This Path Is Reckless

Eight: Hopeless

Chapter Eight

 

Days pass and they all start to blur into a stretched-out week until the only thing that I can remember is Niall; the taste of Niall’s lips, the warmth of Niall’s embrace, Niall’s thick Irish brogue, Niall’s everything.  My parents don’t even think to check in on me, which I doesn’t mind.  Being the son of a corporate business empire has its perks, like unlimited credit card and the ease of obtaining every object of my desire.

A week or two later—I really can’t be bothered to check—I wake up to Niall’s soft blond hair tickling my forehead. [remember that 5SOS Keek video of Calum and Ashton? Non?] I make a quiet whining sound in the back of my throat before giving in and opening my eyes.

Niall is lying right ontop of me and our bodies are pressed quite tightly together.  A flush starts to creep down my cheeks, covering right down to my chest in no time.  The soft blond hair that was the cause of my not-so-rude (quite cute and lovable, actually) is still tickling his face and I cough out half of a laughter.  It bloody tickles!

The blond has to be evil, because the next thing he does is raise his hands to tug at the ends of my curls.  An involuntary whisperer moan slips out of my mouth and Niall smirks again.  God, I used to hate boys or girls who smirked too much. But Niall, goddammit, Niall made everything okay.

Even though my heartbeat is not beating at a healthy rate whenever Niall does as much as smile or raise his eyebrow.

Niall’s smirk slowly, so teasingly slowly edges away as he inches closer, noses bumping and breaths mixing. I can’t deal with the anticipation so I tilt my head up to clash his lips with Niall’s.  Perhaps clashing isn’t the right word because the nanosecond our lips touch, they just melt into each other.  There is no Niall’s lips and Harry’s lips; no it’s just our lips moving together, hungry for more and wanting ever more and more and more.  It’s insatiable, the taste of Niall’s lips.  Really, it still is Niall’s fault.  And I’ve no control over my own hands when they sneak down to map out the tattoos on Niall’s shirtless torso.  Already, I have developed a fondness for them, some of them seared into my memories.

So after the due make-out session that turns too hot and heavy too quickly, Niall pushes himself off my boneless body and goes off to make some breakfast for us.

“Something smells good,” I comment about twenty minutes later, when I have regained most of my composure.  Mostly. 

And it does smell heavenly.  Niall is wearing only a pair of sweatpants and a black apron as he cooks up some pancakes and bacon.  The microwave beeps and I reach to take out the bacon and butter (because I like my butter liquidy and half melted).  Niall pouts playfully, lips inviting me straight back in.  So I kiss him just because I can and want to.  Niall’s lips part to let me in and I can taste the raw pancake batter on Niall’s lips.

“Is it me or the food?” Niall breathes out, his hips checking into mine.

“It’s a close tie,” I mumble.