21. Vogue

Adam dropsme off at my dad's mansion, home, now, I guess, and leaves me in the care of Harry as he drives back, presumably to go back to my dad.

The grandeur of the house still amazes me, and it takes a moment to remember how far I've come. Harry, leaning against his SUV, gives me a soft smile that makes me curious.

"Hey," I say, going over to him.

"Vogue." His voice wraps around my name, making it sound like something precious. He pushes away from the car and reaches out to pull me to him, wrapping his arms tightly around me.

"What's up?" I ask with growing suspicion.

"I'm taking you out on a date," Harry says, an edge of something like excitement in his voice.

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh? That sounds fun. Where are we going?"

He guides me with a hand at the small of my back, a touch that sends a jolt through me despite its lightness, to the passenger side of his car and opens the door for me.

"It's a surprise." He shuts the door with a soft thud. It's as if he's closing us off from the rest of the world, leaving just the two of us in this bubble of anticipation. As he gets into the driver's seat, I smile and feel a soft thrill go through me at this quality time we're spending together one-on-one.

Harry starts the engine, and it purrs to life. We leave the security of home and head towards the city, where the lights blur by as he navigates through the traffic with ease. I glance over at him, taking in his profile—sharp jawline, a smirk that's all too knowing. He catches my gaze and holds it for a moment longer than necessary, a silent challenge.

"We need this," he says, placing his hand lightly on my thigh.

"I know. I feel like we've gone about this back to front."

He chuckles, not offended in the slightest, and that's one of the things that draws me to him. He is so easy going, even in this tough, hardcore mafia life; he is a ray of sunshine. "Yeah, I feel the same, so I'm rectifying that. They guys are going to leave us alone… until we get back. Then you're fair game again, sweetheart."

"Sounds perfect." We share a smile before he looks back at the road.

"So, did you actually grow up in those fancy hotels?" I ask, needing to know things about him that don't revolve around sex, lust and mafia shit. Although, I'm guessing the mafia shit will come hand-in-hand with his story like all the others.

"Yep. It's not as glamorous as it sounds," he says with a chuckle. "Imagine a childhood where every smile is a transaction, every friendship has an agenda. You learn to read the room before you can read a book."

I feel a chill despite the warmth of the car. Harry's world is one I've only glimpsed from the outside, but here he is, offering a peek behind the velvet curtain. I reach out and squeeze his hand.

"Sounds lonely," I say, voice softer than I intend.

"Sometimes," he admits, "but then you learn to find your own tribe—people who get it, people who stand by you because they want to, not because there's something in it for them."

"The guys?"

"Yeah. Quentin is new on the scene, as you know, but me, Cal and Thayer go way back. We used to go swimming in the hotel pools, annoying the guests as we splashed about, trying to find some glimmer of childhood in the middle of mafia shit."

"Sounds fun! I can't swim." I blurt out my confession with wide eyes. "It's not that I don't want to, just never got the chance, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. I can teach you if you like. Your choice, but the offer is there."

My embarrassment at my confession melts away. "Yeah, maybe I would. Aaron, Dad, has a pool, so it's right there."

Harry nods. "Dad?" His query is legit, not judgemental in anyway.

I sigh. "Yeah. Dad. I guess Mum is now Megan, the bitch who sold out her own daughter for a life of sun, sea and sand."

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to remind you."

"You didn't. It's always there now. Probably always will be."

"You deserve this chance to get to know your dad," he ventures cautiously. "It sounds—and I'm only saying what I think—like your mum wanted you away from him."

"So he wouldn't find out she was stealing all the money he sent?" I ask bitterly, and he curses himself under his breath.

"No, I didn't mean it like that, but maybe you're right. I just meant that if she had been open to you seeing him, maybe he would've made it work somehow. I know he wanted to protect you from this life for as long as possible, but maybe that's just his excuse."

"He's a big bad mafia guy. If he wanted to see me, why would my mum stop him?"

"That's fair," he murmurs.

"And why are we talking about me now? We were talking about you." I glare at him, and he laughs.

"Okay, busted. I'm not big on rehashing the past. But I will for you."

"I don't want to make you tell me things you don't want to. Whatever you want, in your own time, is fine."

He nods but doesn't say anything else as we leave the city behind, the buildings giving way to open space, the sky expanding above us. Harry turns onto a road less travelled, surrounded by the untouched beauty of nature. Trees whisper secrets in the wind as we weave through the darkened path.

"Where are we going?" I ask, curiosity piqued as the headlights cut through the enveloping darkness.

"Somewhere we can see the stars," he says, a hint of vulnerability flickering.

We arrive at a spot overlooking the city, much like the one Quentin took me to, only higher and further away.

"I like open spaces," he murmurs. "I hope this is okay?"

"Of course. I love scenic spots."

"I know Quen?—"

"This is perfect," I interrupt him.

"Okay, good. Another thing about living in hotels. You don't have your own space."

I nod at that shred of insight and lean forward to brush my lips against his, lightly, promising more later.

As we climb out, the night wraps around us like a cloak.

Harry pops the boot and gathers up the picnic basket and blanket.

We walk a short way to a patch of grass on the edge of the hilltop, and he lies the blanket down.

He opens the basket and pulls out some fake candles, flicking the switches and placing them all around, to my delight.

"Oh, this is wonderful!" Taking my seat on the side of the blanket, Harry joins me, pulling glorious food out of the basket. The spread is nothing short of a feast—there's cheese, cold meats, grapes, what looks like homemade bread, and even a bottle of red wine, its label too fancy for me to recognise.

"Harry, this is..." I start, but words fail me for a second. He watches me with those deep eyes, waiting.

"Too much?" He asks, but there's a twinkle in his gaze that tells me he knows it's perfect.

"Just right," I correct him anyway, and I mean it. It's not the extravagance, it's the effort, the thoughtfulness.

Harry pours the wine into two glasses. He hands one to me, and our fingers brush—a jolt of heat races up my arm.

"Thanks." Taking a sip of the wine, it's gorgeous. It's rich, complex, and it warms me from the inside out. Harry settles beside me on the blanket, his presence a magnetic field that pulls at something deep within my chest.

"Tonight is about simple pleasures," he says, popping a grape into his mouth. "No complications. No games."

"Sounds like a good plan," I agree, watching the way the candlelight dances across his features, casting shadows and light in equal measure. Tonight, it's just Harry and me and a picnic under the stars, and for once, the darkness feels like a friend rather than a threat.

Harry watches me with an intensity that sets my nerves on edge as I start to eat—in a good way. I chew slowly, buying time because this, whatever this is, feels like uncharted territory.

We're quiet for a moment, just the sound of the night and the distant hum of the city keeping us company. I pour us more wine, watching the liquid glint in the dim light, and when I meet his eyes again, there's something like understanding there.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," he says, and it's not a command, but an invitation.

"Back in Westfield," I start, my voice barely above a whisper, "I used to climb onto the roof at night just to watch the stars. Pretended they were points on a map leading me somewhere else, anywhere else."

"Escape routes," he muses, and I wonder if he ever needed them too. "Know all about those."

Silence falls again, but it's not uncomfortable.

"Look at that view," I murmur, gesturing toward the panorama before us, trying to steady my breathing, to ignore the heat pooling low in my belly.

"Beautiful," Harry agrees, but he's not looking at the skyline—he's looking at me.

Harry's hand finds mine, rough and warm. The connection ignites something inside me.

His fingers trace the contour of my jaw, sending shivers across my skin. When his lips finally crash into mine, it's not gentle. It's all-consuming, fierce as if he's pouring every unvoiced promise into this single kiss.

He pulls back suddenly and rises, grabbing my hand and hauling me to my feet. "I want this to be as much just us as possible," he says with a dark smile, leading me back to the car. He opens the back door, and we slide in. There's no space left between us; we're just heat and need, tangled up on the black leather.

"Fuck, Vogue," he groans against my lips, and I feel his words more than I hear them.

Hands grapple for purchase on clothes, on skin—anything to bring us close and everything else fades away.

Clothes are shed in silent urgency, discarded pieces of who we were before this moment. Harry's touch is everywhere, setting my nerves alight. My fingers dig into his shoulders, my nails leaving marks I know will linger. I settle on his lap, spreading my legs wide as he reaches for his cock. He pushes it inside me, our moans breaking the silence of the night, our lips never parting. I gasp into his mouth as his length fills my pussy, and then he slides his fingers over my clit. It's rough and raw, exactly the way I need it, the way I want it with him. There's no pretence, no hiding in the shadows of what we are—we're just two people driven by desire and something more, something deeper.

His hands grip my hips, guiding me into a frantic rhythm. The car windows fog up with our heat, our breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. "You feel so fucking good." He lifts me up and drives into me harder.

I can feel every inch of his cock inside me, stretching me to the brink of madness. The pleasure builds like a monsoon inside me, growing more intense until I can't hold back any longer. My pussy tightens around his cock, spasms wracking through me as I come around him with his name on my lips.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans.

Harry's movements become erratic as he chases his own climax. He grunts loudly, thrusting up, deep into me as he unloads, his cock jerking wildly inside me. We collapse against each other, panting and spent in the backseat that now feels like the only place in the world.

After a moment of silence where only our breaths are heard, Harry brushes a strand of hair away from my face and looks into my eyes. "Vogue," he whispers, voice full of something like wonder or maybe fear. "I need you. Please promise me that no matter what happens, you'll be safe. I can't lose you. Not now."

The sharp vulnerability in his voice pierces through the post-orgasmic haze, and I find myself clinging to him tighter. "I'm not going anywhere, Harry," I murmur back, my breath hitching with the weight of the moment and the unspoken threats that linger just outside this bubble of carnality we've created.

But the seriousness of his plea doesn't escape me. We're playing in a world where danger is a constant companion, where every passionate encounter could be undercut by the brutish hands of our reality.

We stay there for a while longer, bodies entwined in the murky shadows of the car's interior, a sanctuary built on the edge of chaos. Eventually, we muster enough energy to dress in silence which he breaks eventually.

"Better get you back. The other guys will be getting jealous." He snickers to show he's joking, but I know it anyway. There is no envy. We are a perfect circle, both together and apart.

After gathering up the remains of the picnic and tossing them in the boot, he drives us back with a possessive hand resting on my thigh, a silent claim that I don't resist. Back at my home, he walks me to the door with that same protective aura enveloping us like mist.

"This was incredible, Vogue," he murmurs. "I'm glad we did this."

"Me too." I lean over to kiss him, and then the door opens, and the moment is broken.