Conceited [H.S.]

TWENTY-FIVE

HARRY STYLES

If someone were to tell me a few months ago that the sight of a person's face being bruised would make me feel like utter shit, there's a high chance that I would have laughed in their face.

Yet here I am.

Flickering my eyes over Andrea's bandaged and bruised nose as she sleeps with my stomach in knots.

She told me that she was okay after everything that happened, but I can't help but wonder if it is messing with her mind more than she's leading on. I know it isn't my place to push it, but if the situation were reversed, I think it would be a little traumatizing.

Last night was the first time that she talked to me about something that happened to her at work, and surprisingly enough it wasn't as boring as I thought it would be. I never asked her about work because I don't understand half of the shit doctors or nurses say, but she explained it to me. Without making me feel like a bloody idiot.

I'll never admit this to her, but her intelligence manages to intimidate me most of the time.

On top of all that, she's fluent in fucking French.

She also promised me that she'd be here for me, which she kept. But I knew that when I woke up randomly sometime this morning and saw that her eyes were open that she hadn't fallen asleep.

I wish she felt more comfortable talking to me about things, but who am I to judge if I can't and choose not to open up to her about some things either.

My fingers run through her hair lightly, mimicking the action she did last night that had me falling asleep in seconds, in an attempt to keep her asleep in my arms. That feeling on top of her whispering things to me that I couldn't understand was the best way to fall asleep.

I push a strand of her hair behind her ear and I notice a pair of red gemstones stud earrings that I haven't seen her wear before.

How have I never seen those?

She shifts her hand up in her sleep, moving from my stomach up to my chest, and her fingers lightly brush over the few faint scratch marks she left last night. They're nothing serious, just slightly inflamed, but even if they were worse, I wouldn't mind.

She could leave me bleeding and I would enjoy it. That may sound a bit fucked up but it's the truth.

My eyes shift over to look at the rest of the couch, the couch that I had to chance to fuck her against last night, and let myself think back to how fucking perfect she was.

Finally, being able to feel the warmth of her throat and mouth after imagining it for so long, just for it to be better than I could have ever dreamt it to be, had me nearly coming in fucking seconds. Not to mention that dirty mouth of hers that she has kept hidden all this time.

As much as I hate feeling weak and out of control if it means being able to hear her tell me how much she wants my cock in her mouth, fuck it.

Then being able to see her wrists pinned above her head, her tits bouncing each time I slammed into her and struggling to keep her eyes on me. How my name effortlessly escaped her lips, moaning and whimpering as she took me perfectly. It made me feel as if I'll never be able to get enough of her.

The sight that's engraved into my brain makes me carefully shift my hips underneath her to avoid her leg from brushing against my now semi-hard dick. Fuck, I thought about it for a few seconds.

I glance over at the television screen that's playing some random show on nearly mute to distract myself. I've never seen it before, but it caught my eye when it was a Marvel show. I didn't even know they made TV shows.