"Stop teasing me."
Harry: "Stop teasing me," he grunts, low and gravelly, the rasp in his voice igniting a fire deep within your stomach. Fingers trace haphazardly over the waistband of his boxers, enticing more low grunts from his chest. "Babe," he moans, bringing a smile to your lips. You can't help but love to know the effect you have on him, knowing the simplest of tender touches drive him completely insane. Delicately, you trace over the tattoo adorning his hip before bringing your mouth down over it, nibbling at the skin. "Fuck," he curses, his voice extremely breathy. In that instant, he's completely under your control, no matter whether he likes it or not; he's completely melting away beneath your fingertips. To be honest, it's hard to remain so unphased yourself, seeing him this vulnerable, this turned on. "You gotta tell me what you want, Harry," you smile. "Just tell me."
Niall: Swollen lips meet your inner thighs, brushing tenderly against heated skin. Tongue slips between now parted lips to lick a straight line of saliva upwards. He's teasing, tempting you, wanting you to let him know exactly what you want. "You okay, babe?" he chuckles; you shake your head. "Stop teasing me," you choke around a moan. He knows what he's doing; he knows damn well what he's doing. "Niall, please. Stop-just, Niall, please," you beg, and that's what does him in; the begging. The strangled, forced words that make him hard and all the more eager to see you writhe beneath his touch, to see you unravel because of his doings. His mouth falls on your aching center, his tongue flicking and swirling, enticing you. Your hips buck against his mouth, only to be forced back against the mattress by calloused fingers against exposed skin. He adds one finger, two, forcing them inside of you, until they curl at just the right angle. "Come for me, baby."
Liam: Clothes flying, a shirt here, a pair of trousers there.Every inch of his body presses against yours, his muscles rigid and hard, forcing you flat against the bedroom door. Surprisingly, you'd even made it that far considering his hands were on you the minute he opened the door, lingering touches, his fingers lightly brushing along the skin covering your hips, then up your stomach, sending chills over you. The fire burns within his eyes; the desire, the longing to feel you around him, to touch every bit of bare, exposed skin his fingers land upon. Months away on tour are hell, pure hell. Teeth tug on your bottom lip, enticing a moan to rise from within your chest, filling his mouth, in which he actually smiles. He's got you right where he wants you. Hands wander to your bum, lifting you to allow legs to be wrapped momentarily around his waist before carrying you to bed, lying you down as hands slip down the expanse of bare stomach to the top of your panties; a hiss eludes you. "Stop teasing me," you groan. "Teasing?" he chuckles. "Babe, I can show you teasing."
Louis: The anger, the rage; it was like a fuel of some sort, fueling him into oblivion the moment he lost at anything. And losing his charity football match was no different. Minutes after the match, he was by your side, whispering in your ear exactly what he knew would turn you on, make you wet. And while it may be only because he was pissed, only because he wanted to blow off steam, the sex was never a disappointment. Back at his flat, he's tugging on your arm, pulling his football kit over his head before turning on the water in the shower. More whispers ensue, turning your face red at the thought. You climb in the shower ahead of him, letting the water flow over your body, lathering body wash, letting it flow down the drain. "Fuck, stop teasing me," he grunts from behind you, his hands firmly on your hips, his hard on pressing against your inner thigh. You're turned, and he's picking you up, your back pushed against the wall as legs go around his hips. Gently he slides you onto him, bucking his own hips upwards, harder with each thrust.
Zayn: "Ice cubes? Are you fucking joking?" you stutter, yet your stomach clenches at the thought of this new kink he's somehow developed overnight. He only smirks, taking a cube between his teeth as his head lowers between your thighs. He breathes out, the cold air hitting your aching core; your hips buck and he chuckles. "Thought I was joking," he mumbles through the ice in his mouth. "Shut up," you groan. His mouth presses full against your clit, sucking, pushing the ice against you. "Fuck, Zayn," you manage. "Stop it. Stop teasing. Stop with the ice. Shit." His laughter reverberates against your skin, your thighs clenching around his head as he further unravels your composure beneath his touches.
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