(No Control | Holding me Ransom - 41 - Playing It Cool)

We head to the cafe on Hampstead Heath for lunch, and Jess insists she is fine with being out in public, even though I give her the option (several times) of going back to my house for privacy. It crosses my mind fleetingly that maybe she is worried I am trying to get her back to my house to make some sort of move on her, but by the way she seems to be enjoying our playful banter I don't think this is the case. She seems genuinely at ease around me, and it makes a refreshing change to be out and about.

We sit outside in the sun to eat our lunch, and although the cafe isn't busy yet, I am still on high alert for paps or fans. The last thing I want is any sneaky pictures of us making their way into the news and scaring her off for good, not when things finally seem to be going well.

"So... you never answered my question about next weekend," I point out once our coffees have arrived.

"It sounds lovely," she admits, looking up at me and smiling. "I don't want to impose though. Shouldn't you check with your mum before you offer her spare room?"

"I'll check, but I know it'll be fine," I say confidently. I know Mum will be more than happy to see Jess, under any circumstances. "So is that a yes?"

"As long as it's fine with your mum, then yes."

I beam at her.

"OK great. Gemma will be chuffed. You can do girly stuff, like paint each other's nails and plait each other's hair."

"And she can tell me stories about you, and we can laugh at terrible pictures of you before you were famous," she nods slowly, and sideglances me to watch my reaction. I narrow my eyes at her.

"There'll be none of that."

"There will be plenty of that," she counters. "And the best of it is, you won't be there to stop it. You'll be prancing around on stage while thousands of girls scream your name."

I resist the urge to comeback with, "I'd rather you were screaming my name," as I think I have pushed my luck far enough for now. I let her win that round, just because she is amazing and sexy and beautiful and I love her, and several times over the next hour I catch her looking at me when she doesn't think I am looking at her, and this makes me smile even more.

By the time we arrive back home it is mid afternoon, but I'm not ready or the day to end just yet, and am relieved when she readily accepts the offer of a cup of tea. I send her through to the lounge and head into the kitchen to flick the kettle on. I check my emails while I am waiting for it to boil, and come across one from Karen.

Morning Harry, I've had a request from a representative of Georgia Fowler who is currently modelling under a contract with Victoria's Secret. I'm not sure if you know of her, or have met her before in your social circles, but it seems she is keen to get to know you and has asked her management to contact you through us, to suggest a meeting. Please see email below. I haven't responded; I will await your reply. Karen.

I pull a face as I quickly scroll down to the email sent by Georgia's management. I barely know this girl - I think I have said hello to her once at a fashion event a year or so ago. I get requests like these from time to time, and the odd one or two I accepted back in 2014 didn't amount to much. And besides, I am not interested in anyone other than Jess, and Karen knows this. I don't even know why she is bothering me with it.

I delete the email without replying, quickly scan through the others in my inbox, and then head back into the lounge with our freshly made tea to find Jess on the sofa channel surfing.

"Do you want to put a film on?" I ask sitting down next to her and staring at her dainty hands as she curls her fingers around her mug.

"Yeah, sounds good," she replies. "Any requests? No action, though."

I smirk. No action. As if I need reminding.

As we are flicking through the film channels and arguing the pros and cons of each film, the intercom at the front gate sounds, and we instantly stop talking and stare at each other.

"I'm not expecting anyone," I tell her, frowning. I don't know why, but I suddenly have a bad feeling about this.

I get up and cross the room to one of the windows, and peep out. A girl's face is peering over the top of the high wall, presumably held up by someone I can't see. I jump away from the window quickly, but it's too late: she's seen me. I hear several screams, and my heart sinks as I realise there are fans outside my house, and not just one or two from the sounds of them. Today of all fucking days.

"What the hell is that?" Jess asks, looking over in alarm.

"Fans outside. About thirty of them," I guess.

The buzzer on the gate sounds again.

"Seriously?" Jess says, looking at me in horror. "Do they often do this?"

She has no idea.

"If they know I'm home, yes," I reply, wearily. I could go and check the CCTV, but I think I'd rather not know the full scale of it. I can always look later, if they persist. I slump back down on the sofa and try not to scowl at the TV.

"You think they'd leave you alone to enjoy your day off," Jess muses from beside me.

"Yeah, you'd think, wouldn't you," I mutter. "Just ignore them, they'll get bored eventually."

Wishful thinking. Even with the TV volume turned up, I can hear them kicking my front gates, laughing and singing What Makes You Beautiful. The worst of it is, if I call the police or have them moved on, I'll undoubtedly be blasted by some form of the media for being a miserable bastard. I can't win.

But after about fifty buzzes on the intercom, and Jess looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute, I haul myself off the sofa to tell them to leave.

"I'm really sorry about this," I mumble to Jess. "They saw me at the window before, so they know I'm here. I don't think they know you are, though."

"I'm not worried about that," she says softly, and as I glance at her I see nothing but concern for me in her eyes, which lessens my worry that she will get fed up with the harassment and leave.

"Please can you stop ringing my buzzer," I say into the intercom, but I don't know if they hear me as they second I start to speak they scream even louder. "I'm just trying to relax," I add. "Thank you."

I walk back into the lounge and sit down next to Jess again, and she immediately pulls me towards her so I am pretty much lying on her, with my head on her breasts. I sigh, and she runs her fingers slowly through my hair, making my eyes want to close.

"Are you OK?" she asks gently.

You're stroking my hair and I'm lying in your arms. Of course I'm OK.

"Yeah," I reply out loud. "I don't mind fans asking for pictures and autographs when I'm out and about, really, but when they come here to my house I just think it's a step too far. People don't realise how draining it is to be watched by everyone constantly, and how much I cherish the few hours of privacy I get when I have a day off."

"I get it," she murmurs softly, and I feel a warm fuzzy glow inside.

"I know you do," I murmur back. That's why I love you.

I turn my attention back to the film and try to concentrate, but all I can focus on is the feel of her fingers in my hair, stroking, twisting and pulling. If she carries on like this, I'm going to be asleep before long.

~~~

A noise from the TV filters through my subconscious and I open one eye. Oh fuck. I fell asleep again. This starting to become an embarrassing habit. I lift my head to look at Jess, and something feels strange. My hair isn't moving like it usually does. I lift my hand to the side of my head and discover there are about five plaits down one side, and her explanation is, "I had to do something to keep myself awake after you fell asleep on me. Again."

Oops.

I look at my watch to discover it is nearing five p.m., and my stomach is feeling rather empty.

"I can make us some dinner, if you like?" I offer as I drag myself up off the sofa and stretch my arms above my head, shaking the plaits loose. I notice Jess darts a glance at my stomach, and her gaze lingers there for a couple of seconds. I grin to myself, but she is too preoccupied with staring at my fern tattoos that she doesn't catch me.

"Are the fans still outside?" I ask, letting my arms flop back to my sides.

"I haven't heard the intercom in a while, actually," she replies. "Maybe they got bored and went home."

A quick check of the CCTV tells me there are a few girls sitting outside, but they have stopped singing and are doing no harm. Jess comes and sits at the breakfast bar again while I busy myself making chilli con carne and a plate of nachos (which is just a couple of bags of Doritos scattered on a plate with a spoonful of salsa, grated cheese and sour cream).

"Can I give you a hand with anything?" she offers as I tie an apron round my waist to keep my clothes splash-free, but I refuse.

"Definitely not. You just sit there and keep me company. You want a glass of wine?"

"I shouldn't really, I'm driving," she sighs.

"One glass with dinner won't take you over the limit," I point out. "And you can't have chilli without red wine. It wouldn't be the same."

"True," she relents. "Just a small glass then, thanks."

I open a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, and we continue our chatter while I cook. I bring a spoonful of the mince over to her for approval, and she closes her eyes as I feed it to her, and then punctuates this with whimper of enjoyment that makes me think of other moans of enjoyment I have elicited from her in the past. I quickly pull my thoughts away - that's a slippery slope.

We sit down at the dining table to eat, the plate of nachos between us, and devour the meal in about ten minutes.

"I should think about heading home, really," she sighs reluctantly, once we have finished eating.

"You can't leave until the fans are gone," I remind her. "Well - unless you want to be all over Twitter."

"Good point."

Yessssss.

"Finally it suits me to have a crowd outside my house," I joke, and she gives me an indulgent smile.

"What am I going to do if they camp out there?" she mutters, almost to herself.

"You'll just have to stay the night," I reply before I can stop myself, and she throws her serviette in my direction.

"Not happening. So you can get those ideas out of your head."

"What ideas?" I asked, feigning innocence as her cheeks begin to turn pink.

"You know what ideas!"

"I don't think I do," I smirk, leaning forward to rest my chin on my palm while I give her an intense look that seems to make her flustered. "Care to elaborate?"

"No!" she mutters, looking rattled. "You know exactly what I mean."

"If you are referring to something... sexual..."

I overpronounce this word and her face turns a deeper shade of red.

"...I suggested no such thing," I continue. "I meant you could sleep in the spare room. So maybe you need to get your mind out of the gutter, Miss Bradshaw."

Ha! Take that, Miss Innocent. Although I can't deny I can feel a stir in my jeans at the thought of doing something, anything, sexual. It's been a while.

I smirk as I stand up to clear away the plates, and I'm rewarded with silence, which means she doesn't trust herself to speak. Another glance at her face reveals her cheeks are now crimson. I turn away and walk to the sink.

"That's a nice shade of red you're turning," I add without looking round.

"I'm not rising to this," she mutters.

"I am," I joke under my breath, loud enough for her to hear, and then turn back to her once the plates are on the worktop, to see she has her hands pressed to her cheeks with her elbows resting on the table. I can't help laughing in glee that I have managed to provoke such a reaction from her.

"Stop it," she snaps.

"Sorry, am I getting you all hot and bothered?"

I walk over to the table and reach right across her to pick up her empty wine glass, deliberately leaving no more than a couple of inches between us. To my surprise she doesn't move away; whether this is a stubborn attempt to stand her ground or a desire to be close to me I'm not sure.

"I'm not answering that," she says flatly.

"You didn't need to," I breathe in her ear.

"Pack it in," she whines, desperately. "You're crossing a line."

I straighten up fully and look down at her, smirking, before raising my eyebrows innocently. "Sorry, friend." (I emphasise this, too.) "I'm just teasing you. I thought you could take a bit of banter."

"Below th..," she begins to retort, and then trails off before she can finish.

I know exactly what she was going to say. Below the belt. I know I have flirted outrageously with her over dinner, and I should probably stop pushing my luck before she genuinely gets fed up of it, but I can't resist. The opportunity is too good to pass up, and I can sense she knows it is coming.

"You tried that once before but it was waaaayyy too good, remember?"

She swallows hard and I wink at her, knowing her thoughts are exactly where mine are right now: on my bed nearly seven months ago, while I surrendered to the feel of her mouth on my dick and had to tell her to stop before I got carried away and ruined it for both of us.

She says nothing but looks away, her face on fire, and I begin loading the dirty plates in the dishwasher, grinning to myself at this (very small) step forward on the road to repairing our relationship.

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