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“No.”
“It’s been too long,” he whispers into my ear. “I want to know I’m still capable.”
“It hurts,” I admit, meaning the pain between us, the deep ache I feel with his arms wrapped around me like this.
“I know.”
“I can’t—"
“Don’t make me beg.”
For a split second I consider turning him down, I consider doing exactly that and making him beg, but as he drops his forehead onto my shoulder, his fingers stroking lovingly against my throat, I find that I can’t.
I can’t turn him down.
Instead, I raise my hand and tangle my fingers with his then push upwards, twisting on my foot, and pull him upright too. We lock gazes, our fingers gripping tightly. Zayn pulls me towards him with such force that instead of colliding with him and ruining the flow of music, I leap into his arms, my legs and arms wrapping around his body. He grunts, stumbling back slightly, then his arms come upwards as he holds me to him.
But I’m not ready to give in.
Not yet.
So I push back against his chest and drop my feet to the floor. His arms unravel from behind me and I run backwards away from him. Zayn chases me, throwing himself forward onto his knees so he slides across the floor and ends up at my feet. His chest heaves as he looks up at me his expression earnest, humble, as he begs me to forgive him without words.
And I want to do that. I want to do that so badly, but I need him to understand that I’m not a pushover, that he hurt me and that needs to be addressed.
He wants to feel, so he’s going to feel.
I grab his throat.
My fingers dig into his skin as I pull him upright, and even though he towers over me, he allows me to squeeze just that little bit, submitting in a way I never thought he could.
Still holding onto him, I rise up onto the balls of my feet and clamp my knees together, bending them slightly. Moving my hips provocatively, I roll my body before him, close enough so that he can feel the whisper of me against him, but not close enough that my body is pressed against his. In a way, I suppose I’m pushing his boundaries, daring him to claim me like he wanted to do at Grim’s club, like I believe he still wants to now. Zayn’s pulse beats erratically beneath my fingers, but a fierceness replaces the humility. He knocks my hand away then reaches for my waist, yanking me towards him, but I don’t let him get purchase. I spin away, slipping out of his hold.
He chases me.
Rather, heleapsinto the air in a barrel jump, his right leg kicking out as his arms spread wide, and he turns in the air, landing before me with a glint of iron in his stare. My mouth pops open, but I slam it shut. Zayn has just performed a move that I thought only Dax could pull off.
Where the fuck did that come from?
Even though Zayn is a hip-hop dancer at heart, he just moved with a fluidity that speaks of contemporary dance. I don’t get to voice my question as he reaches for me, pulling me against him before placing his hand on my chest over my heart.
Without thinking about it, I raise my own, placing my palm over his shirt between the lapels of his jacket, and with only our palms touching each other, we move together. Zayn steps away from me, sliding his feet lightly over the floor. I mirror him. Chasing his every move.
I feel the heat of his body, the thump of his chest, the beat of his truth.
I see that honesty in the way he moves, in the sincerity of his stare, in every single step.
It upends me.
We dance, our hands moving away from each other’s chest as we spin in unison, only to press back in the same place again. It’s like we’re two skaters dancing on ice as we slide over the floor, close, but not close enough. When he grabs my wrist with one hand and flips me around against him, my back to his chest, he groans again, his arms wrapping around me in a hug, his fingers finding my throat. For a moment we stand like this, his heart beating hard against my back. My tears clog my throat as he presses against it with the pad of his fingers. When his open mouth falls against my shoulder, his lips and tongue rubbing against the bare skin there, something inside opens up to him. Iopen myself to him.
“I hurt you,” he mutters.
“Yes.”
“Butyouhurt me too. You fucking hurt me too.”
His hand slowly moves downwards, his fingers spread wide as he slides it between my breasts, resting it there over my frantic heart. Zayn bites my neck where it meets my shoulder, his teeth sinking in. Not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to make me suck in a jagged breath. The pain is pleasurable, especially when he licks over the same spot. Then he runs his lips up the side of my neck and latches onto my earlobe, biting it gently. I can’t help myself; I moan. Goddamn him. With one hand wrapped around my waist, Zayn yanks me tighter against him, his hand working its way back up to my throat and cupping my chin as he stretches my head to the side and lavishes my neck with kisses. My toes curl, my core gushes with heat and my heart pounds erratically as he kisses and licks, bites, and teases. I’ve always had a sensitive neck and he fucking knows it.
