I towel dry my hair in front of the semi-foggy mirror and leave it down before rubbing lotion into my skin. Then I pad into my bedroom and throw open my underwear drawer. I skim past the old Harry Potter flannels that carry memories of Zayn and I in the very fabric and sift through the piles of untouched silk and satin underneath. When we first bought this place, Daniel had this drawer stocked full of lace negligee and silky teddy’s for what I guess he assumed would be weekends of marital debauchery when we stayed in the city. He would do that often. Buy things that he insisted I wear, whether it was underwear, clothes, or gowns, when we had to attend his fancy galas. I always had an image to uphold in his mind.
Well, who’s having the last laugh now?
I pull the most modest silky black teddy I can find from the drawer and slip it on, turning to face myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I don’t want to look daggy in front of Zayn, and this is the best I can do without looking like I’m stepping onto a porn set. It’ll have to do. At least it covers my buttcheeks. Just.
After sliding on a pair of matching black boy-short panties, I make my way out to the living room where I find Zayn exactly where I left him. On the couch typing furiously into his phone like a man on a mission.
But as I round the couch, I realise that he must have gone down to his car and come back because his black suit is gone and he’s wearing what he had referred to as his ‘gym gear’ he had stashed in the boot.
Well, fuck me dead.
My mouth goes bone dry as I take in his bare, tanned forearms, left exposed by the tight black sweat shirt thatstretches obscenely across his broad chest. The shirt fits him like a second skin, his toned biceps bulging as he moves his thumbs across his phone screen, and even though they’re covered, I can envision the eight-pack I know is hidden beneath. I swear to god my mouth waters at the sight of his muscled thighs that are on show where his black Nike gym shorts ride up. His lap looks like an open invitation, and I would give anything to slide in and take a seat. To feel those powerful arms wrap around me. I know my ass would fit so snugly between his legs.
Oh my God, get a fucking grip, Gianna.
It takes me an embarrassingly long moment to realise Zayn’s stopped typing on his phone and is frozen on the couch.
He looks livid. It shocks me out of my shameless ogling.
“What are you wearing?” He asks. His voice is strained.
“Pyjamas.”
“That’swhat you sleep in at night?”
He grinds his jaw shut, and I get the impression he’s fighting hard to keep his eyes trained on mine.
“Yes.” No. “What’s wrong with them?”
He doesn’t answer, and his face tells me there won’t be one. Feeling a little flushed, I sit on the other end of the couch, and before my ass can even hit the cushion, Zayn throws my pink crochet blanket over my lap.
“Here. It’s cold.”
I want to tell him I didn’t wear these pyjamas to seduce him, I just didn’t want to look like an idiot in my old scrappy pyjamas when he always looks so fucking delectable, but I admit I’m enjoying his discomfort a little too much. Does he like the negligee? I assume by the way he’s shifting in his seat and eyeballing the blank TV with a hard glare that yes, yes he does.
I’m playing a dangerous game here, but it’s addictive. I may not know what the heck is going on with us right now, but one thing I’ll never be confused about is my attraction to Zayn. And clearly, his attraction to me. I guess that physical aspect will always burn hot between us.
Lucky I didn’t go with the white thong, suspenders, and see-through teddy set.
I giggle to myself at the thought of Zayn’s reaction had I walked out in that, and he throws a curious look my way. “What’s so funny?”
“You.”
He raises a brow but I ignore him and switch the TV on. All the colour drains from my face when I see what movie is on.
FuckingAmerican Pie, of all movies.
An awkward moment passes before I switch over to Netflix, and thankfully neither of us mentions it as I start flicking through the options.
“I ordered sushi,” Zayn says to try distract me. It doesn’t work.
I think about the last time I watchedAmerican Piein full and avoid looking at the man next to me with every fibre of my being.
“My favourite. Thanks,” I murmur.
“I know.”
I rest my hand with the remote on my lap and close my eyes, tipping my head with a sigh.
