Chapter 11

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Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades darker or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 11

With easy grace, Harry taps the white ball so that it glides across the table, kisses the black and oh-so-slowly the black rolls, teeters on the edge, and finally drops into the top right pocket of the billiard table.

Damn.

He stands, and his mouth twists in a triumphant I-so-own-you-Tomlinson smile. Putting down his cue, he saunters casually toward me, all tousled hair, jeans, and white T-shirt. He doesn't look like a CEO—he looks like a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Holy cow, he's so fucking sexy.

"You're not going to be a sore loser, are you?" he murmurs, barely containing his grin.

"Depends how hard you spank me," I whisper, holding on to my cue for support. He takes my cue and puts it to one side, hooks his finger into the top of my shirt, and pulls me toward him.

"Well, let's count your misdemeanors, Mr. Tomlinson." He counts on his long fingers.

"One, making me jealous of my own staff. Two, arguing with me about working. And three, waving your delectable derriere at me for the last twenty minutes." His eyes glow a soft green with excitement, and leaning down, he rubs his nose against mine. "I want you to take your jeans and this very fetching shirt off. Now." He plants a feather-soft kiss on my lips, and wanders nonchalantly over to the door, and locks it.

Oh my.

When he turns and gazes at me, his eyes are burning. I stand paralysed like a complete zombie, my heart pounding, my blood pumping, not actually able to move a muscle. In my mind, all I can think is— this is for him—the thought repeating like a mantra over and over again.

"Clothes, Louis. You appear to still be wearing them. Take them off—or I will do it for you."

"You do it." I finally find my voice, and it sounds low and heated. Harry grins.

"Oh, Mr. Tomlinson. It's a dirty job, but I think I can rise to the challenge."

"You normally rise to most challenges, Mr. Styles." I raise an eyebrow at him, and he smirks.

"Why, Mr. Tomlinson, whatever do you mean?" On his way over to me, he pauses at the small desk built into one of the bookshelves. Reaching over, he picks up a twelve-inch Perspex ruler. He holds each end and flexes it, his eyes not leaving mine.

Holy shit—his weapon of choice. My mouth goes dry.

Suddenly, I'm hot and bothered and damp in all the right places. Only Harry could turn me on with just a look and the flex of a ruler. He slips it into the back pocket of his jeans and ambles toward me, eyes dark and full of promise. Without saying a word, he drops to his knees in front of me and starts to undo my laces, quickly and efficiently, dragging both my vans and socks off. I lean on the side of the billiard table, so I don't fall.

Gazing down at him as he undoes my laces, I marvel at the depth of feeling that I have for this beautiful, flawed man. I love him.

He grabs my hips, slips his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, and undoes the button and zipper. He peers up through his long lashes, grinning his most salacious grin as he slowly peels my jeans off. I step out of them, glad that I'm wearing these pretty, pretty panties, and he grasps the back of my legs and runs his nose along the apex of my thighs.

I practically melt.

"I want to be quite rough with you, Lou. You'll have to tell me to stop if it's too much," he breathes.

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