You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Thirty Seven

Harry:

Zayn stilled my hands and wrapped my arms around him. I buried my face in the hard muscles of his back, relishing the solidity of him.

That such a guy existed in the world and he wanted anything to do with me. . . it was a
fucking miracle.

We sat in silence for a moment, while a need that was a thousand times more potent than any physical desire coiled and tensed in me, drawing tighter and tighter. Its intensity scared the shit out of me.

I realized how badly I wanted Zayn—in my space, my bed, my house, my life. . . As if I’d crossed a threshold and the thought of going on without him was torture.

He stood up, moving away from the piano, and I stood with him. I don’t know who reached for who first, but in the next instant, we were kissing.

Not the mauling, animalistic kisses of last night but deep, intense kisses with promises
embedded within each bite and lick and sucking pull.

More.

Now.

“Right now, ” I whispered, and I searched Zayn’s sparkling golden brown eyes.

He nodded. “Yeah, Haz. God, yes. . .”

We made it to the bedroom on stumbling legs, kicking off shoes and stripping out of shirts.

I pressed him to the wall, our mouths crashing together while our hands fumbled at our waists, tearing at buttons and zippers.

“I don’t want to. . . hurt you,” I said, my heart pounding between my words.

“But I want to fuck you so bad, I can
hardly see straight.”

He arched a brow. “See straight? I should hope not.”

“Christ, you and your dumb jokes.”

I love you and your dumb jokes.

“We have some. . . technicalities to deal with,” Zayn said, nipping at my ear.

“I have condoms, but do you have lube?”

I reared back. “Shit, no.”

“Aloe?”

“Maybe.”

“Go check.”

I went to the bathroom and found that Taylor had left behind a bunch of bottles and creams, and one of them—thank fuck—had a picture of the spiky plant on the front.

“This do?”

“It works.”

“Good, because I’m fucking dying.”

Dying for you. To have you. Be in you. . .

Zayn’s smile faded, and he hauled me back to him and kissed me, raw and deep, leaving me no doubt as to his intentions.

I felt it in the way his tongue swept across mine and in the heavy hardness of his erection pressing between us. My own cock ached with need, and I bit back a curse as he reached into my pants to stroke me.

“Fuck, Harry,” he gritted out. “You might just break me.”

His words brought me around to reality, and I pulled back and searched his eyes again.

“We never. . . I mean, we didn’t talk about who. . .”

“I know what you want, Haz,” he said, and I could see his pulse pounding in the hollow of his throat beneath his Adam’s apple.“And I know what I want. Jesus, I’ve never wanted anything more.”