Strings and Schemes

Chapter 29

"Or I'll make you wait for it."

I groan, half in want, half in desperation for him to not make me wait.

His hands roam slowly, teasingly, tracing over every sensitive part of me but never quite giving me what I want. His lips trail down my neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses to my collarbone, my chest, the tops of my breasts. His fingers glide over my stomach, the heat of his touch igniting every nerve ending.

I whimper, arching against him, desperate for more.

"Zayn," I gasp, my voice edged with frustration.

He chuckles, low and sinful. "What did I say about patience?"

His fingers dip lower, tracing along the band of my panties before retreating, making me shudder. Every touch, every movement is designed to push me to the brink, to make me fall apart only when he decides I can.

By the time he finally carries me inside, both of us dripping wet and burning for each other, I'm completely undone.

He lays me down on the bed, his body covering mine, his lips capturing mine in a kiss so deep it steals the breath from my lungs. His hands roam, no longer teasing, no longer holding back.

When he finally gives me what I want, I come apart beneath him, his name tumbling from my lips like a forbidden prayer. We collapse together, tangled in each other, skin against skin, breath against breath.

As my heartbeat slows, I feel his fingers lazily tracing circles along my hip, grounding me, reminding me that he's here. That I'm here.

"This trip," I whisper, my voice drowsy, sated. "I think it might be one of the best decisions I've ever made."

He kisses my forehead, his voice hoarse, full of something unspoken.

"Me too, love. Me too."

The golden light of the early Greek morning filters through the sheer white curtains, casting warm streaks across the bed. The air is thick with the scent of salt and citrus, a faint breeze rustling through the open doors leading to the balcony. I stretch lazily, my body still humming with the remnants of last night—Zayn's hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me under the moonlit water.

A soft groan pulls my attention to my left, where Zayn is still sprawled out across the bed, face buried in the pillow, one arm draped over my waist as if to keep me from escaping. His tattoos are stark against his golden skin, and his hair is a mess, dark strands sticking out in every direction.

I grin, unable to help myself. He looks... soft like this. Less like the world-famous Zayn Malik and more like the man who grumbles in his sleep and steals all the covers.

I shift slightly, trying to slide out from under him, but his grip tightens.

"No," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

"Babe, we have to get up."

He groans. "Don't wanna."

I laugh, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I'm starving."

That gets his attention. He cracks one eye open, squinting at me like I just told him I was leaving forever.

"Fine," he grumbles, finally rolling onto his back and stretching with a low, satisfied groan. He blinks at me, still sleepy but with that mischievous glint in his eyes. "But you're making the coffee."

I scoff. "You're the one who insisted I 'experience' Greek coffee the right way."

He grins, sitting up and grabbing my wrist, pulling me toward him so I straddle his lap. "You're right," he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine. "I'll make the coffee. You just sit there and look pretty."