Chapter 3: The Morning After
The first thing she became aware of was warmth. A solid, heavy line of heat along her back. Then the scent—laundry soap, male skin, something uniquely Harry—filling her lungs with every sleepy breath. Morning light, sharp and unforgiving, cut through the gaps in the blinds, painting tiger stripes across the rumpled sheets and the football jersey on the floor.
Memory returned not as a flood, but in precise, visceral snapshots.
The cold brick. The hot press of his mouth between her legs. The brutal, perfect fullness of him inside her in this bed. Twice.
Her body ached in a deep, secret way. A satisfying, claimed ache.
Harry’s arm was slung over her waist, his hand splayed possessively across her stomach. His breathing was even and deep against the back of her neck. She could feel the firmness of his cock, even in sleep, nestled against the curve of her ass.
She didn’t move. The sanctuary of the night was gone, burned away by the sun. Everything was exposed now. The sticky-damp sheet trapped between her thighs. The tender bruises on her hips from his grip. The emotional carnage of the last few weeks, laid bare and waiting.
He stirred. His fingers flexed against her skin, a subconscious anchoring. A low, sleepy sound vibrated against her spine. “You’re thinking,” he murmured, his voice graveled with sleep. “I can hear the gears grinding.”
“It’s what my brain does. Unlike some people’s.”
He huffed a laugh and pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. “Regrets?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? She shifted, turning in his arms to face him. The morning light showed everything. The dark stubble shadowing his jaw. The faint, worried crease between his brows. The green of his eyes, watchful and unsure. He looked younger like this, stripped of his stadium swagger.
“No,” she said, and saw the immediate tension leave his shoulders. “But I’m scared.”
“Me too.” He tucked a wild purple curl behind her ear. His touch was infinitely gentle. “My body feels like I played a double-header. In a good way. The best way.”
A reluctant smile touched her lips. “You’re such a jock.”
“Your jock.” The words hung there, a tentative claim. He searched her face. “Shower? I feel… sticky.”
It was an understatement. They were both marked with the evidence of the night—dried sweat, the musky scent of sex, the memory of the alley still clinging like a ghost.
She nodded.
The bathroom was small, steam quickly fogging the mirror and the glass shower door. He turned the water hot, adjusting it until it beat down in a near-scalding torrent. They stepped in together, the space forcing them into intimacy. The water sluiced over them, rivulets running through the dark hair on his chest, plastering her curls to her neck and back.
He reached for the lavender body wash, pouring a generous amount into his palms. “Turn around.”
She obeyed, presenting her back to him. His soap-slicked hands began at her shoulders, working in slow, firm circles, kneading the tense muscles. It was profoundly intimate, this clinical cleaning. He washed every inch of her back, his thumbs tracing the line of her spine, his palms smoothing over the swell of her ass. He dropped to his knees on the wet tile, his hands sliding down the backs of her thighs, to her calves, to her ankles. He washed her feet, lifting each one with a care that made her throat tight.
“Okay,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. “Now the front.”
She turned. His gaze was a physical touch, traveling over her water-slicked body—her breasts, her stomach, the dark triangle of curls between her legs. He didn’t move to use the soap again. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his open mouth to her sternum, licking a droplet of water from her skin. His hands came up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples until they pebbled under the hot spray.
“Harry…”
“Just cleaning,” he whispered, but his voice was dark with intent. He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the taut peak. A sharp gasp escaped her. Her hands flew to his wet hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him there.
He kissed down her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel. He parted her legs with his shoulders, his hands gripping the backs of her thighs. The hot water cascaded over them both. He didn’t hesitate. He buried his face in her pussy, his tongue finding her clit with an unerring accuracy that made her knees buckle.
“Fuck! Oh, god…” She braced her hands against the slick tile wall.
He ate her like a man starved. His tongue was a relentless, slick pressure, circling, flicking, diving lower to lap at her opening where she was still tender and sensitive from the night before. The steam, the heat of the water, the obscene wet sounds of his mouth on her—it was overwhelming. Her moans echoed off the tiles, mingling with the drumbeat of the shower.
“You taste like me,” he growled against her flesh, his voice raw. “You taste like us. Fucking perfect.” He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm against that deep, sweet spot as his tongue continued its devoted work on her clit.
The orgasm built quickly, a tight coil in her belly that suddenly snapped. She cried out, her body convulsing, her inner muscles clamping down on his invading fingers. He held her through it, his mouth gentle now, sipping at her as she shuddered.
Before the last tremor had faded, he was standing. He was fully, impressively hard. Water streamed down the length of his cock, over the angry red head. He spun her around to face the wall. “Hands here,” he commanded, placing her palms flat against the cool tile. She obeyed, arching her back, presenting herself to him.
He spat into his own hand, slicking himself roughly. He positioned the broad head at her entrance. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it.” Her voice was a wreck.
“Tell me it’s mine.”
“It’s yours. All of it.”
He drove into her with one deep, penetrating thrust that forced the air from her lungs in a choked sob. He filled her completely, a burning, stretching fullness that was bordering on too much. He didn’t pause. He set a fierce, driving pace, his hips slamming into the backs of her thighs, the wet slap of skin loud even over the shower’s roar.
One of his hands tangled in her wet hair, not pulling, just holding. The other gripped her hip, his fingers digging in, anchoring her for his relentless onslaught. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, each plunge a raw, carnal declaration.
“This cunt,” he grunted, his breath hot against her ear. “Is mine. Say it.”
“Yours!” she screamed into the steam.
“No one else touches it. No one else fucking looks at it. Understand?”
“Yes! God, yes, Harry!”
He changed his angle slightly, grinding deeper, hitting a spot that made her see white behind her eyelids. The friction was unbearable, exquisite. She was hurtling toward another climax, her body tightening around him like a vise.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his rhythm becoming ragged, erratic. “Gonna fill you up. Mark you inside.”
The filthy promise tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, soul-shaking quake that tore a raw scream from her throat. He followed with a guttural roar, plunging deep as he pulsed inside her, his release hot and endless, mixing with the shower’s flow.
They collapsed against the wall, panting, steam swirling around them. He softened inside her but remained there, his body draped over hers, both of them supported by the tile. His lips moved against her shoulder blade. “I’m never letting you go,” he whispered. It wasn’t a sweet sentiment. It was a vow, laced with fear and possession.
Later, wrapped in his towels, they sat on the edge of his bed. The real world was knocking, persistent and ugly. Her phone, plugged in on his nightstand, buzzed. Not once, but five times in rapid succession.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Is it him?”
She picked it up. The screen was a barrage of notifications. A few from Marcus, confused, asking where she’d gone. But the majority were from a group chat—Campus Gossip Mill. Screenshots. Blurry photos. Her blood ran cold.
She handed the phone to Harry.
The photos were from last night. Dark, grainy, but unmistakable. The first was of him pulling her into the alley, his hand tight on her arm. The next was a slightly clearer shot, taken from farther down the street, of him on his knees before her, her head thrown back against the brick. The final one was of them walking out, her hand in his, her face turned into his shoulder.
The captions were a venomous spray. Heartthrob Harry Gets Rough with Mystery Girl? Looks like Styles’s victory celebration got wild! Who’s the lucky lady? Not Tasha!
But the worst one was a close-up of her face, caught in a sliver of light as they exited the alley. Her purple hair was a dead giveaway.
Mystery solved. That’s Nikki Martinez. His best friend. Guess Tasha was right—he does have a thing for latinas. Looks like besties are fucking now. How cute.
Harry’s face drained of color. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Oh, fuck.”
Her own panic was a cold stone in her gut. This wasn’t just gossip. This was a narrative. A ugly, public story where she was the slut who stole her best friend, and he was the bastard who manhandled women in alleys.
His phone rang, the screen flashing COACH. He stared at it like it was a live grenade.
The sanctuary was well and truly shattered. The mess was no longer just between them. It was sprayed across the entire campus, waiting for them to step outside and face it.