Author's Note: The song for this chapter is "Don't Count on Me," by Nouvellas.

Chapter 3

Bang Bang

"So you're a law student?"

"Guilty as charged," Lily admitted. "I promise that wasn't a pun."

He laughed. "Pun or not, that's pretty cool subject to study."

"You would think so," she said, toying idly with her straw. "But the truth is, it's mostly reading, and obsessing over tiny details until you want to cry your eyes out, and even more reading, and being asked by people you know if you can get them out of traffic tickets."

"People actually ask you that?"

"About as much as they ask Remus if he can psychoanalyse them, and if you've ever spent more than thirty minutes in his company, you'll know how often that happens."

"D'you think maybe every elective comes with one really shitty joke that other people seem to find hilarious?" said James thoughtfully. "People are always making cracks about how studying philosophy makes Sirius inherently unemployable."

"I mean, since I say that about Sirius all the time, I wouldn't call it a joke, per se," said Lily lightly. "That's just the truth."

"Because he's a philosophy student, or because he's Sirius?"

"Now, see, I've pondered this at length—"

"You have?"

"—and I think his obvious lack of employability would be offset by his willingness to sleep his way to the top."

"He does hate bureaucracy—"

"Whereas I deal in it, so how he and I are mates is a mystery," Lily finished, with a toss of her hair. She hadn't been so mindful of her posture since the short-lived ballet lessons she'd taken as a child, but she hadn't allowed Mary to affix her boobs to fabric with an adhesive for them to go unnoticed. "And, to answer your original point, it's really not cool at all. I mean, maybe if you're watching Suits or something—"

"Or Judge Judy."

"Oh my god, I adore that woman."

"Judge Judith Sheindlin is a gift to this earth," said James, with a smile that beggared belief, her carnal fantasy made flesh and blood. "I'd probably pay her to roast me, if I could."

"What, you mean for fun?"

"Seriously, she could sit me down and tear me a new one, and I'd probably feel like I'd been spiritually cleansed afterwards."

"Like a mental colonoscopy?"

"Exactly like that."

"You've really made it sound like you'd get off on being ripped on by Judge Judy, you know."

"Probably," he admitted. "I mean, if I were fifty years older and as single as I am now, she'd be the first person I called for a good time."

"If you were fifty years older," said Lily, plucking at the hint he'd dropped like a breadcrumb in a forest. "You wouldn't be here, and that would be a diabolical shame."

He grinned at her, and she felt like utter filth, and that felt amazing.

She was two drinks in and hadn't gotten sloppy, for the dulling effect of the concoction she was drinking – strong stuff, whatever it was – was offset by the rush of intense attraction and the razor-blade alertness that came with a tête-à-tête of verbal foreplay. James Potter had proved himself a sharp one, and Lily needed him to feel as if he had to keep up with her, and was managing, because of the endorphins, or the adrenaline, or whatever chemical it was that had taken over the reins inside her body – reminding her that she was a body, and that a body had needs.

They'd hit it off, as Remus so succinctly surmised, almost instantly, and so she'd zeroed in on James and made him her mission, with fluttering lashes and lingering looks, essentially taking possession of him for the night, turning their six-man booth into a secluded corner for two, at which four other people just happened to be sitting, neatly sequestered outside their hormone-fuelled bubble.

It was incredibly rude, but he was so fit, and staid, sensible student Lily never got to feel like this, so she let herself go with it.

"Just out of curiosity," said James, his elbow balanced on the seat-back behind him, bent at an angle as he ruffled his hair. "Why would it be a shame—"

"A diabolical shame."

"Yeah, that. Why would it be such a diabolical shame if I weren't here?"

"I couldn't possibly tell you, I'm afraid," she sighed, and picked up her cocktail to take a dainty sip. "I might, though, once I've had more to drink."

"And on that subject, I was just about to pop to the bar."

When he was three drinks in and Lily was halfway through a fourth, James circled back around to her studies, a topic that seemed to interest him, though he may have been pretending for the sake of impressing her. If he was, she didn't care. She normally didn't walk around wearing minuscule scraps of satin on her upper body, so she could hardly judge him for posturing, and more importantly, she had his complete and undivided attention, which was exactly what she wanted.

"But you find law interesting, right?"

"I do," she admitted, and fluffed the ends of her hair. She kept forgetting that it had been cut, and was experiencing frequent moments of surprise when she reached to twirl a lock around her finger and found nothing but air. "I really do, which makes me a huge geek, I know—"

"Nah, it doesn't."

"When I was really little, what I wanted most in the world was to be a detective. You know, the kind with a big trench coat and an axe to grind with society?"

"Like Columbo?"

"Exactly like Columbo, except prettier, and working for myself, not the LAPD. Also I hate cigars."

"Obviously, those differences were implied."

"Only then I grew up, right? And I realised that private detectives make their money following cheating spouses around, and there's no way I could do that for a living, it's too depressing."

The ghost of a laugh left James's lips. "Would a few grisly murders be less depressing?"

"Yes, actually, because at least I know they're an anomaly—"

"Unless you're actually Columbo."

"—but following around three or four cheating partners a week?" Lily shook her head, though it hurt to move it so quickly. "I'd give up on true love after a month."

"We definitely can't have that," he said immediately.

"So I decided on law," she finished. "And so far, my plan's been working out, mostly, aside from never having free time."

"What is it?"

"What?"

"Your plan," James clarified. "What does it look like?"

"Oh," she said, and tapped a slow, disjointed rhythm on the table. "Well, this is my last year as an undergrad, and once I'm finished with that I'm going to get my PhD, and after that I want to take my BPTC—"

"What's a—"

"Bar Professional Training Course," she swiftly supplied. "Then I want to specialise in human rights law, become a celebrated human rights barrister by the time I'm thirty-five and then, I think, the next step is to marry George Clooney?"

The laugh she elicited from him was no mere ghost this time, but full-on, and warm, bubbling up from the pit of his stomach and sending him lurching towards the table. That was what he did when he laughed properly, she had noticed, leaned forwards, as if he was collapsing in on himself.

"George Clooney?" he said, once the initial burst of mirth had passed. "Really?"

"What's wrong with George Clooney?!"

"Nothing's wrong with him," said James reasonably. "Except he's way too old for you—"

"Age is just a number."

"And you're way too good-looking for him."

"The general public would likely disagree."

"And he married, right?"

"That's a minor detail."

"So, wait, you're going to marry him after you turn thirty-five and you're... what age are you now?"

"Twenty-one."

"Same!"

"Twenty-two at the end of January."

"End of March," said James, with yet another earth-shattering grin, and for the hundredth time in an evening she felt a hard, aching pulse, buried deep down, and a need to grab him by the collar of his shirt and give his lips something better to do. "So you're an older woman, are you?"

"Oh, barely—"

"And I've got, what, just over thirteen years to steal you away from Clooney?"

The tiniest, most insignificant remnant of her good sense almost wished that he'd be a little less forward, because she found herself emboldened by his interest. Already, they were sitting far too close together. Already, she had rubbed her foot against his leg far too many times. Already, she was wondering if she could lay claim to the flat by leaving early, giving Mary no hope but to follow Sirius to the maisonette he shared with Remus.

Already, James had stolen her away, from George Clooney or anyone else, and that was dangerous.

"You," she said, and poked his chest. "Are a flirt, James Potter."

"And you're not?"

"I'm completely innocent in all of this," she lied, to which he laughed again. "Anyway, what's your life plan?"

"Aside from this plan I've just hatched to marry you and one-up George?" He shrugged. "Don't have one, honestly."

"Most people our age don't."

"You do," he reminded her. "Do you know how brilliant that is? To know exactly what you want? I haven't got a clue what I want, or what I'm doing, that's why I never went to uni. I keep hoping I'll figure it out, and nothing ever happens."

"That's probably better than going to uni without knowing what you want, then halfway through you're like, I hate this, so you crash out and try to make it as a YouTuber but you're ten years too late."

"See, if uni here was more like in America, where you can try a bunch of different subjects instead of doing one course—"

"—and wind up in crippling debt for the rest of your life?"

"Doesn't that happen here, too?"

"Yeah," Lily agreed. Her hands were starting to feel funny, almost numb, which was one of her 'better stop now' tells whenever she had one too many. She was charging full-steam ahead on the drunkard express. "It's less debt, though. A lot less."

"See, the whole student life thing sounds brilliant, but I didn't think it was enough of a reason to go."

"So what do you do? For a living, I mean."

"Oh." James waved his hand as flippantly as if no subject could be less important. "I work for Sleekeazy's, in London."

"The cosmetics company?"

"Well, mostly hair stuff, but yeah. Office work. It's dead boring."

"But you're not using their products, are you? This looks all natural," she said, and lifted her hand to comb her fingers through his hair. It was as soft and as silky as she had imagined, a luxuriant bed of chaos that just begged to be ruffled, played with, pulled hard in the heat of passion while she writhed beneath his sweating, naked body, an idea that set off sparklers in the crevices of her mind. "Can I touch it?"

Her nails raked gently against his scalp, and his voice dropped to a more intimate tone. "You are touching it."

"I know."

"Feels nice."

"Yeah?"

"Mmm." His eyelids dropped, lips curving upwards. He had beautiful lips. Full. Lips that could have kissed her properly, the way lips were supposed to. "You're really good at that."

"I'm good at lots of things," she sighed.

"I'd bet you are."

"You should."

She gave his hair a gentle tug, and the arm he'd thrown across the back of the seat fell to settle around her shoulders, and she decided that she really liked this game.

After five drinks apiece, Lily was tracing circular patterns on the palm of his hand that he seemed to like, her legs curled beneath her to give her some height, chest thrust right beneath his nose, and she started getting honest.

"I don't normally dress like this, you know. With the boobs, and all."

James's gaze dropped to settle unsteadily on the clearly visible hollow between her breasts. "No?"

She shook her head. "Earlier, I had on a cardigan—"

"I noticed."

"And a Ninja Turtles t-shirt."

His eyes trailed back up to her face, slowly, taking time to linger on the base of her throat, and found hers, and held them. They were hazel, she had noticed earlier, and he had the darkest, longest eyelashes. "Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"That's fucking brilliant."

"See, Mary is supposed to pull Sirius tonight," she told him. "I was her backup - am her backup, I guess - but then I saw this guy—"

"What guy?"

"Just a guy," she said, with a nonchalant shrug, and ran her fingernail along his heart line. "Just a really - fucking - painfully gorgeous guy, you know? And I'm standing there in a cartoon t-shirt like a twelve-year-old, so Mary gave me this. Actually, it was her sister, but whatever, they look alike, and do you have any idea how much tape it takes to get boobs look like this?"

"I don't have any, so no," said James. "But yours are pretty phenomenal."

"Thank you very much."

"And, I mean, I don't know about this guy you were trying to impress—"

"As if you don't."

"—but I fancied the pants off you in a cardigan."

The electricity between them was obvious, perhaps to the entire room, and James hadn't been shy in exploring it, but Lily blushed as if this was brand new information.

"Did you really?" she asked coyly. "Even before I came over?"

"The minute I laid eyes on you," he confessed. "You were standing at the bar and turned around, and I thought, there's a woman I'll never get to sleep with."

"You did not!"

"I did!"

"But you're so handsome!" she protested. "You could have any woman you wanted."

"Nope. Definitely can't. I'm hopeless. Ask Sirius. Ask anyone."

"You haven't been hopeless with me—"

"That was, I dunno, different," he said. "It feels right with you, but, I mean, I had a panic attack in the loo earlier—"

"Is that why you took off those antlers?"

"Obviously!"

"But I thought they were cute!"

"Well, that's great in hindsight, but how would you have felt if you were me and a good-looking woman caught you wearing something stupid—"

"Didn't I just tell you how I taped my boobs into this thing to get your attention?"

"Think so," James agreed, staring at her breasts once again. "They really are phenomenal."

"You already said that."

"Difficult for me to be coherent right now, if I'm honest," he said, and tugged once, very gently, on a strand of her hair. "I'm drunk and you're gorgeous."

That, she thought, might have done her in.

An alcoholic fog had crept inside her brain at some point, and she was groping in darkness now. The better part of herself had stumbled into a boozy slumber, replaced by another kind of girl, one Lily didn't know very well, but she wouldn't have minded learning more about her.

She really wouldn't have minded.

There had been reservations. She remembered that, but in a detached sort of way that made her feel as if she'd dreamed them. Something about time - no time, not enough time - and he didn't live here and there was other stuff, perhaps, but she didn't care.

She wanted sex, good sex, for once in her life. She was a good girl, sure, but it wasn't as if she was a prude. She'd done the deed before, though it had been a while, but she knew what she was doing, more or less. Her ex had considered his own needs more pressing, and often it was a case of lying there, waiting for it to be over, faking orgasms to stave off a sulk, and time, all the time it would take her to get her anywhere close to ready, because he'd never quite comprehended that she wasn't an appliance, that she couldn't be switched on and off at will. She'd always preferred to sort herself out, because at least she knew what she liked.

"Hey," he said, and nudged her arm. "You still with me?"

She looked up at him, so close and yet so devastatingly far from where she needed him to be, wondering how it would feel if he unzipped her jeans and slid his hand beneath her knickers, and realised, to her surprise, that she was already wet.

It feels right with you, he'd said, and it did.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she murmured, and didn't wait for a response before she seized a fistful of his shirt and pulled, bringing him as close as he could get. "And if I do, will you promise not to tell anyone, 'specially not Mary but even more especially not anyone?"

His forehead bumped gently against hers. "Sure."

"I think you might be the fittest guy I've ever met," she confessed, and relished the appearance of that perfect fucking dimple when a perfect fucking smile spread slowly across his perfect fucking face. "And I mean, like, you know? Ever? Like, who are you, and how did this happen, and will you come home with me right now?"

"Come home?" he repeated, but slowly, as if he was making sure he'd heard her fully, eyebrows rising just a fraction. "You mean—"

"To fuck me?"

"Right," he said, and swallowed once, his Adam's apple bobbing, and she dropped her hand to rest on his thigh, and a soft noise of longing escaped him, and Lily felt herself grow slick with arousal. Already. Already. "Fuck."

"That's what I said."

"But you're sure?"

"Dead sure."

"Only, you've had a lot to drink—"

"And I wanted you when I was sober."

"I want you, too," he echoed. "I mean - fuck - the minute I saw you - I got hard just looking at you."

"Come home with me, and I'll do something about that, if you want," she offered, her eyes locked on his, not letting him escape. "Do you want?"

An expulsion of breath, and a quick, sharp nod, and she had him.

He was hers.

"Don't let David startle you when you get in."

"David?" said James, with a slight frown, leaning back against the wall while Lily examined her keys in a ponderous, booze-soaked manner, her mind skirting around the recollection that unlocking her door was normally easier than this. "Who's David?"

"Tennant."

"What, like, he pays you rent?"

"No, like David Tennant, the tenth Doctor."

He turned around and let his shoulder fall against the door frame, hands shoved neatly in his pockets. "David Tennant lives in your flat?"

"I mean - no - well, yes, but not the real one," she said, shaking the key that she thought was right, as if for good luck, and lowered it unsteadily to the lock. "But it's a version - I mean we bought - oh!"

With a satisfying click and a turn of the handle, the door to her flat swung inwards and she slipped inside, leaving it open for James to follow.

"'Lo, David," she said to the cutout, with a genial slap to its chest. "This is my new friend, James."

Her new friend - or lover? Lily didn't know how far they'd need to go for him to bear that particular title - shut the door behind him and regarded the cutout warily. "That explains a lot."

"I think Mary practices snogging on him, really, but mostly he's our coat stand," she explained. "Which reminds me..."

A speedy escape had been of the essence at the pub, because Mary had been promised the flat, but Lily had succumbed too much to the power of lust to care. She'd feigned a need to use the bathroom - a trip that turned out to be useful, when she had presence of mind enough to remember to peel the tape from her propped-up tits - while James strolled as if to the bar, then both made their break for it, convening outside on a rained-on pavement that sparkled in the light of the street lamps overhead.

They'd probably been really obvious. She'd probably be teased tomorrow.

A text, rushed and likely misspelled, had been sent to Mary to profess the truth. Lily had received a bunch of swear words back, followed shortly by a slew of thumbs-up emojis. Evidently, Mary had found another location in which she could conduct her seduction.

The downside to running boldly from the pub was that she couldn't run upstairs to find her cardigan without giving the game away, so James had insisted that she wear his coat, which he'd managed to sneak from the booth. This, she appreciated, though her flat was a five-minute walk away and the rain had stopped. Tottering home in heels - and far drunker than she'd realised while inside, once the fresh air hit her face and she felt herself smacked by a wave of dizzying inertia - was bad enough already. Making the same trip cold would have been infinitely worse.

She shrugged his coat off and hung it neatly on one of David's shoulders. "Thank you for letting me wear this."

"It's alright," he said, one hand lifting to push his hair from his face. "I didn't want you to get cold."

"Could've warmed me up yourself."

"Still can, if you want."

She felt her heart flutter, and something else, something different to the suggestive, charged-up intricacies of the dance they'd done all night, and that made her feel shy, and that wasn't what she wanted.

There was a distance of a few feet between them, and on one hand, Lily was all fired up, and most certainly willing, but something about the stilled, unlit silence of her flat, and the walk it had taken to get here, made her feel as if she was missing out on another step in the process, something vital and inherently polite. Were they supposed to get right to it? Tear each other's clothes off? There should have been more ceremony to all this, she thought, or not - she wasn't sure. She'd never done this before. The idea of simply kissing him now felt almost mercenary, as if he were a piece of meat she'd purchased, not a thinking, feeling person who had a life to get back to one she was done devouring him.

Her head was swimming.

They were drunk and this wasn't romance, and she needed to move away from the feeling he'd prodded, warm and confusing, into her chest, so she took a couple of unbalanced, backwards steps.

"Need to take these shoes off," she said, more to herself than to him, and twirled around. "Sofa."

"You're alright getting there?"

"Mmhmm. Solid as a rock, me."

"They don't look very comfortable."

"They're not," she said, sitting down. He'd followed her but kept a respectable distance, one resting hand on the back of the armchair. Eliza's stupid, sexy shoes had far too many straps, and tiny, fiddly buckles, as intricate and perplexing as a Chinese puzzle box, so Lily bent forward to undo them, keeping her eyes fixed on her feet. "Trainers are better."

"I wear a lot of trainers and not a lot of heels—"

"Not a lot?"

"Not since my beauty pageant days," he said, and she looked up, catching his eye, and he laughed in a self-deprecating kind of way. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, with an equally self-conscious smile, then returned her gaze to her feet. "Shoes are being bratty."

"Terrible behaviour."

"D'you want a drink, or something?"

"Nah, it's fine," he said, somewhat absently, and then, "Is that Sirius?"

Thinking that Sirius was about to burst into the flat with Mary clinging to his back, Lily looked up in alarm, but James was moving towards the window, beneath which sat her desk, upon which was a small collection of her drawings.

"Oh," she said. "Yeah."

"Do you mind me looking at these?"

"Go ahead."

He went quiet, shuffling through the stack of papers while she struggled in taking off the heels. When she had finally managed to wrestle them off, she got up and padded over to where he stood, not quite able to make it in a straight line but otherwise pretty lucid, the soles of her feet cold against the floor. The only light in the room came from the street lamp outside, which didn't quite reach their faces, but cast an achromatic glow upon the desk that threw her drawings into sharp relief. Sirius would have loved his own personal spotlight.

"They're not great," she said, when she drew level with him. "It's just something I do for fun—"

"I like them," said James simply. "I mean, I prefer the ones that don't involve my best mate's arse—"

"S'pose I understand that."

"Did he get his tattoo removed?"

"His what?"

"His tattoo," he repeated, and pointed to one of her drawings, his finger resting on Sirius's bum. "Looks like a big black dot on his arse? He got drunk once and tried to do it himself, mate's tattoo gun, but it hurt too much and he chickened out."

Lily's jaw dropped open. "Oh my God—"

"I know, he thought he'd be able to write 'fuck the Man,' on his arse, but—"

"No!" she interrupted, her hand jumping to grasp James's upper arm and turn him more towards her. "I mean, that's what that is? A bleeding tattoo?"

"Yeah?"

"I thought it was like, a blackhead or something!" she said, and shook her head in slow disbelief, which expelled itself in a laugh. "I can't fucking believe that, I couldn't figure it out for ages and it was driving me nuts, so I've refused to draw it out of, like—"

"Anger?"

"No, principle," she corrected, smiling up at him. "Your mate's a fucking idiot, you know that?"

"Can't disagree," he replied. "Though, you seem have a thing for his arse—"

"God, no!" she squeaked. "I just don't want to sit in front of him, and he's like, all Trelawney lets us draw now."

"What a relief," he quipped, and mimed wiping sweat from his brow.

Adorable.

She was staring at him, she realised, with slightly parted lips. He kept surprising her, every time she looked at him and found herself reminded that he really was that gorgeous, and watching him stand there in her flat - this very tall, scruffy-haired, intensely handsome man whom she hadn't known existed when she'd last walked out her door - was weirdly surreal.

"Sorry," she said, after a moment of silence, and took a step back, her hand falling from his arm, and found herself blushing.

"For what?"

"For staring."

That warm, dimpled smile crept onto his face again. "I like you staring."

"S'difficult not to."

"Same," he agreed, and moved his hands to hers, entwining their fingers, pulling her towards him. "Lily—"

"Yeah?"

"—you're beautiful."

"Oh."

"And I think I have to kiss you now."

"Have to?"

"Need to," he said, and cupped her face between his hands. "If - only if you're sure you want to."

She'd been so brazen earlier, but now there was only them and silence, and all she had was her own, unguarded, fiercely pounding heart. "Please."

So he tilted her chin and brought his lips down upon hers, softer than silk, not a crashing wave or a heady cascade, but slow, deliberate, a kiss that had all the time in the world, and it was sweet. So sweet. Not at all what she'd expected - not a drunken, sloppy fumble - but fireflies cutting paths behind her eyelids, rising on her tiptoes, up, up, up, like a fairy taking flight, the sweetest thing she'd ever done, a kiss she hadn't known him long enough to share.

She'd never done this before, but she knew it wasn't supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to be the sloppy fumble. She'd seen all the films. They should have been snogging before they got to the flat. They should have crashed against the door, bodies fused together in the heat of passion. She'd started off all wrong.

Sex. She wanted him for sex. Not for a kiss from a storybook.

But his hands were warm on her back and his lips were magic and Lily was drunk, tripping through a meadow of starry-eyed enchantment that she liked too much, and she needed to stop, lest she fall for him, or something stupid. He was being gentle, too gentle, and that wasn't what she wanted, beautiful as it was. She wasn't made of china. She wasn't going to break.

With great, great difficulty, she broke away from his lips.

"What?" said James, his eyes still half-closed, ducking in for another kiss, but she jerked her head back. "What?"

"What're you doing?"

"Er?" He blinked, and frowned down at her. "Kissing you?"

"You're - why are you kissing me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like, aren't you supposed to - I don't know - bend me over or—"

"Bend you over?!"

"That's just one—"

"Why would I want to bend—"

"In and out, right? I've never had a one-night stand but that's what Mary says."

James looked as if he might start laughing, with the way that fucking lovely dimple of his deepened in his cheek, but instead he threaded his fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her ears.

"Lily," he said, a little sternly. "Can't I just kiss you for five minutes first?"

"But I just—"

"Did you not like it?"

"No, I loved it!" she cried. "But I wanted—"

"What?" His eyebrows moved up his forehead. "You just want to fuck, then?"

It sounded so licentious when he put it like that, but it wasn't as if he was wrong. "Well, yes, I suppose?"

James took a step backwards, head cocked to one side, and studied her for a few silent seconds, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses.

"Alright," he agreed, finally, and in the next moment he had pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it, and tugged once at the delicate fabric of her barely-there camisole. "Off."

He was so lush - nothing at all like his mate's pale, scrawny body - and Lily's eyes travelled down past his broad shoulders, his chest, following the concave line of his stomach, and heat crept into her cheeks. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Like, right now?"

"I can count you in, if you want."

She could tell he was enjoying this, enjoying the way she was watching him, and she shouldn't have felt so shy. This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman. A sexually confident grown woman. A drunk, sexually confident grown woman.

She pulled her top over her head and let it slip from her fingers, resisting every powerful urge to cover her now exposed chest - his gaze had dropped immediately - with her arms.

"Now what?" she said.

"This," he replied.

He collided with her.

She hit the desk with the back of her thighs and heard something fall, but Lily didn't care, she didn't care because there was no softness in the way his lips met hers this time; he was ravenous, drinking her like wine, moaning into her mouth when she writhed against him in eager response, taking her as if he wanted her, clasping the back of her head as if he'd never let her go.

Her arms flew to wrap around his shoulders, one hand finding itself a home in his messy hair, and he was pressing hard, wet, open-mouthed kisses to her neck, pushing his hips into hers, desk rattling, and she didn't care. His hands slid along her back, gripped her waist, cupped her breasts, pinched them, played with them, and when he bent to finish what he'd started with his lips and his tongue, she moaned, arching towards him with her head tipped back, and papers fluttered to the floor, and Lily didn't care.

She'd never wanted anyone so badly, or wanted more of them when she finally got a taste.

When she tugged on his hair, a wordless request, because she needed him to kiss her another thousand times, he moved back up to catch her mouth again, a hard, hungry pressure that shot sparks through her veins, and she sighed gratefully into his lips.

"You're gorgeous," he murmured, pulling back for air. "Let me get you off."

She nodded eagerly, desire aching everywhere, and he undid the top button of her jeans with a casual flick that made her shiver in anticipation, made light work of the zipper. He slid his hand inside her knickers without a moment's hesitation - the way she'd wanted him to earlier - and grinned smugly when he found her wet.

"Eager, aren't you?"

"Shut up," she whispered, urging his mouth back towards hers. "Shut up, shut up."

He removed his hand to yank her jeans down to her knees, grabbed her hips to guide her onto the desk, then brought it back, his lips finding hers again. Nothing he did was slow, now, he was determined to bring her to the edge and do it fast, one finger moving steadily against her clit, coated in her wetness, one minute there and then inside her, pumping hard while he sucked at her neck, sure to leave a mark, and everyone would know he'd had her, and the thought of it only served to make her body sing for him. She clung to his shoulders, helpless, whimpering when he found a spot that made her body jolt of its own accord, gasping when he added another finger to the mix.

It was beautiful, and terrible, the way he made her feel, so exposed and yet so good all at once.

She was very nearly there, rocking her hips towards him with every stroke, and she was going to come so fast and so soon, her ardent whimpers building to a crescendo, but then his lips and his body and his hands were gone, and she was bereft of him.

And angry.

"What?!" she gasped, and reached out for him, but he grabbed hold of her wrist and stayed it."Why?"

"You rushed me earlier."

"So you're punishing me?"

"Where would you get an idea like that?" he said, but he was smirking, infuriatingly cocky, a whole new side of him for her to learn. So much in a short space of hours. "You want it now, you'll get it now. Where's your bedroom?"

"What?"

"Your bedroom," he repeated. "Need you on your back."

She should have been enraged at him for denying her release - she tried to be - but she couldn't hide the heat that crackled beneath her skin, nor the excitement in her eyes, nor the slow upturn of her well-kissed lips. She had never liked being ordered around, but apparently, James was the exception.

She pulled up her jeans, then pointed, with her free hand, to the door that stood several feet to her right. "There."

"Good girl," he told her. "Go."

The temptation to defy him ebbed away as soon as it arrived, and it felt so much sweeter to be obedient, to turn and walk away and have him follow. He'd lifted self-consciousness from the surface of her skin; she felt lush and wanted.

Her room was shrouded in the same darkness as the rest of the flat, nothing but moonlight streaming through a gap between the curtains, so she flicked on the lamp that stood in the corner when James came in behind her, casting them both in a honey-toned light.

"Take off your jeans, then sit," he instructed, and pointed to her bed.

"Just my jeans?"

"Just your jeans."

She did, while he stood and watched her, seemingly in no hurry to do much else, his eyes dark, and curious, and carefully drinking her in. It was only when she'd done what he asked that he removed the rest of his own clothes, making short work of it all, leaving her free to watch him greedily, perched on the edge of her neatly made bed.

He was hard, though she hadn't even touched it.

Look what she had done.

She had gone for too long without feeling his skin, so she reached for him, again, but he caught hold of her wrist and held it fast. Again.

"No."

"But—"

"You first," he told her, in a voice - do as I fucking say - she didn't know, but liked, loved, wanted too much to have any wits about her. "Lie down."

She had thought, in the pub, that she was the one with all the control, but James had fucked her into submission with just two fingers, and she was his now. Wanting. Needy. Possessed by an avaricious hunger for the rest of him, a hunger that left her open and compliant. Pushing herself further up her bed, the crisp embroidered covers twisting beneath her palms. Falling back among her pillows.

His, now. All his, if only for a night.

He moved above her in an instant, a weighty presence between her open legs, sinewy arms stretched taut as he loomed, his hands finding her splayed palms, his fingers threading through hers. Pressing her down. Watching her - silent seconds ticking by - pinned beneath him, his eyes moving from hers to rake over her parted lips, the base of her throat, pausing to linger on her breasts, and her nipples - pink and hardened - and back until he found her gaze again.

He'd taken his glasses off, at some point. She couldn't remember when.

"You're gorgeous," he said, wrenched words torn from his throat, as if it hurt, as if she was killing him. "You're fucking gorgeous."

Then he dipped his head and kissed her, only once, but thorough, a hot, demanding pressure on her willing lips, swallowing her sighs of pleasure, and broke away, this time to kiss and nip at her ear, her throat, the pulse point in her neck. He let go of her hands and moved down her body, and she wanted to touch him everywhere at once, feel his cock twitch beneath her groping fingers, but she knew he wouldn't let her yet. You first. You first. It played through her head like a prayer, as he teased her breast with one hand, took the other in his mouth, caressed her with an eager tongue, as she let out a starved, salacious whimper and her hands jumped to grasp his perfect fucking hair. You first.

"James," she pleaded, and heard a muffled moan against her skin, something he liked, finally, something she could use. She arched her hips up, ground herself against him, but he moved a hand and pushed her pelvis back against the bed.

You first. He seemed intent on making her wait. Needless. She was dripping already, longing for his touch between her thighs. You first. He wasn't in a hurry, switching hand and mouth, nipping and sucking at her nipple, soft at first, harder when a sudden gasp told him that she liked it. Torturous. You first. Open-mouthed kisses on her stomach. Another guttural moan when she tugged impatiently at his hair. Divine. You first. You first. You first.

Further down he moved, until his weight was gone completely, that gorgeous pressure lifted from her hips, leaving her cold, and Lily could have screamed.

"Now?" She sounded so fucking desperate, but she needed it - needed him - her heart pounding hard against her ribs, unfocused eyes gazing at the ceiling. "Please?"

"Not yet," he murmured, and pressed the softest kisses to inside of her thigh, tremors rippling through her, every inch. "Want you like this."

He touched her then, the lightest graze, once up and once down, barely perceptible through the thin, tellingly damp fabric of her knickers, but enough to make her tremble, then again, and again, and again until she writhed, lips clamped shut to keep herself from begging, from screaming at him to just fucking do it. Nudging the fabric aside so he could see her, only to let it go and resume his careless touches, a merely contemplative thing, not yet, not yet, and she was going to burst from the pain of it all, sheets clenched between her grasping fingers.

"James," she groaned again, a low, impatient plea that came against her will, and slid her hand down her stomach. "I'll do it if you won't."

He pushed her hand away, no control for her. "Up," he ordered, and slid his hands beneath the curve of her bum; she arched her hips, needy, compliant, and he yanked her knickers down her thighs, removed them completely, tossed them somewhere - she didn't care - grasped her legs and pulled her down toward him.

"You're so wet," he said, his voice low, reverential, as if it were a surprise, and she were to be worshipped.

Then he lowered his head, fingers digging hard into her thighs, and pushed his tongue against her clit - she jerked helplessly beneath his mouth, biting back a hungry cry - once, twice, three times, again and again, hard and fast and urgent, probing and sucking, moaning in a way that sent vibrations shuddering through her when she gasped and called his name, tasting her, devouring her, spurred on by her ever canting hips. It was all so quick now. No more torture. He could wait no longer, perhaps, needed her like she had needed him - still needed him, all of him - Lily couldn't think; a thunderous pressure was building deep inside her, pushing her to a delirious edge.

"You taste so good," he muttered, his breath hot on her drenched, pulsing centre, and that alone was close enough to finishing her.

When he slipped a finger inside her, then a second, crooked and plunging, swirling in her depths while his tongue lapped hungrily at her clit, she knew she was done for, that he'd bring her to the edge and let her go, this time. You first. A sound she didn't know escaped her. You first. Her whole body shook, thighs clamping inwards, waves of pleasure sweeping, sweeping, for far longer than she was used to, her breath coming in pants. You first, and he'd made her come so hard.

She felt it as her body went into spasm. She felt it everywhere. She felt like she'd been branded. His now.

I like you, she thought. I like you. I like you. I really fucking like you.

He moved back up her body, planting disconnected kisses on her thigh, her breast, the delicate spot on her neck, and one, soft and surprisingly sweet, to her damp forehead.

"You okay?" he heard him ask her, a voice that hovered outside the haze she'd found herself immersed in.

She nodded, quickly, a low rumble in the back of her throat. Her heart was beating so fast, as though it strained to be closer to the pounding in his chest.

"You're sure? That wasn't—"

"Was perfect. You killed me," she said, and his face split into the most beautiful smile. "You now."

"You don't need a minute?"

"No, please." Her hand found her way to his cock, hard and tense, and slid along the shaft, gripping hard, and James bit his lip to suppress a groan. "Want you inside me."

"Y'sure?"

Her free hand reached, cupped his cheek, ran her thumb across the line of his jaw. "You had me, now you're mine."

There was a silence. His eyes bored into hers, searching, something unreadable reflected back at her, and Lily wondered for a moment if she'd said the wrong thing, but then...

"Yeah," he agreed, so quietly, and buried his lips in her neck, and his hand in her hair, and himself in her, over and over again. "Now I'm yours."