Surely you can get a phone from a janitor, right?

"Well? Spit it out, girl!" the strict-looking man snaps, making you jump a little. "How did your phone get in there?"

"L-Len. He took me," you blurt, then realizing what it sounds like try to amend it. "I mean, my mouth. I needed him. So he took me inside and..." You wince a little, realizing how much worse you're making it sound as his his eyes widen just a little and the corner of his mouth quirks up a little from the dour line that seems to be its natural state.

"So... your mouth needed him, did it?" he asks a little dryly.

"I... medically," you lick your lips nervously, as if to emphasize that they'd been injured. His eyes follow the slow movement of your tongue before it withdraws back into your mouth.

"So it's a medical condition, is it? And he had the medicine you needed inside, did he?"

You pop open your mouth to try and correct him, but realize that him thinking you have medication in the closet along with your phone works to your advantage. Unless he misunderstood your rambling....

"Yes sir. Would you please take me in the closet so I can get my medication?" you ask with big eyes. Guys just love girls with big eyes. Worrying about the possibility that he might refuse makes you lick your lips nervously again.

Harry stares at you for a long moment, then steps forward, putting a heavily calloused hand at the small of your back as he pushes you out of the stacks and steers you toward the door.

"Oh, thank you sir," you default to meekness. Something about his stern, almost military look makes you decide not to complain about his hand as it slides a little lower.

"In you go, girl," he tells you, pushing you forward with a hand on your firm butt.

"Th-thank you sir, I appreciate this. I really appreciate you helping me out and letting me get my phone."

"Medicine, wasn't it?" he asks, making you pause just inside the door. He doesn't stop and you feel him press right up against your back, his hands circling your waist, one going under the skirt and the other sliding up beneath your shirt. A life-time of manual labour has made them rough, calloused, and strong. The feel of his tough skin rasping over your own tender, soft skin verges on painful.

"Y-yes. I need it," you tell him, panting, trying to clear your mind and remember what matters, even as his hands find your inner thighs and uncovered breast.