Make Me Beg [l.s - edited version]

thirteen

Liam's POV:

As the end credits of Dirty Dancing begin to roll, Zayn throws the blanket off of the two of us and I reluctantly get up and off his lap. Other than the end-scene music coming from the tv, our flat is quiet which is odd because wherever Louis goes, a trail of loud noise is to follow.

Due to undisclosed reasons, Zayn and I can both confirm he's a loud one. Very. Very. Loud.

"Where'd Louis go?" I ask Zayn as we walk into the kitchen to find something to eat. It has only now registered in my mind that I saw Louis walk out the door with his keys soon after we started the movie - right around when Baby and Johnny began to practice their lifts with one another. 

Oh, to be in Patrick Swayze's arms. It'd be a lifelong dream come true.

"I think he's avoiding us because he knows about our upcoming secret little rendezvous," Zayn says with a sing-songy voice, waltzing over to me and sliding across the hardwood floor in his socks. The giddy high some people get from smoking weed is pretty much the equivalent of Zayn's mood when he's awaiting sex.

I play dumb as I rummage through the fridge for something to eat. And yes, I'm very well aware that Zayn is standing right behind me looking like a feast all on his own. But that doesn't stop me from opening the freezer door and poking around at the variety of frozen dinners and desserts we've got.

"And what does that entail?" My voice is light and innocent, as if I'm having a friendly chat with my mum about our weekend plans, but I know our intentions are quite the opposite. But who am I kidding? I'm not one to deny a good fuck.

I grab some whipped cream from the fridge and rocky road ice cream from the freezer. Zayn's right behind me and I can literally feel the body heat radiating off of him. It's hot enough to melt the ice cream, honestly.

"Depends. What do you want?" He leans into my ear and secures his hands in my front jean pockets, dangerously close to my semi. I somehow resist the urge to drop my pants right here in the kitchen for him. My grip on the canister of whipped cream gets a wee bit tighter too, but he doesn't notice.

"You know damn well what I want," I say stubbornly, my back still turned to him. I can feel him smirking as he removes his hands from my pockets. They begin to dance lightly up my thighs and to the hem of my shirt, of which he begins to toy at suggestively. 

His voice is low, raspy, and so fucking hot. His whispers are warm in my ear, yet they still manage to give me goosebumps. "Put the ice cream away, but keep the whipped cream. Meet me in our room in two minutes and I'll make you scream so loud that all of London will know you belong to me,"

With that, he turns on his heel and saunters into our bedroom. I practically chuck the ice cream back into the freezer and grip the canister of whipped cream so tightly in my hand that my knuckles turn a ghostly white. 

To say the least, Zayn has always had a way of doing things in a... creative fashion, and I'm sure tonight will be no different. Plus, my hard-on from the cafe is once again back and raging in my pants, only this time I don't plan to desperately think of all my personal turn-offs (including but not limited to my parents, dry chicken, and tits) to get rid of it.

I strip off my grey jumper and white undershirt, lazily throwing them onto the sofa as I hastily make my way towards our open bedroom door. Consider it one less thing to get in the way of Zayn ridding me of my boner.

I practically slam the door behind me after I enter, even though we're home alone. Zayn's leaning against the bedpost to greet me, looking as hot and thirsty as ever in as little as his boxers and pants. And wow, is he a sight to see.