hired ✘ zayn malik

six

 "What did you just say?" Kennedy breathily exclaimed, bringing her hand up to the somewhat prominent breastbone in the valley between her breasts.  

Her mind was racing. She was furious, yet mean the while flattered. Had the words she thought had fallen from Zayn's lips actually fallen, her heart would be broken. As if it were a fragile piece of antique china falling rapidly towards the cold, stone floor - it would crack, into a million pieces. 

"I said," Zayn said, and Kennedy anticipatively leant backwards, laying her slender forearm across her bare breasts. "I love you."

Kennedy’s mind was racing – and Zayn’s too, though whereas Kennedy’s mind was clouded by multiplied amounts of the word “no” and variable different profanities, Zayn’s was filled with great words of love and affection.

Suddenly, Kennedy felt more naked than she ever had before. Though she had been on full display more than countable times before, this time was different, because the normal distancing of ardour all together was suddenly gone. Zayn was standing there, pouring his heart out, and though Kennedy was beyond disappointment that their entire ordeal was over, it was a manic laugh that escaped her lips as she hopped of the counter.

Zayn stood in place, just as naked as before, as Kennedy picked her shirt up from the tiled kitchen flooring. Bemusement became evident on his exterior as he cupped his genitals in his hand when the cachinnation just kept falling from her lips.

“You don’t love me,” Kennedy stated, tucking a messy tendril behind her ear.

“Yes,” Zayn said, stepping closer. “Yes, I do.” On his way, his hand – the one with the bird inked onto it, picked up his boxers from the floors and he angrily yanked it up his legs.

“No, you don’t! What is there to love?” Kennedy’s voice rose in volume. “I work for you. You pay me to come here and suck you off or do some naughty dance.”

Zayn felt the bile rise in his throat at the mere thought that Kennedy thought her sexual favours was the root of his feelings. Sure, it was had made him fall for her, but there was so much more to the dirty blonde than met the eye.

“Yes, I do,” Zayn said, his hands clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, which hung loosely around Kennedy’s slender upper arms.

“No, you don’t,” she replied, attempting to rid herself of the raven-haired boy’s embrace. “Whatever it is that you think you love – bought, sold, paid for. It’s not real. You’re not in love with me, you’re just in love with the idea of having a bird available twenty-four-seven.” Kennedy bravely spoke.

Zayn attempted to interrupt her, to shower her with compliments of how much he adored her magically lyrical laughter, how she would snuggle onto him so desperately in slumber and would not let him go when he tried to rise from the mattress and how she would hum to herself decently while in the shower. But Kennedy interrupted him, robbing him of his opportunity to furthermore elaborate his statement.