis go. “How?”
Harry lets his head fall back, and he arches his back, reaches a hand down to palm himself through his jeans. Louis’ cock twitches and he bites his lip, clenches his hands into fists so he won’t give in and touch.
“Inside me,” Harry finally gasps, lifting his head again so he can look Louis in the eye. “Want you inside me. Do you -”
“Yes,” Louis groans, shutting his eyes so he can try to collect himself. He doesn’t want a repeat of New Year’s Eve. He wants to make this last, make this good for Harry.
When he opens them again, Harry is staring at him, brow furrowed. His hand is still moving on his cock, rubbing himself through his trousers, but he sounds upset when he says, “I don’t - I don’t have anything.”
Louis’ stomach falls, disappointment welling up, but then he gasps, “I do. In my wallet, I.” He bites his lip, hesitating, then admits, “I started carrying it around after New Year’s.”
“Oh, thank god,” Harry breathes, and he reaches immediately for the button of his jeans, making quick work of it, eyes still locked on Louis’. He parts his flies and Louis catches a glimpse of disappointingly normal pants.
Reaching a hand out, he traces along the waistband of Harry’s briefs, asks, “No lace this time?”
Harry’s belly trembles against Louis’ fingers when he laughs. “Not this time, sorry. I’ll be sure to wear some for you next time, though.”
Next time. He likes the sound of that.
“Good,” Louis murmurs, transfixed by the way Harry’s skin looks against his own, pale and smooth and beautiful.
He’s still staring at Harry’s belly, at the way his dick is straining against his pants in the vee of his open flies when Harry nudges him with a foot, asks breathlessly, “Lou? Condom? Hurry, please.”
“Right,” Louis rasps, and he snaps into motion, shoving a hand into his back pocket, but - “Shit. Where’s my wallet?” He pats down the rest of his pockets, desperation making his hands tremble, but then he remembers. He pins Harry with a look, says, “It’s in the kitchen, just. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”
Harry just nods, still working his jeans down his legs. Louis dashes out of the office and toward the kitchen as quickly as he can, grateful for the fact that Harry’s office is toward the back of the floor. He snatches his wallet and phone off the counter, then hurries back, fumbling open his jeans as he goes.
When he stumbles back into the room, tripping slightly on the hems of his sagging jeans, he stops dead, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. In the few seconds Louis was gone, Harry has managed to strip completely, is sitting on the edge of the desk with his dick in one hand and the other between his legs, brow furrowed in concentration as he works a finger inside of himself.
“Getting started without me, are you?” Louis asks, as casually as he can manage when he feels like he’s about to combust.
“Took too long,” Harry counters, but he gives in easily when Louis pulls both of his hands away and drags him into a kiss.
Louis kisses him until he’s managed to calm himself down a bit, then he grips Harry’s hips and tugs him to his feet so he can turn him around. Harry makes a gruff noise of approval and bends over the desk, head pillowed on his arms and arse in the air.
“Christ, look at you,” Louis murmurs, smoothing a hand across Harry’s bum and taking a moment to admire the long, soft lines of his back and the sweet, round curve of his arse. Harry gets impatient, though, and wiggles his hips, makes a noise of encouragement.
Smiling to himself, amused and endeared and out of his mind with lust, Louis opens his wallet and pulls out the travel packet of lube and a condom. He tears the lube open and smears some over his fingers, heating it up a bit before he bends down to press a kiss to the small of Harry’s back.
“Ready?” he whispers into Harry’s skin.
Harry’s entire body trembles when he nods, and he answers, “Yes, please,” for good measure.
Nodding back, Louis grips Harry’s cheek with his other hand, then rubs the pads of his lube-slick fingers against Harry’s hole before pushing one finger in slowly. Harry’s back arches with it, a long, low whine of pleasure escaping his throat, and Louis laughs, breathless with wonder.
He works Harry open slowly, fucks him with one finger until he’s begging for another, then takes his sweet time after that. Louis fucks him slowly, scissoring his fingers and crooking them until Harry’s entire body has gone tense and there are beads of sweat rolling down his spine, whimpers and pleas tripping along Louis’ nerves like electrical shocks.
By the time Louis tucks in a third finger, Harry is working himself back against Louis’ hand, fucking himself on Louis’ fingers. “Please, Louis,” he begs, back arched at an obscene angle, head hanging down between his shoulders and one hand inching toward his cock. “Please, ‘m ready, fuck me.”
Louis grabs Harry’s hand and plants it on the desk beside his head, then leans over him, chest pressed along Harry’s back as he rubs his fingers relentlessly against Harry’s prostate. He mouths at the soft skin behind Harry’s ear, murmurs, “Are you sure you’re ready, love? Don’t want to hurt you.”
“Yes,” Harry whimpers, twisting his head around for a quick, dirty kiss. “Completely ready. Been ready. Want to come. Please.”
“Of course,” Louis soothes, smoothing a hand down Harry’s back as he stands up. Harry whimpers at the loss when Louis draws his fingers out so he can put the condom on, twists his head around so he can watch, cheeks flushed, the hair at his temples sweaty and curling madly against his skin.
Louis rolls the condom on, then squeezes the last of the lube out and slicks himself up. He shuffles forward, settles his hands on Harry’s hips to steady himself, and asks, one more time, just to be sure, “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Harry breathes, dropping his head back down, body tensed in anticipation. Breath held, Louis grips the base of his cock and lines himself up, then pushes in slowly, slowly.
It’s immediate and immense, the feeling that overcomes Louis as he buries himself inside of Harry. He’s tight, so unbelievably tight, but Harry keeps making these noises of encouragement, keeps trying to wiggle his hips back and make Louis speed up. Louis holds him steady, though, doesn’t want to go too fast. It’s overwhelming already, and he’s afraid to let go, is afraid he’ll hurt Harry if he lets go too soon. This is too new; he doesn’t know Harry’s wants, his limits yet.
He stops once he’s bottomed out, stops to give Harry time to adjust and to give himself time to slow his racing heart, to ensure he doesn’t come too quickly. After a minute, he pulls most of the way out, then thrusts back in, slow and smooth. Heat pools in his belly at the noise Harry makes, so he does it again, a little bit faster, a little bit harder, until his hips are snapping, skin slapping against skin, and Harry is letting out a steady stream of whimpers and moans, fingers scrabbling against the desk and legs spreading wider to try and give Louis a better angle.
Murmuring quietly to Harry, whispered nonsense that calms Harry and keeps them connected, Louis folds himself down over his back again so he can tug his head back and kiss him. He can only pump his hips in shallow thrusts at this angle, but it feels so fucking good like this and Harry can hardly kiss him back, can’t stop the soft noises he’s making or the way his entire body is trembling, desperate for release.
“Easy, love,” Louis whispers, lowering his head so he can nip at the curve of Harry’s shoulder. “You’re so good, darling. My beautiful boy.” Harry makes a soft, pleased noise, and Louis slides one hand around to grip his cock. He swipes his palm against the head so he can spread precome down his shaft, then grips him tight and pumps slowly in rhythm with his thrusts.
It’s not long before Harry’s whimpers have turned to him moaning Louis’ name, and when Louis rubs the pad of his thumb against the sensitive underside of the head of his cock, Harry comes with a sharp, shuddering gasp. He tightens around Louis as his orgasm hits him, has heat pooling in Louis’ belly, so he straightens up, leans back so he has more range of motion, works Harry through his orgasm and grips his hip with his other hand so he can fuck into him in sharp, quick thrusts. He was already teetering on the edge, but Harry’s low, rumbling moans and the way he keeps clenching around him with every wave of his orgasm tips Louis over it. He comes with Harry’s name on his tongue, curls over him and bites down gently on his shoulder to stifle the noises he can’t help making.
Worn out, Harry and Louis stay just like that for a few minutes while their heart rates slow and their bodies cool. Louis presses soft, absent kisses the Harry’s shoulders and the back of his neck, noses at his hair and trails his fingers up and down his sides. It takes a while before Louis becomes aware of Harry’s come drying on his hand, of the tacky sweat drying on his body and the distant ache of his muscles. He’s pretty sure that there is a crumpled paper beneath his other hand, and there’s a paperclip tangled in Harry’s hair, somehow. Louis eases back slowly, peeling himself off of Harry and pulling out as gently as he can. He ties the condom off and drops it into the rubbish bin, then helps Harry up, turns him around and searches the desk for tissues so he can clean him off.
“Sorry about your desk,” Louis chuckles, eyeing the mess they’ve made. There are damp, scrunched up papers that had gotten trapped beneath Harry’s body, and there are streaks of come on the edge of it, some soaking into the carpet as well. The computer keyboard is hanging off the side of the desk by its cord and the pencil holder is lying on its side, its contents scattered across the office floor.
Harry just waves a limp hand through the air dismissively and slurs, “‘ll clean it later.”
His pupils are still blown wide, cheeks flushed a hectic red, and his hair is sweaty and tangled. He looks a mess, but he’s more beautiful than ever. Suddenly overwhelmed and so, incredibly glad he’d decided to return the mug tonight, Louis wraps his arms around Harry and crushes him to his chest.
“Hey,” Harry murmurs, fingers splayed against Louis’ chest where his hands are trapped between them. “Are you alright?”
Louis nods silently, face hidden in Harry’s hair. He’s not quite sure what’s wrong with him, but he’s spent two weeks wondering when he’d see Harry again, and he’s not ready to let Harry go, just yet.
It starts in his stomach, this staggering need to keep Harry with him, keep Harry in his life. The feeling slowly builds, swelling up in his chest and crawling his throat, until he just can’t help it and the words spill out. “Go out with me.”
Harry stills, then pulls back a bit so he can look up at Louis. “What?”
“On a date,” Louis clarifies, not pleased with the baffled expression on Harry’s face. He’s prepared to beg, should Harry say no.
Harry just stares at him for a moment in complete silence, the world around them completely still while Louis waits for his answer, and then -
“Took you long enough,” Harry shakes his head, grinning widely and shoving at Louis’ shoulder. “Idiot. We could have been doing this for two weeks already.”
Overcome with relief, overcome with joy, Louis buries his fingers in Harry’s hair and peppers kisses all over his face, until Harry is giggling and clutching at his sides so he doesn’t topple over.
“Louis,” he gasps between peals of laughter, “what are you doing? It’s just a date!”
“I. Like. You. So much,” Louis announces between kisses to Harry’s forehead, his chin, his cheeks and eyelids and temples.
“I like you too,” Harry giggles, “stop that, it tickles! Just kiss me, you fool!”
And Louis does just that.