925 miles | z.m. au

xxii.

[content warning: blood and massive amounts of foreplay]

…

Mary is big blue eyes, parted pink lips, and a small, trembling frame beneath Zayn. Her breathing is shaky, erratic, and he’s sure if he were to press his ear against her chest he’d hear the uneven thumping of her heart when he kisses her—wet lips trailing up the column of her throat, her jawline. The raven-haired boy feels like he has her trapped between his arms, his body-weight. It gives him more security than it ever would her, pinning her down like a bird in his fingers, keeping her from flying away. And he hates that the idea makes him grunt against her neck, rut forward into her hip and seek out her mouth to have a taste of the stars—hates that he’ll eventually get off like this.

“Zayn,” Mary whines into his mouth, bending her knee to press a hot, bare thigh against his hip.

“Mm?” is all he can manage in reply, nipping at the soft skin beneath her ear with practised finesse. He feels a bit accomplished when she gasps quietly and the hand that’s wrapped around his back tightens, bringing him closer to her.

“Please, just,” she tilts her head back to allow the older boy better access, lifting her hips in the process to press harder against his, making him groan and dig his fingers into her hip.

“What’s wrong, baby?” his voice is already hoarse and he’s barely touched her, barely had his mouth on her save for the five minutes in the car and the past few shaky kisses they’ve exchanged.

Mary reaches down between them to grasp the front of his jeans, shaky fingers working at his buttons and it’s like they’ve gone back in time and she’s a little girl all over again—unsure of how to handle him, how to react to his hands on her. Zayn gently knocks her away, getting the point, and sits back on his knees, taking in the sight before him. The small girl is an absolute mess of dark hair around her pillow and dark, pretty little love bites scattered around her neck and collarbone. Her frayed denim shorts are riding up her hips, her thighs, and the raven-haired boy spends too many seconds staring at them before deciding they need to come off.

His fingers are much more steady than Mary’s had been, much more experienced. He wiggles the shorts off her body in one slow movement before tossing it somewhere on the other side of the mattress along with his shirt (which the dark-haired girl had insisted on helping him remove). And shit, she’s so fucking beautiful his heart gets lodged in his throat and his lungs struggle to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

Mary’s thighs are curvier this way; bare, no longer contained in the restricting material of her shorts. Her pink, lace bottoms hug around the top of her legs, the bottom of her hips, and Zayn pushes her t-shirt up to make sure he hasn’t missed anything, his fingers lingering on the soft flesh of her stomach.

“Never pegged you for the frilly type,” he muses, a smile dancing around the corners of his mouth as his thumb slips beneath the lace hem, “so pink.”

Mary laughs wholeheartedly and nudges him with her knee, “I like pink,” she stares at him, smile softening into something coyer, “do you?”

Zayn groans and wraps a strong hand around her thigh, pushing it aside as he crouches between her legs, “I do, actually, quite a bit. They make you look like a little doll.”

The blue-eyed girl hums and shifts her knees, prompting the raven to set a kiss to the inside of her thigh. He continues to work from there, leaving small, open-mouthed kisses on soft skin all the way up to her hip. Mary whimpers softly when Zayn bites into her hip bone and licks over it with his mouth, whispering something along the lines of “pretty girl” and nearly making her lose it completely. She ruts her hips up against him, against the hand that’s pressed between her thighs and makes a small noise when she gets what she wants.