Abandoned (A Harry Styles FanFic)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The frightening character towers in an almighty length over me, raising him to about six feet tall. His long locks of hair are drenched in water from the rain that I did not realize is pouring from above. Rainwater drizzles from the ends of his curls and plops onto his overcoat, rolling down his torso and oozing onto the floor mat. Droplets of rain drip from his face constantly as the boys begin back to their previous table top games. As I admire the shape of the circular H2O molecules sprinkling off of his sharp prominent jaw line, I watch his teeth clench and his lips purse together. He inhales deeply through his nose and diverges his lips to exhale. The soaked man proceeds to remove his coat and position it on the arm of the couch in the living room. His eyes never looking anywhere but the floor. His lips continue the pattern of closing and then separating while his chest rises and falls in frustration. His eyes finally dart up meeting mine, they flicker a dark green glow. His eyes scan the room as his hands brush through his thick, damp, long locks pushing the mane to the back of his head. In the middle of hand-combing his hair, his veiny arms tense and he clenches the water from his face by clawing at the moisture.

I take a moment to watch his muscles tense and retract several times. Whoever this boy is, he's easily the strongest of the men in the room, as well as the tallest. His muscles larger than the rest and his abdominal set thicker.

His eyes beam back towards mine, and a smirk shuffles on his face as he slowly strides towards me. His smile growing as he inches closer to me, his boyish dimples amplifying while he nears my face. Brandon stands next to me, still, and I hope he interrupts me before the mysterious boy gets any nearer.

It's not until I hear the grumble of a laugh roll from his chest and throughout his body that I flinch. I step back only a few centimeters but his chest follows mine, leaning in closer to me. His laugh continues to grow like a growl in his throat and I finally hear him speak.

"Hello dear," he verbalizes with his luscious pink lips. I stare at his juicy puckers for what seems like minutes. I admire the shape of his cupids bow and the soft tender skin around his bottom lip that he seductively chews on causing me to become captivated on his teeth that continue to grind on his lip. I stare back at his eyes, dropping my lower jaw a bit when I see the emerald beads looking into mine, "How do you like Portland?"

It isn't until now that I have the chance to recognize his strong British accent dripping from his lips. My eyes beam from his lips to his eyes to his lips and constant exchanging of the two.

"It's boring," I say, fighting off the urge to wince under his question. I can see in his eyes that he desires to intimidate me. I try to mimic his cocky attitude, "Where are you from?"

"Where are you from?" He questions back, repeating me sarcastically, letting go of his smirk. I shortly feel sorry for 'degrading' him by his accent but I can't help being curious, "And why so curious to that question before even asking my name?"

I blush due to his question. I can feel my cheeks heat up and redden on the scene but I push the embarrassment from my mind. I don't like the intimidation he believes he has over me. He seems to have created this distinction of my weakness and I haven't even met him yet. I can see his eyes beating down on me as if they're claiming omnipotence.

The other boys haven't created this mixture of emotion in the pit of my stomach like he has. His laugh sounds off again once he acknowledges the color of my face that fades in seconds.

"London, I'm from London," he finally glazes upon something other than my eyes or my chest, which he occasionally glanced at. He joins the other boys at a seat around the table, "And where are you from?"

"Cincinnati," I speak coldly yet confidently as I turn to admire the way his biceps flex while they guide the chair in place. I could not get this answer wrong, if I did that'd be quite sad. He rests his hands on his knees before lowering down to place his ass, snug inside his tight jeans, into his chair. Once he sits, he slaps his hands together as if to move on from the conversation. Everyone's eyes, however, stay fixed on him. I huff in a breath and exhale it, awaiting the continuation of questions, "So what is your name?" I ask redirecting the answers to him.