𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

28 || Payback's A B*tch

The Weeknd - After Hours

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

If you'd told me one year ago that I'd be ditching a night out with my friends to spend a night in bed with the man I hated, I'd be extremely disappointed to find out that I was quite literally, just sharing a bed with him.

Nothing else.

It's a repulsive and unsettling thought, and the only reason I'd agreed was purely for the entertainment that'd come from watching Adrik Kozlov do the one thing he hated most in the world.

Sharing, with me.

But after all the fun had settled, discomfort had replaced it.

Sharing anything aside from sex with a man was off putting, but doing it with my soon to be husband?

Horrifying, disgusting and flat out disturbing.

So disgusting that I wake with a jolt, only processing that it's morning by hint of daylight streaming in through the cracks of the curtains.

I'd shut my eyes for a millisecond. That's all.

Now, as I register it's morning, I can't help but feel horrified with myself at the knowledge that I'd slept comfortably next to the man.

Yet as I glance next to me, all I see are empty sheets and to my sleep deprived mind, it's enough to settle myself back into the bed.

It's too warm, to resist. To comfortable to move from, and far too-

"If you drift off, I'll use your pillow to strangle you until you're in a permanent sleep." Low, throaty and nearly laced with fatigue, I still, awareness pushing through my sleep induced haze.

That deep voice. That masculine yet clean smell.

An annoyed groan escapes my lips in realization.

I'm not sleeping next to the man I hate most, I'm sleeping on him.

With my leg thrown over him so far that I'm practically sprawled atop him, and his words nothing but a hoarse hum in ear. I'm molded to him, closer than I'd ever willingly be.

Yet, a simple glance to the clock across the room tells me it's seven a.m, too early for any normal human to be up and frankly, too fucking early to be dealing with this shit. So with a sigh, I shut my eyes, furrow deeper into him and ignore the Russian Ogre. "Stop talking." I murmur.

He remains tense and firm beneath me, while hands that I realize had slipped beneath my shirt and stuck to my hips begin to move up, but I'm only minutely aware of the one tangling into my hair from behind.

Thick calloused fingers lace themselves into my scalp and I can't resist when a soft sigh escapes my lips at the feeling.

A soft sigh that dies into a harsh grunt of surprise when that hand tightens, fisting my hair and with one harsh tug, yanks my head up, forcing my eyes open and towards deep ocean eyes.

Even at the ass crack of dawn, he looks perfect.

Chiseled face, hair messy but somehow put together and gaze as unwaveringly strong as the hand fisting a chunk of my hair.