Sleepyhead

Trouble In Paradise

Bliss.

Pure bliss.

There was absolutely nothing like waking up in a beautiful foreign country, the warm wind blowing through the open window, rustling the curtains and tickling your cheeks. There was absolutely nothing like the cool smell of the surf wafting around the room as you wake up naturally to the soft chirps of seagulls fluttering past. And there certainly was absolutely nothing like waking up in the arms of the fittest bloke in the universe, with his scruffy chin scratching your shoulder and his strong arms wrapped firmly around your waist.

There was absolutely nothing like spending an entire night being ravished by said bloke.

Absolutely nothing.

And by ravished I mean fucked senseless on every single surface of the swanky hotel room that was swankier than any place I’d ever stay in again in my entire life. There was a lot of giving and taking last night, that’s for sure.

With a loud yawn, I stretched my free arm into the air and attempted to uncurl my back, which Zayn had practically crushed into his side with his left arm. This movement seemed to have startled him, because Zayn peeked one eye open and looked down at me.

“Morning,” I sang, grinning cheekily up at him.

Zayn shut his eye and fell back against the pillow. I pouted. That was all I got? Not even a raise of his perfectly thick eyebrows? Not even a grunt? Nothing? I thought with how giving I was the night before, he might have at least offered a twitch of his upper lip.

But sure enough, before I could flip one leg over him and straddle the mothafucka, both of Zayn’s eyes popped open as he reached his hand up to finger through my hair. 

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

And he promptly shut both his eyes.

Asshole.

“Wake up,” I groaned, slapping my hand against his naked chest and taking a moment to eye my favorite tattoo of his: his granddad’s name in Arabic. Running my fingers across the ink (or rather, his skin now) I felt him shiver a little underneath him.

Oh so that’s how I’d wake the bastard up.

I peeked up at him once more, he hadn’t relaxed his grip on me, but he looked almost a little bit uncomfortable. His strong jawline was held clenched and his eyelashes (which were so long you could ski down them) were fluttering girlishly against his smooth as a baby’s bottom cheeks. And his lips were parted in a sexual sort of way. 

So that’s how we were going to play this. 

Game on.

There are many things I’m good at. First, being I’m an amazing sleeper with a talent of doing so in any possible situation. I could take a cat nap in line at an amusement park if need be. Second, being that I have the ability to make Zayn Malik squirm like a little girl.

This should be fun.

I looked up at him once more, he’d settled down a bit now that my finger wasn’t tracing around his tattoo anymore. His lips had relaxed and his breathing was getting more regular.

Not for long.

With a wicked grin (because I am devious, mothafuckas) I slowly slid my finger across his chest to the quote on his collarbone. His chest wasn’t so well defined in that it made me want to faint from the strong lines and muscles (like I’m sure Liam’s body would) but it was skinny and muscular for just how damn skinny he really was. And it was nice.

He was, you know, nice looking.

I traced the ink systematically, taking a peek here and there to see his expression. He’d stirred a little, nothing to serious however, and was settling into my touch. With a smirk, I traced my finger downwards.