Strings and Schemes

Chapter 10

A thrill rushes through me, sharp and sudden.

I shake my head. "Do it. I dare you." My voice is steady, my pulse anything but. "Make me come undone in ways I never have before."

His eyes darken, heat burning in them like a challenge accepted.

He sits back, pulling me with him so that we're both kneeling on the bed, face to face. "Take it off," he murmurs, fingers ghosting over the straps of my corset. "Let me watch you."

Blood rushes to my cheeks. He sees it, grins. "Don't be shy," he coaxes. "Don't be half in it. Let me know you."

A part of me wants to run—to untangle myself from this bed, this moment, before I let him see too much. Before I lose control of the narrative I've carefully written for myself. Did he just use sex to lower my walls? Or did I let him? And why does the answer scare me so much?

A slow, eager smile pulls at my lips.

I stand, keeping my eyes locked on his. His follow my movements, tracing every inch of me, appreciating.

I reach for the zipper at the side of my denim corset, unfastening it with agonizing slowness. I want him to feel every second of this. My fingers trail up the lines of my waist, my ribcage, my breasts, my skin hypersensitive under my own touch.

His breathing deepens. He notices everything.

I let the corset slide down my torso, exposing myself to him inch by inch. His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides as if he's barely restraining himself. I turn, facing away from him as I undo my skirt, shimmying it past my hips, letting it drop to the floor. My legs are just wide enough that, bent at the waist, I know he can see everything.

A sharp inhale behind me.

I smirk, straightening up, turning to face him—fully, completely bare before him.

His gaze rakes over me, slow and reverent. Goosebumps rise along my skin under the sheer weight of it. How can a single look make me feel so electric?

I move toward him, but he shakes his head, stopping me.

"My turn," he says.

Zayn steps back, giving me a full view as he peels off his shirt, flexing slightly as he pulls it over his head. His abs tighten, every muscle shifting with precision. He watches me watching him, letting his shirt fall deliberately to the floor.

I drag my gaze down his chest, to the sharp cut of his hips, to the waistband of his grey Calvin Kleins. He pops the button of his jeans, sliding them down just enough to tease.

The belt clinks as he unfastens it. The noise alone makes my core tighten.

His eyes flick to mine, noticing the way my thighs press together at the sound. A low, pleased hum escapes him.

"Patience, love." His voice is thick with amusement, but his hands tremble slightly as he pushes his jeans past his hips.

The outline of him strains against his boxers, and my breath catches. He palms himself, exhaling through his nose, his own control fraying.

I can see the war in his head—fighting the urge to devour me, to ruin the slow, deliberate unraveling we've set into motion. But he holds back.

He lets the boxers drop.

I look back up at his face, nervous, uncertain—until he whispers, "You can look. I want you to see me."

A rush of heat spreads through my chest.

I let my eyes roam, drinking him in, tracing every part of him with my gaze.

I am so fucked.

Zayn steps closer, his body pressing against mine, the heat of his skin igniting something deep in me. He kisses me again, slower this time, savoring it. And then, without breaking away, he lowers himself to the bed, pulling me with him until I'm straddling his lap, our bodies flush.