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Harry used to think he’d had some great sex. At twenty-one, he’s had sex with men and women and, on one occasion, those who are neither, some older, a couple younger, some rich and famous, some talented and good mates. He loves giving head, thinks he’s pretty good at it, has a cock that’s too big for most to take comfortably without some dedicated prep, and has had no complaints about the way he uses it. He loves the stretch and the fullness of being fucked - he used to think he’d had some great sex.
He’s known Louis Tomlinson for all of nineteen hours, and so far he’s had nothing but mind-blowing sex.
And he hasn’t even really been fucked yet.
Sure, Harry’s gotten off - multiple times, twice that first night, in his pants no less, once covered in his own piss and humping Louis’ leg, dirtying up the expensive rug in front of Louis’ chair.
Right now, his cock is currently down for the count, four orgasms in a row too much for even his young libido.
Louis hasn’t come that many times, of course. He put Harry on his knees as soon as the stewardess came to tell them they could move about the private jet, put his cock in Harry’s mouth and fucked his throat until he came, watched with dark eyes as Harry preened and jerked himself off. Then he pulled Harry into his lap and edged him for - hours, it felt like, fleeting brushes against his prostate coupled with firm, constant pressure that had him on the edge until Louis pulled his fingers away. Harry came twice more before Louis let him have a breather - a short breather, because no sooner had Harry gotten his breath back than Louis was coaxing him to his feet, bending him over the buttery leather of his reclining chair, spit and Harry’s come slicking the way for Louis to fuck between his thighs.
Because Harry had begged, but ultimately he knew that Louis made the rules, knew he wasn't going to get fucked properly until Louis was ready. God, he hoped Louis is ready soon.
“You’re going to come again for me,” Louis had told him, and Harry had wrapped his hand around his aching cock and closed his eyes, braced against the leather with his forehead and one forearm, and teased his poor cock until he spurted weakly onto the leather - after he’d been given permission, of course.
Harry is dozing, clad only in his pants and snuggled up to Louis under the monogrammed blanket, leather seat once more pristine thanks to the careful ministrations of his tongue.. He's thoroughly exhausted. He thought he knew what great sex felt like, but in the last nineteen hours or so, he’s been corrected. He can’t wait to find out what being proper fucked by Louis is like - he’d bet any money it’s going to feel amazing.
*
They really should have talked by now.
Louis knows better. He picked up a gorgeous young model at an event and proceeded to take him home, work him over - because, fuck, the boy is pretty and responsive and submits so very beautifully, goes down like a natural, all wide eyes and sweet submission - and now twenty hours later they’re snuggled up together on his jet.
Louis knows better. He doesn’t do things like this - casual sex, yes, but the status quo would’ve seen him snog Harry senseless and call him a car the next morning. Maybe he’d get Harry’s number, maybe not. But instead he’d asked the younger man - much younger, his phone informs him, Harry’s twenty-one, which is a good twenty-three years younger than Louis - to come the states with him. He’d called out the next morning and had his assistant pick up some pants and jeans for Harry - sinfully tight, the tart rattling off his measurements and a preferred style and brand with all the cheer of someone who knows how good he looks in drainpipe jeans, one of Louis’ sweaters barely covering his arse as he’d made them pancakes for breakfast.
He’s playing with Harry’s curls idly, the younger man curled up next to him on the reclining chair. He made Harry come on the buttery leather not ten minutes ago, and Harry had cleaned it up with his tongue without prompting. He’s delightful and utterly surprising, this gorgeous, fey creature who looks so fucking pretty on his knees and is keen to take whatever Louis gives him. He’s so beautiful when he flushes, embarrassment and arousal colouring his cheeks - perfect, Louis thinks, perfect for me -
Louis stops that train of thought right there. He doesn’t need this. Harry is a hot young thing just starting to get popular - he’s not going to be looking for a relationship with someone twice his age, no matter how good the sex is. And Louis hasn’t gotten to where he is today by mooning after pretty faces. He needs to make it clear that he won’t be distracted this time either, that he’s not looking for a long-term thing, here.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “What are you going to do when we get to LA?”
Harry looks up at him, frowning. “Um,” he says hesitantly. “I don’t know? What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll be keeping business hours,” he reminds Harry. “I have meetings scheduled most days.”
“I’ll be waiting when you’re done, then,” Harry decides, facing him a dazzling smile. “Would you like that? Coming home to me?”
Yes, please, forever, Louis thinks, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. “Perhaps,” he says, and Harry ducks in for a kiss.