One Direction Smut

Dirty Lights (Harry)

(ibohmaster)

My name crackled through the old speakers, the announcer's voice barely audible over the idle chatter floating around the cozy room. I brought the delicate champagne flute to my mouth for the first time that night and downed the rose-colored liquid in one gulp, my blood red lipstick leaving its mark on the antique glass. I licked my lips appreciatively as I stood from my place at the bar, savoring the expensive alcohol even more when I knew someone else was picking up the tab.
I didn't have to push my way through the throngs of people like others had to before me as I walked to the stage, the crowd parting almost automatically. I caught the lust-filled glances of several men as I drew closer, wondering which one paid for my absurdly expensive glass of rosé because they noticed a young woman who was far too pretty to be seated alone with no drink in her hand.

Hushed murmurs and blinding lights greeted me as I stepped on stage and up to the microphone, the live band behind me just one of many reasons this "karaoke" bar remained a favorite playground for those who could afford it. I looked up through my lashes while the lights dimmed as the band began to play a song many had heard before, but never like this.

The notes rolled off my tongue as I tore the pop song from its roots and gave it a new, raw breath of life. I looked between the entitled faces in front of me as I sang, their features donning identical expressions of content, appreciation, and satisfaction. That is, until I saw him.

Dark curls laid atop his head, pushed stylishly away from his tanned skin and cutting jaw. His ringed fingers grasped a champagne flute not unlike the one I had held previously, its pink contents identical to the alcohol still bubbling deliciously in my stomach. Full lips entertained a dimpled smirk, his tongue dragging slowly along his lower lip as I twisted and remolded his own song in front of him.

And his eyes.

Those piercing green eyes burned through the black fabric adorning my form, his scrutiny leaving me squirming with desire in the hazy spotlight. With a mere glance Harry Styles studied me, undressed me, devoured me.

Black suit, tailored white shirt, tattooed collarbones rising and falling. His perfect face was straight from heaven; his sculpted body from hell.

I felt the heat swell within me as I continued to sing, and I saw his eyes darken noticeably as my fingers explored my torso on their own accord. I longed for his large hands to be imprinted on my skin for days, and his dirty words to leave me breathless as he slammed into me without mercy. Everyone treated me as if I were made of china; a pretty plaything to be handled gently.

I wanted the man seated before me to shatter my porcelain body into a million tiny pieces.
He blinked as the audience clapped and I was gone from the stage, the lights, bursting through the back door with a lit cigarette in one hand and a painful need for cool air against my skin in the other. Stepping around the side of the old brick building, I leaned against the wrought iron barrier separating me and the rest of New York from the ocean below.

I placed the cigarette between my lips, inhaling the smoke deep into my icy lungs. Out of nowhere I felt two hands grab either side of my waist from behind, his strength pinning me roughly into the hard metal railing. He chuckled darkly while I stood frozen against him, unable to move as the man held my body in place with his while the bitter Manhattan wind whipped around us.
"New York is one of my favorite cities," he whispered, his breath hot as fire against my cold flesh. "There's so much...hidden talent."
That deep accent crept down my spine as his slow words wiped the chill from my bones, leaving an insatiable desire for him in its place.

Harry.

He slid one hand from my waist up to my throat as he spoke, his long fingers caressing the smooth skin of my neck while the other plucked the cigarette from my trembling lips before he flicked it into the water below. I sighed as he leaned into me, his own hidden talent making itself very apparent against my lower back.