slow it down // zayn malik

chapter eleven // harder to breathe.

linley's pov

I awaken to find myself completely coated in a thin layer of pure sweat, my lungs struggling to grasp onto oxygen through the humid air. I let out a groan of discomfort, my head throbbing and smashing against my temples.

Ever-so-slowly, I force my eyes open, getting slapped across the face by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. 

I've never felt so miserable before.

As my body stretches across the stiff, uncomfortable bed, I do my best to adjust to reality. Rolling onto my side, I allow my eyes to flutter open.

A gasp leaves my throat as I look upon the face only a few inches away from my own. Soft snores trail out of the slightly-parted lips of the man in my bed. I can't stop staring at him in complete and utter shock. 

The tight squeezing of discomfort coming from my left wrist grasps my attention, peeling my gaze away from the unconscious man. 

Reality slaps me across the face as I look down upon the smooth silver handcuffs wrapped around my wrist. My memory returns, obviously not waking up as quickly as I had. My brain fills with remembrance, the events of yesterday coming back to me, up until the evening, when I had allowed myself to get completely wasted.

So that explains why Zayn is sleeping beside me on the bed.

Peacefulness is painted across his face, making him appear to be another person; someone I have yet to meet. 

His long eyelashes rest against his cheekbones in such a graceful manner, making him look nearly angelic. His sculpted jawline grabs my attention, forcing me to simply stare; completely speechless.

Since I've been stuck to him, I've yet to take a moment and simply look at him. Not that I really wanted to before. When he's conscious he can be a right pain in the ass. I don't half mind him when he's asleep. That way I can just look at him, but not hear him. I'd be lying if I said he wasn't rather nice to look at.

My eyes trail down his jaw, over the stubble coating his chin in a rugged manner, down to his exposed chest. I can see the glistening of sweat on his tanned, ethnic skin. My eyes rake over his tattoos that are out in the open for me to study. 

Stamped square in the middle of his chest is a pair of lips, tattooed on for the rest of eternity; a perfect shade of red. I can't help but to become more self-aware of my own lips, resisting the urge to trace them over the tattooed lips.

Flipping onto my back, I stare at the ceiling in a state of shock. Where in the hell are these thoughts coming from? I just thought about putting my lips on the body of Zayn Malik; a member of the incredibly overrated boyband One Direction.

Have I hit rock bottom?

I try to make sense of my thoughts, fighting to remember why it is I hate him in the first place.

One, he's egotistical. He walks around the place as if everyone wanted a piece of him. He wears the stupid smug grin of his, the corners of his lips turned up slightly. Just thinking about it makes me want to slap him awake at this moment.

And two, he's this prissy, pretty-boy that gets everything handed to him. Sable and I have worked our asses off, choosing against college, despite the fact that everyone told us we were making a serious mistake. Then here comes One Direction, going on some stupid t.v show and becoming famous simply because they are attractive boys. 

It's because of them that the music industry is going downhill, making it more and more impossible for people like Sable and I to become famous. 

Glancing over my shoulder, I grit my teeth at the unconscious little devil, wishing he were awake so I could yell at him.