"WHEREAS, the parties are presently unmarried and intend to be married to each other within the next year and, in anticipation of such marriage, the parties desire to fix and determine various financial relationships that will apply during their marriage and upon the termination of their marriage whether by death, divorce or otherwise..."
The words stand out starkly on the page under his elbow, and as much as Harry is trying to concentrate on the work in front of him, he can't help but let his eyes drift to the legal agreement.
This is why he hates working in the office. It's Eleanor's office, decorated in creams with glass tables, white woods and silk fabrics — nothing masculine about the space at all. But Harry finds that he's been spending more and more time here over the past several months. It started out small, bringing home a few files from the office one night so he wouldn't have to deal with them in the morning. He'd sat at the kitchen island and powered through it, having nothing better to do — what with Eleanor in Paris and Olivia...well he didn't want to think about her.
He had found he worked better at home, was able to concentrate more easily, so he started leaving the complicated stuff for home — and the next thing he knew, he was bringing things home every night.
Eleanor had been shocked when she'd gotten back and found him elbow deep in record contracts, telling him she was happy that he was finally really starting to enjoy the business end of things.
Since he'd been bringing home so much work, he decided it was only practical to work in the office — those little spindly chairs in the kitchen were killing his back — and so here is where he's been spending most of his nights. He'll come home from work, pour himself a glass of wine, and get to work, spending hours pouring over documents and demo tapes, then climb the stairs to bed where he'll slide in behind Eleanor, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek before resting his head on his pillow and trying to sleep.
He doesn't sleep much these days. Work has been on his mind a lot. He's been thinking expansion, maybe taking on more artists, maybe opening a studio. He's been talking a lot with Nick about expanding the clothing line to shoes and high fashion, opening a few more stores around the country, Miami and Chicago maybe. He'd talked to his restaurant partner about maybe opening a version of his restaurant in NY. There is a lot to do and a lot to think about, money to be made and time to be spent.
He finds that if he keeps himself busy, he's happier. If he's busy, he doesn't miss his family, doesn't wish Nick was around more, doesn't miss the smell of Olivia's skin and hair, her smile or her laugh. He shakes his head hard. He's sure the funk he's been in is some weird manifestation of stress from trying to figure out how to fix his life. After all, the wedding is only a month away now, and he still hasn't done what he's supposed to.
His eyes flick to the legal papers again, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"You know we're going to have to get you a desk in here, I think."
Harry cranes his neck, finding Eleanor leaning against the doorway, a soft smile gracing her lips. She's still wearing her work clothes, a soft chiffon blouse ruffled up to the neck, arms bare. A pencil skirt hugs the slight curve of her hips, cinching her waist and giving her legs the illusion that they go on for days, peep toe heels skyrocketing her into the stratosphere. Harry gives her a small smile, looking back down at the papers in front of him, wondering how long she's been standing there.
"Yeah..." is the only thing he can think of to say, and he can hear the dull thud of her heels as they sink into the carpet.
"You've been working a lot lately," she states, reaching to run a hand over the short stubble on his chin, "you look tired."
"Lots to do," he responds with a careless shrug, and he feels her hand drop to his shoulder giving him a squeeze before reaching down and tugging the packet of papers from under his elbow.
"Have you signed these yet?" she asks disinterestedly, flicking through. He leans farther forward, shaking his head as he scribbles a note in the margin of his page.
"Still reading through them," he replies absently, and he hears her sigh as she sets them back down on top of the pile, and it's like the rest of his life is staring him straight in the face.
"Both our lawyers put them together, Harry," Eleanor says softly, and he can feel his shoulders tense. "And I have more money than you anyway."
There's a teasing lilt to her voice that causes the corner of his mouth to twitch up, a ghost of a laugh coughing from his lungs. "True."
She pats his shoulder again. "Come to bed. It's late."
She doesn't even wait for him to respond, just turns to leave, and he watches her over his shoulder as she sashays out of the room, the keyhole in the back of her blouse giving him a peek at her golden skin.
Harry looks back down at the work in front of him, and he knows he should stay up just a little later, even though his body is aching from fatigue. He glances up at the clock and finds it to be only ten-thirty, sighing as he reaches up to rub his burning eyes. He really doesn't want to get in bed yet, doesn't want to bear the disappointment of his fatigue giving way to insomnia quite so early.
He sighs, settling on a compromise, snatching up the prenuptial agreement and hooking it under his arm before flicking off the light and trudging his way upstairs. Eleanor is sitting at her vanity, going through her nightly ritual as he tosses the papers on the bed, retreating into the closet to change, dropping his suit in the hamper and pulling on his pajamas, the silk slick against his skin. He goes into the bathroom, washing his face and cringing at the sallowness of his skin, the dull gray of his eyes. He really needs to get more sleep.
He shuffles back out into the bedroom, grabbing the papers from the end of the bed as he rounds to his side, crawling up so that he lies on cool sheets, the comforter rolled down to the end of the bed. He grabs his glasses from the bedside table, slipping them on his face before settling in to read.
"WHEREAS, information about each of the parties' assets, liabilities and approximate current income has been exchanged prior to entering into this agreement and summations of said information for each party is contained herein as Schedule A;"
"I went shopping today," Eleanor states simply, but her voice is a dull hum in the back of his consciousness.
"That's nice," he responds, flipping a page and continuing to read.
"Saks had a sale, and I picked you up a new shirt at Barneys. It's long sleeved but you could wear it if we go out at night," she goes on, and he nods absently, not even really hearing what she said.
"Thanks, I'm sure I'll love it," he mumbles.
"I stopped by Calvin Klein as well and got you some more underwear..." she says, her voice trailing, and he vaguely acknowledges the rustling of fabric, which he assumes is her standing from the vanity. "And I picked some things up for myself as well..." He hums, not really listening. She sighs annoyed. "Harry!" she snaps, and only then does he look up, bewildered by her sudden hostility.
"What?" he snaps back before he can stop himself, and blinks slowly at the sight of her standing at the end of the bed in nothing but a sheer tanktop and panties.
He closes his eyes and opens them again, and sure enough, she's still standing there, the seductive stretch of what upon closer inspection appears to be a corset of some kind, opaque around the waist with a wide strip of sheer lace vertically exposing the center of her abdomen from where the cups of the bustier meet the hem — but the cups of the bra are solid, the lace trim moving with every breath she takes. The panties are simple opaque black with sheer lace lining the waist, exposing the lowest part of her stomach, teasing him. His eyes meet hers, and he finds a look of expectation there.
"Do you like it?" she prompts finally when he doesn't say anything, and he blinks slowly, looking from her to the papers in his hands.
"WHEREAS, each party has had the opportunity to fully examine the full disclosures of the other party as summarized in Schedule A;"
"Um, yeah," he says, flipping the page again. "Yeah, you look good baby."
He hears her scoff, indignant. "What is wrong with you?"
He looks up at her again, blinking slowly, and he's suddenly very tired — feels like he could sleep for weeks. "What are you-"
"You've been moping around here for weeks!" she goes on, throwing a hand in the air. "Ever since I got back from Paris, all you do is work, you're not sleeping. I swear to God, between you and Olivia -"
"I'm fine, okay," Harry cuts her off abruptly, the sound of Olivia's name driving a steel spike through his chest. "And who are you to complain about me working? You were always bitching that I never took my job seriously."
"Don't curse," she warns, and Harry's fingers curl around the papers in his hands. "And I'm not saying," she says, her voice going lofty as she crawls onto the bed next to him, "that you working is a bad thing." She trails a finger down his chest. "I'm just saying that you seem..." she pauses and he looks up at her, his face tired and worn, "sad."
Harry snorts, biting back a retort that she never seemed to care before. Instead he responds, "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," she says softly, her hand flattening against his chest and sliding down. "Which is why I figured..." he sucks in his breath as her hand cups him between his legs, giving a gentle squeeze. "that we better have sex before you fall into some kind of depression."
Harry is so shocked he can't even begin to process her words. If he had known "moping around" would get her to try and seduce him, he would have started dragging his feet around and sighing listlessly years ago.
Had he really been moping? He doesn't think he has been. Sure, he hasn't been as animated lately, but he figures that's from the sleeplessness — and that it doesn't really have anything to do with the fact that Olivia doesn't come around much anymore.
He sucks in a quick breath, trying to concentrate on the way Eleanor's lips are smudging along his jaw, her fingers kneading him slowly, swallowing hard as he feels the tug in his groin. He chuckles softly in disbelief as she nuzzles under his ear, shifting awkwardly under her and he's slightly horrified to realize that he doesn't really want to do this.
"Is something wrong?" Eleanor asks, her voice tickling his ear, and he notices then that her hand has stopped its movement, just holding him gently.
"No...no of course not, I'm just..." he trails, watching as her fingers begin to work over the crotch of his pajamas again, feeling himself begin to heat up as he concentrates on the friction.
Thankfully, she doesn't prompt him to finish his sentence, her mouth busy against his neck and he lays back, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why he's not more excited about this. It's been nearly – his eyes widen – eight months since he and Eleanor have had sex. Something quiet in the back of his mind whispers it's been two since he's been with Olivia, but he shoves that away quickly, turning his face to Eleanor and catching her somewhat off guard as his lips capture hers.
Her hand leaves him, smoothing up his chest as she swings a leg over him, settling against his lap, and the pressure makes him moan quietly, finally getting used to the idea, and to be honest, if he turned Eleanor down, he'd never hear the end of it.
She kisses him softly, the feeling familiar and foreign all at the same time as her fingers work open the buttons of his pajama shirt. It's been a long time since she's kissed him like this, the prolonged pressure of her lips awakening something inside him, and he lets his hands thread back into her hair, the shortness of the locks startling him slightly, but then he remembers she isn't the one with long hair. He tries to shake the thought away, his tongue swiping at her bottom lip as the softness of her palms spread over his chest, parting his shirt and his tongue surges past her lips.
"Mmmm," she hums, worming herself away from him, "Harry!" she exclaims softly, pouting down at him, her nose wrinkled.
He pants blinking up at her confused. "What?" he questions, the drumming of his pulse causing her to vibrate in front of his eyes.
"You know I don't like that," she scolds softly, sitting up straight, her hips pressing down on him again, and it takes him a minute to process her words.
"You...you don't?" he questions, confused. She looks at him as if he were being ridiculous, shaking her head slowly before dipping down and nuzzling his jaw, her hands sliding down his sides.
He stares at the ceiling, confused again, and that's when he remembers that it wasn't Eleanor that would always tease his tongue out of his mouth, moan against him when he slid his against hers. He shivers at the memory of Olivia sucking lightly on his tongue as his fingers slipped between her legs, moaning at the feel of her flooded center, ready for him, wanting him so badly.
His body jerks, and Eleanor chuckles against his throat, kissing his Adam's apple as it bobs, breaking out into a thin sweat. He shouldn't be thinking about that, shouldn't even let it cross his mind, not when he has Eleanor right here on top of him. His fingers reach around her, nails clawing at the hooks of the corset, trying to get it open, and she huffs.
"You're going to rip it," she scolds softly, sitting back and reaching behind her, wiggling and twisting in his lap, trying to get it undone.
"I want it off you," he replies lowly, and she looks down at him, a satisfied smirk pulling at her lips, preening a little under his anxious gaze.
"I'm sure you do," she teases, grinning slyly as the fabric loosens around her torso and she brings her arms forward, letting it fall down slowly.
Harry bites his lip, the creamy expanse of her skin glittering in the dimness of the room, and he'd never really realized before how boney she is. He can see the line of her rib cage from where it dips into her stomach, her hipbones pressing sharply against her skin, bellybutton pulled into a taut line. Her breasts round perfectly up from her rib cage, sitting as if suspended eerily in midair, nipples puckered and pink. He wished she had more meat on her bones, like Olivia.
"You can do more than stare," Eleanor says lowly, doing a poor job of hiding the smugness in her voice, sticking her chest out a little more and tossing her head to shake her hair out of her eyes.
Harry brings his hands up dumbly, almost shocked by the warmth of her skin. For some reason he'd expected her to be cold. He shakes the thought away, his hands smoothing up her sides effortlessly, her skin satin soft, and she's all taut muscle and hard bone instead of plush curves.
Like Olivia.
His hand smoothes around the back of Eleanor's neck, tugging her down, and he misses the soft weight of hair against the back of his hand, getting his hands tangled in it as he brings his hands to cup Eleanor's face. He can't think this way — can't think about Olivia while his fiancé is here in front of him, his mind screams, kissing Eleanor hard as his hands slide down her back, feeling the notches of her spine before his thumbs reach to hook in her panties. He just needs to be in the moment, stop thinking about the past and feel this with Eleanor, his fiancé, the woman he's supposed to love — but doesn't.
He somehow manages to get her underwear down her legs, and she even surprises him by pulling off his pajama pants and boxers. He's usually the one doing all the work when it comes to sex, all the undressing and the seduction, and he takes a moment to appreciate her, watching her press soft kisses against his stomach, forcing the thought of Olivia's mouth wrapped around him to the back of his mind. Eleanor is trying, reaching out to him, and trying to make him feel loved. She'd said herself that she was doing this for him, to bring him out of his funk, and for the first time in a long time, he understands that she loves him, cares about him and really wants him to be happy.
"Hey," he says softly, reaching down to run a hand through her hair, and she looks up at him, her blue eyes glittering like topaz in the semi-darkness. "Come here."
His hand cups the back of her head as she crawls over him, her skin sliding against his, and he kisses her — really kisses her — lips sucking and pulling at hers, drawing a hard shiver from her. She's panting against his mouth, her hands planted against his chest, and he lets his hands slide down over her shoulders, fingers curling around her arms as they drag down to her waist and he grips her hips.
He gasps as he pulls her down against him, her center warm and damp causing him to twitch hard. Grabbing handfuls of her ass, he moans against her mouth, situating her so that he presses against her entrance.
"Harry," she says breathlessly, pushing at his chest, her movements slightly frantic. "The condom."
It's like a cold slap in the face, the way she scrambles up to hover over his lower belly, keeping away from his dick at what seems like all costs. Anger burns hot inside him, his head flopping back against the pillows, and he sighs.
"Eleanor... we're fucking engaged," he spits before he can think to stop himself, and winces as her nails curl in sharply against his chest.
"Harry...you know how irritated I get down there when you get it on me," she complains exasperatedly, and he brings a hand up, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "It's never been a problem before."
"No," he says with a sigh, "no, I guess it hasn't."
"Well..." she says after a moment, and he looks up at her, finding her looking at him expectantly.
Of course, he should have known, he thinks — twisting his body as he tries to reach for the bedside drawer. It seems her seduction only goes as far as not having any skin to skin contact below his navel. He tears the condom open, tossing the wrapper aside and ignoring her frown as the foil square falls to the floor. He gives her hip a soft nudge and she scoots back to sit on his thighs, watching as he slides the sheath down his shaft, pinching the tip.
"You know, it wouldn't kill you to do this every once in awhile," he says before he can stop himself, and her eyes meet his, narrowing slightly before she crawls to hover over his lap once again.
"But you're so much better at it than me," she teases, and it wouldn't piss him off so bad if he didn't know she was patronizing him.
"What — because you don't have a dick, you can't put on a condom," he pushes, and her mouth falls open before snapping shut, and he's somewhat amused at her attempt to control her temper.
"Are we gonna do this," she asks, leaning over him, and bringing her hips down so that the tip of him nestles in her folds, "or do you want to argue with me some more?"
He looks up at her, fighting the roll of his eyes as he nods shortly, hands moving to her hips to guide her as she begins her descent down. Her chest rumbles softly, her eyelids fluttering closed at pleasure he can't feel. The feeling of skin on skin had spoiled him, nothing between him and Olivia — and the pleasure had been so intense, feeling warm wet heat squeezing at him.
He grits his teeth against the memory, fingernails digging into Eleanor's skin, and he pulls her hips down the rest of the way, her body settling flush against his. She cries out, face twisting in pain, and she leans forward to alleviate some of the pressure from her pelvis, allowing him to slip out.
"Careful," she chides, her fingernails digging half moons into his shoulders, and he nods, squeezing her hip apologetically as the other hand goes between them to guide himself back in.
All he can think about is how two months ago, when Olivia gave him ultimatum sex, that she had giddily taken every inch while sitting on top of him. He hisses at the loss, the memory haunting him.
Memories continue to flicker through his mind in flashes, the past and present blurring as pleasure flutters through his groin, eyes hazily watching as Eleanor lifts and lowers her body over him, her arms locked against his chest.
He craves the widening of her legs, wanting her to dip down low and take him deeper and deeper until he hits her spot. He wants her thighs to tremble, her hips to roll against him hard as her body sucks at his, begging for his release through her own. She hums softly, her hips searching for a comfortable rhythm, and he just lets his hands smooth up and down her thighs, trying to concentrate on her, forcing himself to focus so his mind doesn't wander to the woman he really loves.
Eleanor's skin is flawless, an even golden brown — not a freckle or stray hair to be found. Her lips are full and soft, her tongue snaking out to wet them, the ultimate seduction — her face delicate, her body proportioned and tight. She is every man's fantasy, a body like hers, a face like hers...so watching her bring a hand from her neck down to cup her breast, rolling her nipple between her fingers should drive him right to the edge.
But it doesn't.
He wants her hands all over him, fingers grappling for his skin. He wants her to gently guide his hands where she wants them, not the pushy way she's currently employing, pulling his hand from her thigh and placing it on the heavy globe of her breast. He wants her hands to go to his face when he gets it right, and he wants her head to tip back in a sigh or a moan, the ultimate kind of positive reinforcement.
He wants her to be Olivia.
"Harry!" Eleanor exclaims and the harshness of her tone startles him. "Did you hear me?"
"Huh?" he says, shaking his head in a daze, and Eleanor's hips stop, reminding him that he actually was getting some amount of friction.
"What is wrong with you?" she asks, her breath slightly labored, and she looks down at him, her brow furrowed and he has that odd feeling of being x-rayed.
"Nothing," he says quickly, blinking hard as his hands smooth up her sides. "Don't stop, baby."
She eyes him skeptically, letting her nails drag sharply down his chest in warning before resuming her slow rocking, a soft hum pulling from her lips. Harry lets his hands run all over her, down her arms and up again, fingers wrapping around the back of his neck. He keeps his eyes open, even when the pleasure sinks in enough to cause them to want to close, holding her face in the forefront of his mind — even though the memories of Olivia are crawling at the edges.
Her hips are jerking quicker now, the friction finally building enough against the latex so that his breathing is becoming uneven.
Eleanor hums again, her palm pressing flat against his chest for more leverage, and his hand covers hers over his heart, wanting so badly for this to be better, wishing that there was something he could do — but he's at a loss, watching her head tip back, a gasp pulling from her throat and the muscles of her stomach clench and release as her orgasm washes through her.
Her hips slow and his body is stuck between wanting release and just being thankful it's almost over.
What the hell is wrong with him?
"Are you close?" she asks in a way that makes Harry mentally cringe, her voice slightly strained, her hips still moving slow, and there's no way he's going to get there with the pace she's setting.
He hums, a noncommittal sound, and reaches for her hips, listening to her gasp as he pulls her under him, tugging her legs to wrap around his waist. She wiggles, trying to settle — but he doesn't give her the chance, hips beginning a steady rhythm that makes his eyelids flutter.
She's hissing underneath him, pushing at his shoulders trying to get comfortable, and he grits his teeth, slowing his pace. After a moment, she sighs, arms snaking around his neck. She's into it now, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, and he can't remember the last time she gave him the opportunity to give her two orgasms — but in doing so, his has slipped under the surface again, and he's exhausted over the idea of striving for it again.
Eleanor's nails drag down his back before gripping his biceps, the pads of her fingers pressing hard into his flesh, and he watches as she arches her back, her mouth falling open. She gives the tiniest of squeaks, her orgasm making her shudder and go limp, her body stretching languidly as her arms drape over his shoulders in that way that lets him know she's completely spent.
So he does the only thing he can think of, knowing this is over.
He presses his face into her neck and moans, his hips giving one final shove and he lays still over her, forcing breath in and out of his lungs in a labored way that he hopes is convincing.
It must be, because Eleanor sighs against his ear, her hands sliding down to grip his shoulders for a moment before smoothing them down his chest as he pulls back from her a little, trying not to look guilty. She smiles up at him, a hand cupping his face and his eyes close, shame and remorse weighing on him like lead.
"Feel better now?" she questions softly, and Harry can't help the chuckle that pulls from his throat.
"Uh...yeah babe," he replies, and he's taken off guard when she nuzzles her nose against his sweetly, her lips brushing his before kissing him gently.
"Good," she says with a sigh, and then pats his shoulders — and that's his cue, rolling off of her, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, his feet dangling over the side. He jumps when she runs a hand down his back.
"I'm just gonna go clean up," he mumbles, pushing himself up off the bed and hurrying into the bathroom, doing his best to hide his still raging hard-on.
He pushes the door closed behind him, running his hands over his head in frustration as he leans back against it. He rests his head against the cool wood of the door, staring up at the ceiling and marveling at the turn of events. Eleanor actually seduced him, let the sex last longer than ten minutes, and he couldn't even get there. Had she done any one of those things not even six months ago, he would have lost his shit in two thrusts.
He growls in frustration, reaching down to rip the condom off and tosses it in the trashcan violently, wanting very badly to hit something, but the thud would most likely just draw unwanted questions. He glances at himself in the large mirror over the sinks, and he barely recognizes the person staring back at him. His body is hard and lean from rigorous weight training and protein diets — all for the wedding — and he has to admit this is the best he's looked in years, maybe ever.
But his face is drawn and careworn, lines drawn deep around his mouth and across his forehead. His skin is sallow, and his eyes are dull, and he doesn't want to know this man that's standing in front of him — and he certainly doesn't want to be him. He wants to be the man that can make love to his fiancé without incident and unfettered with thoughts of other women. Well, it wasn't women plural, he consoles himself. It was just one.
He rests his hands against the edge of the counter, his head hanging low and his dick seems to stare right back at him, reminding him that things like this just don't go away by themselves. He grinds his teeth, stepping over in front of the toilet and is almost embarrassed as he takes himself in his hand.
He gives a slow stroke, testing the waters and sighs as a dull ripple of pleasure pulls through him. His hand moves faster as his mind wanders, the pull in his groin coming sharp as he summons his last memory of him and Olivia, her head thrown back in pleasure, the cords in her neck pulling taut as she somehow found a way to keep herself from screaming as she clenched around him over and over.
His hand flies out, supporting himself against the wall when his knees weaken, mouth falling open in a silent moan as he comes in short bursts, turning the bowl water milky in places. He feels disgusted with himself as he flushes, stepping to the sink to wash his hands, and a feeling of deflated hollowness seeps deep into his bones, much the same feeling he had two months ago when Olivia told him no for the first time. The look on his face had quickly gone from shock to understanding, thinking her spiel at her house was a pathetic attempt at putting her foot down. But it wasn't. She was serious, and with one look, they'd both realized that it wasn't going to happen again. Not until he figured his shit out.
And it hasn't.
And he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since.
He shakes his head, drying his hands and slipping back into the bedroom. Eleanor is lying on her side facing him as he enters the room, the blankets pulled up to her chest, her lashes fanning out perfectly against her cheekbones, and she looks peaceful and sated, as beautiful as always. He ducks his head, hurrying around to his side of the bed where he finds his pajamas and a clean pair of underwear folded for him, his heart breaking slightly as he picks them up and puts them on. He flicks out the light, climbing in behind Eleanor, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before retreating back to his side of the bed where he rests his head on his pillow and prays for sleep to come.
—
A/N
Double the update, double the love.
Also, if there were an award for writing awkward as fuck sex scenes, I'm pretty sure I'd win it. Loooool!
Book is coming to an end! Probably another 5-10 chapters!
♥️