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and we called our calculation perfect love

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Niall should really think twice before letting Harry talk him into things. When he’d found Harry an hour into the afterparty, he hadn’t expected his whispered Wanna get out of here? to end with the two of them snogging furiously, first in an elevator and now on top of some poor employee’s desk in an empty office upstairs.

Niall should’ve probably kicked up more of a fuss, if only for the sake of verisimilitude; Harry can be a bit of a stickler for roleplay detail, and Niall’s pretty sure getting your hands down the front of a fit coworker’s trousers at work would constitute a serious violation of company regulations. But he’s a little tipsy on champagne and the thrill of tonight’s successes, and Harry's hard to resist even in character.

So, right. Here goes nothing.

“Harry, you know I don’t really own the bank, right?” he asks in his best worried voice, adjusting his glasses.

Harry ignores this completely, the look on his face slightly predatory. He wraps Niall’s tie around his hand, tugging him in for a long, sloppy kiss. When Niall puts a hand on Harry’s thigh to steady himself, Harry groans eagerly into his mouth, spreading his legs further apart so Niall can settle in between them. His big, broad hands are everywhere, roaming over Niall’s body, sliding under the hem of his shirt and up over the expanse of his back. The kisses are getting progressively filthier—his glasses are really fogging up now—when Niall finally manages to gasp out, “I’m actually just a certified public accountant.”

Harry’s reaction to that piece of information is, well, probably unprecedented, not just in Niall’s personal experience but also in the entire long and deeply boring history of the accounting profession. “God, that’s so fucking hot,” he groans, arching his back like a porn star and rocking his hips up so Niall can feel just hard he is in his trousers. “Tell me more, fuck, don’t stop talking.”

Niall’s not quite sure he’s made himself understood, though it’s getting hard to concentrate on what he’s saying or why it matters when Harry’s simultaneously rubbing himself off against Niall’s thigh and leaving a trail of passionate kisses down the side of his throat. He pulls back just a bit in an attempt to clear his head and says, with some difficulty, “Um, I do like, yearly audits and tax planning, mostly. You know, pretty standard financial planning stuff.”

Niall swears that Harry’s eyes actually darken with lust, which was something he previously thought only happened in trashy romance novels. Without warning, he’s dropping to his knees in front of Niall, hands working quickly at his belt.

“Wanna suck you, Mr. Horan,” he says in a low, breathless voice, looking up at him under his eyelashes a little coyly, and Niall's breath hitches in his throat. “Right here in your big fancy office where anybody could walk in and see.”

“Not—ah—my office,” Niall says faintly, though by now the point seems moot. God, Harry’s gorgeous like this, equal parts eager and pliant as he swallows him down, staring up at Niall wide-eyed like he's looking for praise. Niall gives it to him, of course, murmuring little endearments as he thrusts gently into the wet, velvety heat of Harry's perfect mouth. He's trying to hold off but he's pretty sure he’s going to come embarrassingly quickly if they keep this up, one hand fisted in Harry’s curls and the head of his cock nudging at the back of Harry’s throat.

Fortunately, Harry seems to realize the same thing, because he only gives Niall a few glorious moments of head before pulling off with a loud pop, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sit,” he orders, in a tone that brooks no argument, and Niall stumbles around the desk and collapses into the chair there, trousers pushed down around his hips just enough to free his spit-slick cock.

Harry shimmies out of his ridiculous floral suit, folding it carefully (it's Gucci, after all, as he's told Niall a dozen times tonight) before he turns and practically prowls across the room towards him, a determined gleam in his eyes. Niall gapes at him openly, taking in the long, lean expanse of Harry's pale body, skin littered with dark ink, his big cock bobbing stiff and proud against the soft little swell of his tummy. It's not until Harry's straddling his lap, rather gracefully for someone who usually has the motor skills of a baby giraffe, that he remembers where they are.

“Harry, the door,” he blurts out, a brief flicker of anxiety breaking through the haze of arousal.

“Locked it on the way in, babe, don’t worry,” Harry murmurs, giving him a quick, reassuring peck on the cheek, and Niall relaxes a bit. Or well, relaxes as much as he can with a completely naked Harry in his lap, arse hovering mere inches away from his dick. He holds his breath as Harry reaches back and takes Niall in hand, guiding him into position, and they both groan as he begins to slowly, slowly sink down on Niall's cock.

Harry’s tight as a vise but he’s slick inside, too, enough that Niall realizes he must’ve prepped himself in the toilets before approaching him downstairs the party. He lets himself picture it for a minute, Harry in a locked stall, fucking himself open on his fingers. Imagines him whimpering softly, biting his full bottom lip in an attempt to keep quiet, maybe touching his pretty cock a little because he just can't help it, because it makes him feel so nice

Then Harry lifts almost all the way off and slams back down, and Niall isn’t thinking about anything other than Harry as he is right now, naked and hard in his lap, riding him like he’s got something to prove. He takes cock so beautifully, making these little uh-uh-uh noises as Niall dicks up into him, arse clenching every time Niall slides partway out like he's trying to keep him inside.

“Fuck, babe, feels so good,” he murmurs into Harry’s hair, breathing in the clean, slightly spicy smell of his shampoo. There’s something almost obscenely hot about the fact that Harry’s naked but he’s still got all his clothes on, about knowing that if someone walked in on them right now they'd get an eyeful of Harry but the only part of Niall they’d be able to see is an inch or two of his cock as he thrusts up into Harry's pert little arse. They're quiet for a few moments as they settle into a steady rhythm, the slap of skin on skin and Harry's little gasps the only sounds in the empty room.

Harry breaks first, fists tightening on the lapels of Niall's suit. “T-talk to me," he pleads suddenly, sounding a little overwhelmed, and Niall’s quick to oblige, even though he feels like his brain is turning slowly but steadily to mush. He’s not sure he can summon up much more in the way of financial dirty talk, not without losing his head completely and saying top of the game in the stock exchange! or something equally ridiculous. So he settles for the next best thing, the dazed, blissed-out expression on Harry’s face giving him a surge of confidence.

“Knew I could have you tonight the second I saw you,” he says in a low voice, and Harry shivers a little in his arms. It’s not true, obviously; he still can’t believe he gets to touch Harry like this, to fuck him like this. But Harry loves to hear that he’s easy for it, gets off on the feeling of being someone’s sure thing. Niall runs his hand up Harry’s side and tweaks his nipple hard, making Harry’s cock jerk where it’s trapped between their bodies, rubbing against the soft fabric of Niall’s shirt. “Bet you always go straight for the boss. Got a thing for rich men, don’t you, babe?”

“Yeah,” Harry whimpers, a flush creeping up his chest and face. “Yeah, want—want them to take care of me.”

He’s starting to slow down a little, tiring out probably. Niall takes the hint and brings a hand up to Harry’s waist, thumb pressing over the laurels to hold him in place as he rolls his hips up into him slower, deeper. He gets his other hand between them so he can start pulling Harry off with long slow strokes. "Might be just an accountant, but I’d take such good care of you, pet," he says softly, gazing into Harry’s wide green eyes. “Buy you all kinds of fancy things, take you all kinds of fancy places. Dress you up so pretty and show you off, so everyone would know you were mine.”

Harry comes over Niall’s fist at that, pink mouth open in an O of quiet surprise like he hadn’t realized he was so close. Niall fucks him gently through the aftershocks, hand moving over his cock in a slick easy slide for a few final strokes.

“So beautiful, Haz,” he says, stilling inside him, and Harry turns his head and kisses him soundly, cupping the back of his neck with one broad hand to draw him in closer. They kiss like that for a long time, slow and unhurried, the tension building back up so gradually that it takes Niall a while to realize Harry’s rocking against him in a steady rhythm.

It doesn’t take much to get him close to the edge this time, his body gone all loose-limbed and pliant like he’s the one who’s just come instead of Harry.

“Close,” he gasps out. Harry presses their foreheads together, his eyes fluttering shut, lips slightly parted.

“Fill me up, daddy,” he breathes, and Niall says, “Oh, fuck, Harry,” and thrusts up into him with one final time, his fingertips digging into Harry’s hips hard enough to bruise as he comes.

When he finally slumps back into the chair, still trembling a little, Harry follows easily, a solid, comforting weight against his chest.

“Gonna get all sticky, babe,” Niall says when he can speak again. He makes a face as he pulls out carefully and then lets Harry settle back on his lap. “Eugh, this suit is done for. Think Paul will disown us for real if we ask him to bring round a flannel and a spare set of clothes with the car?”

“Brought stuff in my bag,” Harry says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. “Stashed it with the security guys before we came up.”

“Before you jumped me in an elevator, you mean.” Niall fishes his mobile out of his pocket, typing out a quick one-handed response to Paul's you guys better not have run off again text before tossing it on the desk. They’re both quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Was that what you had in mind, then?”

Harry nods against his chest. “You got all sappy there at the end, though," he says, his voice muffled in Niall's jacket, but he doesn’t sound displeased. Just soft and a little sleepy, like he’s going to need someone to bundle him into the car and tuck him into bed as soon as they get back to the hotel. Niall feels his heart swell a little in his chest at the thought.

“Makes you come every time,” he replies easily. “You talk a big kinky game, Styles, but nothing gets you off faster than hearing you’re mine.” Harry makes a little disgruntled noise but doesn’t protest, not when they both know it’s true. “Whose office is this, anyway?” Niall asks, looking around properly for the first time.

“First one with no windows and a door that locked,” Harry says, sounding unconcerned. “I was too horny to care. You took your sweet time finding me after the show.”

“Oh hush, you,” Niall says, going a bit pink. “Had to go brush up on my accounting pickup lines first, didn’t I? 'S your fault for having such weirdly specific fantasies.” He imitates Harry’s slow, deep drawl. “Okay, so, you’re a lowly accountant and I’m the new intern and I mistake you for the president of the bank at the Christmas party—

“Makes it more realistic!” Harry protests, sitting upright now, but he's grinning. “More like a film, innit? Like a proper romantic comedy.”

“I think you’re getting your Julia Roberts mixed up with your porn,” Niall says. His laugh turns into a groan when Harry’s eyes light up. “And no, for the last time, Haz, I’m not letting you walk Sunset Boulevard in a dress just so we can reenact Pretty Woman.”

“You say that now," Harry says happily, snuggling into him, "but just wait till you see the dress."

Niall can't help but smile at that, arms tightening instinctively around the boy in his lap. It's probably true. He should really think twice before letting Harry talk him into things; lucky for them both, though, he never actually does.