Could you please write a blurb about Niall being with a thick girl with smut please?
E is evil. Talking about riding Harry with his styles shirt on. You should for sure NOT talk about riding Niall while wearing one of his Horan jerseys... It's a terrible idea. *coughpleasedoitpleasssseeeeecough*
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From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, my girl was perfection. The way she could turn me on with a coquettish look from across a room was truly the eighth wonder of the world. I'd been asked in interviews what it was about her that caught my eye and each time I answered differently. Because a million things about her caught my eye.
It could've been the zero fucks she displayed when she walked past me as if she had no idea who I was even though she knew damn well who I was.
It could've been her smoldering eyes, her pouty lips, the way her ass curved in a pair of THE hottest jeans I had ever seen on a woman.
It could've been her smile. The way her lips curved around her perfect white teeth and lit up my entire life.
But I definitely knew for sure it was her confidence. She walked into that room and she owned it. Despite the looks from people trying to take her down, she didn't pay attention to one of them.
That confidence would be what would keep me occupied for the rest of the night. That confidence is what would push me into asking her out finally when I walked her out to her car. That confidence is why I fell in love with her. Why I proposed to her six months after we moved in together. Why I was going to marry her....sooner rather than later if I had anything to say about it.
I had been trapped in a studio for the last eight hours, enduring both Louis' unbelievable perfectionism while we recorded as well as her onslaught of naughty pictures as she begged me to come home and take care of her.
I wanted to. I did. But Louis was insistent on finishing this song. So after seven and a half hours of unrelenting babble from him, I feigned an illness.
Her last picture had been of her wearing one of my jerseys with Horan written on the back of it. It was far too small for her, but she'd made the best of it. The jersey hugged her curves in all the right places, landing just at the top of her waist so her tummy, ample bottom and generous amount of cleavage were all displayed so perfectly I was salivating.
I didn't care if it was my favorite jersey. I didn't care if it was signed by the entire Derby soccer team. I was going to push her up against a wall, tear the jersey to shreds and fuck her into next week.
If only this damn stoplight would turn green.
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By the time I got home, the house was dark and quiet. But I knew where she was. She'd texted me another picture. She was lying on our bed, the sheets around her rumpled. Her hand was in her hair. Her eyes were closed. Her lips bowed into a pout. The text read:
Waiting for you to get home and love me...
Love her? Oh believe me, I was going to.
I took the stairs two at a time, a slow smile stretching over my cheeks when I saw the light from a few lit candles in our room. She'd really gone all out for this night.
I pushed the door open to see her standing in front of the windows, leaning against the window pane. She still had my jersey on. Her black panties the only other thing she bothered to keep on. She turned her head to look at me when she heard the door creak, a lazy smile appearing on her cheeks. She walked towards me, her hands reaching out as they drifted across my shoulders and joined behind my neck,
