One week.

Styles stepped under the piercing hot water.

One. Week.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. God knows how many seconds.

He reached for the small bar of soap and proceeded to glide it over his skin. His thoughts were astray, as they had been for the past week. He felt like he couldn't grasp a single concept for more than a minute before she found her way into his mind. It was torturous, really. He would sip from his cup of coffee in the morning and somehow be reminded of her dark, brassy orbs as he stared at the black drink in his mug. He would listen thoughtlessly to the buzz of chatter at The Wild Things, and his mind would recall how her sweet voice would ring in his ears and block out all other sound except for the anxious thump of his heart in his breast.

The most painful was when Styles would catch gazes with a woman whom bared any sort of resemblance to his vixen, which was painfully often, and would immediately feel his chest tighten as he realized that they were not her; they may have had the same dark curls down that cascaded down the length of their back, but their eyes wouldn't hold the same mischievous gleam. Or maybe they had a similar vumptuous chest, and he would be reminded of the way her breasts, even through the fabric of her red dress, had felt so soft and tender pressed against him.

"Fuck," he choked out, his mind betraying him as it continued its relentless torture. His fists pounded against the wet tile wall of the shower, his knuckles turning red and raw. His anger, for the first time in a long time, was directed at himself, and his inability to overcome the woman who he had spent a mere hour with. How was he to deal with a fury aimed at himself? How was he to deal with the ache in his chest, that throbbed right under his ribs where his seemingly black heart was?

How was he to deal with the possibility that his beautiful fox might only visit him in his harrowing dreams from now on, and never again in reality?

It was odd, actually, how not once could he find it in himself to be upset with her. Why should he not? It was her whom had slipped from his sight, and left him feeling a foreign sense of pain. It was her who had given him a taste of her divine body, a mere taste, and then ran away with every hope he had of getting another taste.

Just one more taste. He begged to whoever would listen. His eyes were closed as he let the water cascade along the golden planes of his body.

Just one more.

He rolled in his lips as he wrapped his hand around himself, his forehead resting against the cool tile. He pretended it was her small, frail hand as he moved it up and down his length.

"Carmen," he moaned under his breath, the sound of her name echoing through the walls of the bathroom. He could see her thick waves of hair, falling over her creamy shoulders and reaching just above her firm ass. He could feel her thumb running over his tip as he did so to himself.

The way her smooth muscles had tighetned around his hardened cock as she came.

He felt himself twitch in his hand.

The soft moans that fell from her ruby red lips.

Harry, Harry, Harry.

"F-fuck," he gasped, her sweet voice ringing in his ears as he climaxed. The hot sticky liquid coated his hand, and he looked down at it, biting his lip as he remembered the way his cum had seeped down her bare thigh after he had spilled himself in her, marking her as his own.

His own.

"Mine," he muttered under his breath, bringing his hand under the shower water to rinse it off. "She's mine."

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"Mandy," called his low voice to the well-postured blonde standing on the other side of his mahogany desk. His legs were kicked up over the wood, and he leaned back casually into the cushion of his chair.

"Yes, Mr. Styles," she spoke firmly, contradictory to the anxious tapping of her bitten-to-the-nub nails against her bare thigh.

"I want Crook here in five minutes precisely." The authority in his voice caused Mandy to bite her lip to hold back a moan. Her attraction to her boss was as obvious as her fear for him, and Styles swelled with amusement with this knowledge.

"Oh, and bring me a beer," he chimed, and she nodded hesitantly, pulling down at the hem of her black sleek skirt as an act of her bashfulness.

"Of course, Mr. Styles." Her words were rushed and timid, a steady rise and fall of her chest as she took in his appearance on this Sunday morning. Oh Lord, she thought to herself, as would any woman. His long mess of hair was falling to his shoulders, with a few strands tucked behind his ear, as if he had just woken up. He was adorning something other than his usual black suit- an oddly patterned button up that he managed to make look absolutely mouthwatering, with the buttons undone down all the way to where the butterfly on his chest was. The smug expression he wore masked the restlessness he had been experiencing all week, and left his poor assistant feeling uncomfortably hot and flustered.

"Anything else, sir?"

He raised an eyebrow, forcing his eyes to rake over her body despite his lack of attraction to her. She was thin and tall, her white blouse clinging to a flat chest and her blonde hair straightened to perfection. To no surprise, he found himself scrutinizing her under his gaze, comparing every detail to the vivid memory of his Spanish beauty.

Stop it, he scolded himself once he realized he was letting her slip back into his mind. Get a fucking grip.

He returned his attention to the girl before him. "You look lovely today, Mandy." He forced a smile. "I especially like the skirt."

He bit his lip to keep from laughing as he watched her cheeks flare up at his comment. It gave her that much more confidence, her back straightening and her chin raising.

"Why thank you, Mr. Styles," she beamed back at him, oblivious to the amusement glistening in his emerald orbs. "I'll be right back with your beer and shall make that call for Crook right away." She bowed in submission almost, before excusing herself.

The moment the door shut behind her, his facade was forgotten. His eyes felt heavy as he closed them and let out a sigh, relaxing his shoulders. Oh how he wanted to just lay in his bed and sleep away the pain in his stomach, similar to the foreign feeling that had come to him when Carmen had moaned out his name, his real name. He hated, despised even, not being in control. He felt at ease when everything was in the palm of his hand, which is why his well-being was frenzied and uncertain at the moment as he felt his control over his composure slip from his grasp. He had been in charge of everything in his life since the day his father died, not too long after he had finished high school. His father's entire business had been given to him in succession, which he sold at the snap of his fingers and used the money to build the most important thing in his life- The Wild Things. A wealthy club run by him and only him. It was all he had ever needed or wanted, or so he thought.

"What have you done to me?" he whispered, opening his eyes to look up at the high ceiling. He jumped slightly as his thoughts were snapped away by the sound of the door opening and a massive figure stepping into his office.

"Styles," the figure greeted, nodding his head simply as he stood there.

"I need you to find someone for me, Crook," Styles replied, getting straight to it, sitting up in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

Crook nodded again, not at all fazed by the request. It wasn't unusual at all, probably another person who owed him money.

"Sure. What's the name?"

"Carmen." His mouth watered at the taste of her name falling from his tongue. He took a deep breath. "Carmen Avalos."

It took a mere half an hour for Crook to return with a file in his hand, and a confused expression on his hard features. Styles sat up eagerly, the beer Mandy had brought him set down on the desk in front of him. He tried to conceal his excitement, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

"The only Carmen Avalos in all of England lives in Wimbledon." He looked to Styles with furrowed eyebrows before continuing. "And she is a single, middle-aged mother with three kids." Crook cleared his throat in amusement and held back a snicker. "I didn't know you were into MILF's, Styles."

"I'm not," Harry growled, gripping the bottle in his hand until his knuckles turned white. "That has to be wrong. She couldn't have been older than me."

"Ever hear of a fake name?" Crook rolled his eyes, reaching over and grabbing the bottle of beer from the desk and bringing it to his lips.

"Why would she use a fake name?" Styles frowned, crossing his leg over his thigh. There would have been no reason to, really- they had only spent an hour together.

Unless...

"She wanted me to look for her," he hummed in realization to himself, grinning slyly. "My little fox is playing a game of hide and seek."

He turned back to Crook.

"Give me a list of all Carmens living with a ten mile proximity to London." He smirked to himself. "I know she's around here somewhere."

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sorry it's short. by the way, thanks for all the reads and comments and votes im so happy yeee (-:

next chapter should be more interesting. also, do you want me to put more of warning for the dirty parts so you can skip it if you want ?

lots of love xx