Coalescence ➳ H.S.

Eleven: Paris

"Nah, I just want you to make me forget who Thomas Davis is."

Jesus fucking Christ, she was dirty.

"As you wish, sweetheart."

***

It was Saturday morning. 'Wouldn't It Be Nice?' by The Beach Boys was stuck in my head (both the question and the song).

Sperling was sitting up at the foot of the bed—knees up to her chest, covers pooling around her hips, bare backed and giving me the naughtiest view of her bum she could deliver—eating a bowl of cereal (honey puffs, naturally) and watching a report about Paris Fashion Week.

"Morning," I croaked. My throat was dry but I couldn't complain—I wasn't the one screaming last night. Her head snapped back and she smiled the best she could with her cheeks filled with her breakfast. She shuffled back to the headboard and swallowed her food before opening her mouth again.

"Doesn't that just look...amazing?" she inquired, pointing at the television screen. Models walked the runway in designer pieces and I imagined Sperling as one of them. She wasn't very tall, but she certainly had the body for it. "These are clips from last year."

"You like fashion then?"

"Oh God, yeah. I love it. My sister's going to the Paris Fashion Week actually. Second row for her journalism thing. I'm so jealous."

"Can you get tickets for that?" I asked casually. It occurred to me that I'd forever be on her good side if she got to watch the Paris Fashion Show.

"No. People get invited, and tickets probably sold out months ago. I can watch it online."

I tried to prop myself up but faltered, my muscles aching from our second 'adventure' the night before. It hadn't sunk in how rough we were; I winced, suddenly feeling everything all at once—the deep purple bruises etched into the skin of my chest, raised red lines scratched into my back, little crescents, created by her nails, imprinted into my biceps. I looked to Sperling, who had her share of marks too—scarlet palm prints on her ass, little oval bruises on her hips, made by my fingers grasping her as I plowed into her and hickeys littered all over her body, mainly congregating around the flesh of her inner thighs, like a canvas for submission and dominance. She noticed my difficulty and helped me up.

"God, you're a wreck. I thought you were into that kinda stuff?"

"I am, I am. It was mind blowing, honestly. You're like a rookie on a baseball team making a home run during your first game."

"I'm no rookie, Styles," she whispered, leaving me with a million questions about what she meant as she left for the bathroom.

We got dressed and made plans to meet up with Sperling's family ("So you're all sexed up, are you? Don't you scamper off to a bathroom with him while we're out!" Hyacinth teased Sperling, to which she rolled her eyes and hung up the phone) at a tea shop close to their hotel at noon, which left us about two hours just to travel around together. Being with her took me away from what I knew how to do—to fraud and to con and to lie—and dragged me towards what I had to relearn—to care and to protect and to appreciate. England was rainy today, as it was every other day, but it didn't stop us from running around London like we were lovers in high school; before the end of our free time, I had more than a hundred photos of us saved on my phone (likewise with her own) and purchased for her a small keychain from a gift store in town (a token of my appreciation, I told her).

Sperling's family was at the tea shop nearly half an hour before us (Hyacinth made some pretty crude remarks that left Alexa groaning into her scone and covering Mabel's ears as she bounced her daughter on her knee), and they decided they had something very special to tell us.