Waking up naked in a hotel bed with a breathtakingly beautiful young man beside me was not something I had expected from this trip—but it was, undeniably, the highlight of it.

To say I had missed this would be a criminal understatement. I had yearned for it. To say I longed for his touch—his tongue, his roughness, his tenderness—would still fall short. I had craved it with every dormant part of me. He had awakened something visceral in me, something long buried beneath grief and years of restraint. And the hunger he stirred couldn't possibly be satisfied in one night.

He'd had me—and I'd had him—again. Twice more, in fact. The second time was slow and reverent, full of exploration and laughter and the kind of kisses that melt you into the sheets. But the third... the third was different. Raw. Unrestrained. Cussing, sweat, tangled limbs, fingernails, need. It was everything I didn't know I needed.

Now, in the golden hush of morning, I lie still, blushing at the memory of what we did. What I did. The things I said. How I touched him, tasted him, how I screamed and scratched and shattered in his arms. It almost doesn't feel real—except it's written on my body, my thighs sore, my lips still tingling, my heart still racing.

Feeling braver than I should, I brush a lock of hair from his face. He's so peacefully asleep, one arm slung across the sheets, his chest rising slowly, his lips parted ever so slightly. I reach for the small cross that hangs on the chain around his neck, rolling it between my fingers when a lazy smile tugs at his mouth. His eyes remain closed, but his hand finds mine and intertwines our fingers like it's instinct. I let the cross fall and trail my touch across the ink on his skin, studying each line, each symbol, until his lashes flutter open.

"Hey you," he murmurs, his voice low, sleep-rough, and downright sinful.

"Hey..." I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He lifts a hand and gestures for me to come closer. I do, curling into him. And just as I settle, he attacks—tickling my sides until I squeal, swatting at him.

"Stop it, Harry!" I scold, trying to sound stern, failing miserably.

"What?" he grins, feigning innocence. "I seem to recall you begging me not to stop just a few hours ago..."

I burst into quiet laughter, rolling my eyes as his arms tighten around my waist. He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.

"Mmm... you smell so good. I want to eat you up. Oh wait—already did," he teases, and daylight suddenly makes everything feel much more real, more exposed.

"Harryyyy..." I draw out his name in mock reprimand, burying my face in the pillow.

"What? Who's the shy one now, hmm?" His tone is all cheek and charm. "Ashley... last night was... incredible. You're incredible. You feel..." he exhales dramatically, "...unreal. I could make love to you all day and wouldn't stop to eat, drink, or pee."

"Gross!" I laugh, swatting his arm again, but I can't help the grin on my face as I turn to look at him. Even like this—unkempt hair, flushed skin, sheets tangled around his waist—he's devastatingly beautiful. And he smells like sex and skin and sweat and cologne, and it's intoxicating.

He leans in and presses a kiss to my lips. Then another. Then another. A trail of delicate pecks that start to build into something else.

"Damn it," he groans, pulling back.

"What?" I ask, half smiling, half wary.

"I want you again..." His voice has dipped, rougher now, and I feel him harden against me, his body already responding.

"That was just a peck!" I say, laughing, flattered, flustered.

"Have you looked at yourself lately?" he murmurs. His hands slide along my hips, and I hide my face against his neck, peppering soft kisses there to keep from combusting.

"You're not helping, Ash," he says, and his hand comes up, his thumb under my chin, gently lifting until I meet his gaze. "Ashley, I need to have you again, baby. Are you up for it?"

The stamina of this man—this boy—is absurd. But his voice, his expression, his whole presence... it's addictive.

"The real question is: are you up for it, Mr. Styles?" I tease, raising a brow.

He gasps, feigning offense. "Excuse me?"

Before I can respond, he flips me effortlessly, straddling his lap, his hands on my hips as I burst out laughing. I can't remember the last time I laughed like this in bed—with someone, not just next to someone.

"God, you're so bloody beautiful it hurts," he murmurs, brushing my hair back. "I had to call dibs on you."

"What?" I ask, confused and mildly amused, my brows knitting together.

"When we met everyone that first day in the conference room, I warned them all to back the fuck off," he says casually, and I burst into laughter at the sheer absurdity of it—this gorgeous boy thinking anyone in that room would be interested in me. But before I can voice that thought, he tightens his arms around my waist, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I know what you're thinking," he murmurs, pulling me closer, his erection firm beneath me. "That no one would want you. But baby... you've been hiding for so long, you don't even realize how many men around you are desperate to devour you."

His words land like a punch to the chest—unexpected, intense, unshakably sincere.

"You're stunning, Ash," he goes on, his voice rasping against my skin. "An absolute goddess. And as if that weren't enough, you're a fucking amazing human being. You've taken my breath away."

And just like that, I'm bewitched all over again—by his words, by his hands, by this overwhelming presence he brings into my life like a tidal wave I never saw coming.

"Ash... you're incredible. You make me feel..." He trails off, struggling to put it into words.

"You only think that because you just slept with me," I tease, gently nudging away from him, trying to lighten the moment. "You're still high."

I slip off his lap and reach for the sheet to wrap around me, heading toward the bathroom for a much-needed shower—my body sore and humming from the night. But he's not done with me yet.

"And I'm about to get higher," he grins, grabbing my wrist and pulling me back into the bed like it's the most natural thing in the world.

We fall into each other again, laughter turning to gasps as limbs entangle and heat blooms. But this time it's slower, more tender. The morning light changes things—it softens us, makes everything feel deeper, truer. The kind of intimacy you don't plan for but somehow find yourself wrapped in.

"Are you close, baby?" he whispers against my lips, breathless, his hands gripping my hips as he moves with me.

"Yes," I manage to say, my voice strained with rising pleasure. I quicken my rhythm, chasing the peak that comes barreling toward me, crashing through my body in a wave of blinding, blissful surrender. Seconds later, I hear his groan—low, guttural, the sound of release—and he follows me over the edge.

I collapse against him, still trembling, my skin slick, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. He's still inside me, and I don't move. I don't want to. There's no place else I'd rather be.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his voice ragged. "I can't get enough of you."

I smile into his neck, still catching my breath. "I need to shower," I mumble against his collarbone, though my body hasn't fully decided to cooperate.

"No," he says firmly, pulling out of me slowly and discarding the condom with ease. "Stay here. I want you to smell like me all day."

I roll my eyes but secretly love how possessive that sounds. He settles us back into our previous position, spooning me with his legs tangled in mine, one arm slung protectively around my waist.

"What time is it?" I finally ask, the real world creeping back into my thoughts—Liz, the team, and of course, Anzette. I haven't spoken to her since before the shoot and I'm painfully aware that I've gone radio silent.

"You're determined to make me get out of this bed, aren't you?" he groans, but he's grinning as he leans over to where our clothes are still strewn across the floor. He finds my phone, unlocks it, and holds it up.

"It's eleven."

"Shit," I mutter, grabbing it. Three messages from Liz—no surprise—and one missed call from Anzette.

I wait until Harry heads to the bathroom before quickly dialing her back. She answers on the first ring, and her voice is practically shrieking through the speaker.

"Mum! I can't believe you!"

"What now?" I ask warily.

"You're working with One Direction?! And I had to find out from Monet—by accident, might I add?!"

I sigh. "Yeah..."

"Mum!" she squeals. "Please, please, please get me Harry's autograph! I am so freaking in love with him, I swear I could die. He's so handsome, and kind, and hot—Mum, he's so hot—and he sings like an angel, and if you don't at least take a picture with him, I will literally disown you!"

I blink at the ceiling, the absurdity of my life crashing down on me all at once. My teenage daughter is in love with the man who just made me come three times in less than twelve hours.

Brilliant.

Absolutely bloody brilliant.