“I thought you didn’t believe in all that crap?” I snap out of embarrassment. He presses his lips in line.
“It’s not that, fuck. You caught me off guard, you just bitched me out for kissing you at the club, and now you’re trying to…” he shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You’re drunk, and scared. I am not taking your virginity while you’re in this state! I, unlike some people, refuse to take advantage of you,” he whispers, lifting his head to look at me and brushing my cheek softly.
“It’s fine, Zayn. You don’t want me, it’s fine, I get it,” I tell him, pushing on his shoulders to shove him off. This is embarrassing enough, he doesn’t need to humiliate me more by lying to me now, we are both adults.
Zayn growls and grip my wrists, pinning them above my head.
“That’s not what I said,” he growls sexily, catching my lower lip between his teeth before soothing it with a languid lick.
His strong grip on my wrists sends a delicious shiver through me, anchoring my fluttering nerves and focusing all my attention on him. I gasp as his hips grind against mine, the unmistakable hardness of his arousal pressing against me even through the barrier of his pants. My heart stutters erratically at the intimate contact, my body instinctively responding to his with a wanton yearning that takes me by surprise.
“Does that feel like I don’t want you?” he purrs, his voice low and rough, sending a tremor of desire rippling through my veins. I swallow hard, my eyes snapping to his. The heat in Zayn’s gaze is palpable; it sears into me, igniting a wildfire of longing deep within. I squirm beneath him, unconsciously seeking more friction against the throbbing ache between my legs.
Zayn releases one of my hands, only to slide it down to cup my breast beneath. His touch sends electricity zinging through my veins, drawing an involuntary moan from me. He tweaks my nipple, earning another whimpered cry of pleasure from me. The sensation spurs me on… liquid heat pools between my thighs, soaking into the fabric of his pants, and he groans, his hand trailing down my side, but his steely gaze finds mine.
A whimper escapes me as he tweaks my nipple again—challenging the very limits of my self-control. This sensation amplifies everything around me—the soft rustle of his clothes, the sheets beneath me and the intoxicating scent of Zayn himself. It is all too much and not nearly enough simultaneously.
His hand leaves a trail of tingling warmth down my side as he traces every curve with calloused fingers before stopping at the apex of my thighs. A bolt of electricity zaps through me at the contact, as I arch upward, unconsciously seeking more.
“I never claimed I didn’t want you—far from it. Just not while you’re rattled and terrified, and certainly not when you’re drunk.” His words come out as a low rumble, his gaze hungrilytracing the contours of my lips. His tongue makes a pass over his own lips, causing my eyes to follow the motion in heated anticipation. The desire for his mouth meeting mine is evident. Zayn, seeming to read my thoughts, smirks before capturing my lips.
His tongue caresses the line of my mouth deliberately, coaxing them apart in an act of surrender to him. His tongue delves between my lips, tasting every inch of my mouth, devouring me. I kiss him back with equal intensity, desire burning through me.
When he finally pulls away, I’m left gasping, breathless.
“But not like this,” he murmurs slowly, each word heavy with unfulfilled promise. “Wait until you’re sober-minded and equipped to make decisions,” he tells me, gently pressing his lips against mine before rolling off me.
Chapter 8
• Zayn •
Waking up to the first rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains, I turn to find Cleo still asleep beside me. Her face is soft and relaxed, her features smooth and free of any tension. Her long lashes fan gently against her cheeks, framing her closed eyes.
Her lips are slightly parted, her eyelids fluttering gently in her slumber, and I want so desperately to kiss her. I feel a twinge of regret for how things escalated last night, knowing how my rejection upset her. It’s not that I didn’t want her. Quite the opposite. I want all of her. Not the semi-drunk version of her trying to escape an arranged marriage.
I want her when she feels comfortable and safe with me.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her, and head downstairs to prepare breakfast. The silence of the house is heavy as I make my way to the kitchen, Cleo occupying my mind.
As I start preparing some eggs and toast, I remember the way she looked last night when I rejected her advances. Her eyes filled with hurt and disappointment, and I hate that I caused her pain.
I know Cleo will be embarrassed about last night, and I rack my brain for ways to reassure her, to ease the awkwardness between us. However, before I can come up with a plan, she walks into the kitchen, still wearing my shirt from last night.
Her hair is tousled from sleep, giving her an adorable bedhead look. She stares at me tentatively, unsure of how to act around me after what happened.
“Good morning,” she says softly, avoiding eye contact.
“Morning, I hope you slept well.”
“I did. Thank you for letting me stay here.”
“Of course,” I say sincerely. “You’re always welcome here.”
We stand in uncomfortable silence for a few moments before I break the tension. “Coffee?”
She nods, avoiding my gaze, her movements stiff and cautious. I hand her a cup of coffee, trying to gauge her mood.
