Sonata (Harry Styles FanFiction)

34. Infinite Nirvana

Harry Styles

The evening seemed to be crawling by and it was making me shift in my seat. After seeing her straddle my bike— simultaneously groping me in the process— I was pretty damn wound up. Then tack on the way she had been looking at me for the past hour and the fact that she wan't wearing a bra, yet again, I was ready to fucking go. I knew for a bloody fact that she owned her fair share of lingerie, so I didn't understand why it was so damn hard for her to wear it? Like, fucking hell. She'd tortured me with her vast collection all semester. Honestly though, I didn't know what would have been worse— one of those mind-fucking inventions or the lack there of that I was currently having to deal with.

Well, it will make it easier later on?

The only problem with later, though, was the fact that it was later. The anticipation alone was going to give me a permanent case of blue balls.

Her little performance wasn't helping either. She sat there watching me and in a sinfully slow motion, she cut off a piece of her ricotta stuffed Gnocchi. She kept swirling it in the tomato vodka cream sauce, before popping in into her mouth. She left the fork between her lips far longer than necessary, hollowing her cheeks, before retracting it and running the tip of her tongue up one of the prongs. She smirked at me once she'd finished.

"I know what you're doing," I ground out. I could feel the muscles in my jaw clenching, my leg shaking furiously under the table. My anticipation was a fucking light up sign in the air above my head. I hand't even touched my food; I wasn't hungry for that.

"I'm just trying to enjoy my meal, Harry," she replied, all innocence and halos. For fuck's sake. She reached down and plucked up a singular green been, twirling it also in the tomato sauce before closing her full lips around it, sucking on it. All of my prayers for self-control were flying right out the goddamn window. This girl was going to be the death of me.

"It really is delicious," she purred, her hand moving beneath the table. Every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation of her touch, but she simply readjusted her napkin, smirking, before reaching for her glass of pinot grigio.

"Would you like dessert, then?" I asked, curling my hands into fists beneath the table so as not to yank her up and take her in the damned bathroom.

"Dessert sounds heavenly. What did you have in mind?" She cocked an eyebrow up at me... fuck, cock was definitely not the right word. Quirked, yes, quirked was a much better word. She quirked an eyebrow up at me, her challenge unspoken.

"I can think of a few things that interest me," I mused, tugging on my bottom lip with my thumb and forefinger. Just as I'd hoped, her eyes zeroed in my my hand, her tongue jutting out to swipe across her lower lip. Yes, this was the game that she'd been playing with me from day one. I was finally learning the rules, matching her on the incredibly stacked playing field.

"How does the tiramisu sound?" I asked, still watching her, my blood singing in my veins. Her face fell before hardening into an unreadable mask.

"I think I'd prefer something a bit more... savory. I have quite a particular pallet and I'm just not seeing what I want on the menu."

"Well, the Chocolate Bar is on Eighth; we will pass it on our way home, surely you will be able to find something to fit your particular needs there."

"Not unless they have edible lotion," she grumbled, her voice low, so low that I barely caught her words.

"We can always go in and ask?" I felt a hot flush threaten to color my neck and cheeks at my own words. How did she make it seem so easy? She always said shit far worse than that and it was like she got away with murder. She was never phased and here I was, struggling to sell one ill-intentioned joke and I couldn't even deliver.