Literature

(comes) and goes in waves

*mature content

"A bookstore Zayn? We came all the way to California to end up in a bookstore?"

He pouts and tugs at my arm, pulling me to his side. His eyes roam the shelves before he suddenly breaks away from me, traveling to the poetry section. He craves words like he craves nicotine in the morning.

I admire him; the way his fingertips press tentatively to faded spines.

Soak it up, a symphony of sentences.

Battered spines, those gentle yet calloused hands pausing to pull a book off the shelf.

A shiver runs down my spine as he recites

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
it is love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome? said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

e.e. cummings, I think to myself. Must be something in the name.

"Mine," my breath ghosts over his neck.

We're the only ones in here, he's wedged between me and a bookshelf, his fingers trembling. The book slides out of his hands and he turns to face me.

I pin his back against the shelf, my eyes glinting.

"you know
the pleaures
of poetry,
of texture and
translations
from the tip
of your tongue,
words on your lips,
and behind your teeth"

"Harry, I've never had an erection in such an inappropriate place."

I'm on my knees, swooping up the book he dropped. I slide it back into place, my body rutting against his as I do.

His tongue is suddenly in my mouth, his hands fisting the material of my sheer white shirt. I feel him press his mouth under my jaw and he grinds his crotch in slow cricles against me. I moan, trying to get more air, my hips thrusting back.

fevered lips
frantic hips
fervent fingers
faster
fighting for air
flesh on fire
fisted hair
and tentative
tongues

We shouldn't do this here. Well, we should at least buy an old paperback if we're going to have a heated makeout session.

"Zayn," I gasp. "W-we should go."

...

"Everyone is staring at you. You're hotter than the fucking sun."

"No they aren't," he says bashfully.

I don't miss a single glance, the giggles as young girls' gazes land on his ripped tan chest.