You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Twenty Five

Zayn:

In one sudden, delirious moment, my entire reality became Harry Styles.

I froze in shock and then the sensations of him bombarded me and sunk in, heating every inch of my skin.

Liquid fire surged in my veins instead of blood, nerve-endings vibrated with electricity. My arms went around him,
grasping and then roaming, needing to feel his hair, his muscle, the power and strength in him humming under my palms. I fell back against the wall, and he came with me, his
body slamming against mine, while he gripped the front of my leather jacket. And his mouth. . .

Jesus Christ, yes. . .

Never in my life had I felt anything so goddamn perfect as that kiss. His tongue invaded my mouth in ferocious, greedy
sweeps.

I let him in, gave him everything he wanted while taking at the same time. We devoured each other with teeth and tongues, heads angling for better access, consuming with raw, relentless need.

And Jesus, the taste of Harry. . . Like fine wine or the richest food, all saturated in the masculine essence of him.

Our hands grabbed and grasped, made fists in clothing, gripping and pulling, trying to bring the other closer, trying to climb in each other’s skin.

His hand raked my hair at the back of my head; the tingling pain shot down my spine, to my groin, and I moaned as it felt as though nearly every drop of blood in my body went straight to my cock so that it  strained against my jeans, hard as steel.

I ventured to open my eyes and moaned again at the sight of Harry, beautiful but pained—eyes squeezed shut, brows drawn.

Harry kissed me as if he were suffocating and I was his breath, his life. As if he only had a few seconds of us before it was taken from him.

He pressed me against the wall, and I let it prop me up while my hands slid down the hard contours of his torso, to his waist. My fumbling fingers found the belt loops on his
jeans, hooked into them and hauled him to me.

His erection, hard and stiff beneath the denim, met mine and Harry groaned into my mouth, a rumble from deep in his chest.

“Fuck, Zayn. . .” he managed and attacked me with renewed lust; with hard, biting kisses.

I gripped the front of his shirt in two fists, pushing him back, like holding a wild animal at bay.

“Shit, sorry,” he breathed.

“No, just. . .”

. . . slow down a little so I don’t fucking drown in you.

But the two words were all I could manage. I needed to kiss him again. He’d become my lifeline and stopping was like death.

My hands slipped up his chest, into his hair, as I slowed us down. He relented and gripped my jaw with one hand, deepening the kiss until it stole my breath, making me dizzy.

I slid my tongue against his, sucked on his lower lip, then moved down, to his chin, his throat. I planted heated kisses against his neck, until his arms went around me and held me still.

I didn’t move. My face was buried in his neck, inhaling his warm skin, his scent, living there in that perfect darkness while he clung to me.

Slowly, I lifted my head. The shame and uncertainty in his eyes broke my damn heart.

He’d been tortured not to feel anything; to mistrust his own feelings and desires. To think of them as wrong or bad or unnatural.

Fuck those assholes and everything they did to him.