Ace (HS)

White Lies*

One week.

Styles stepped under the piercing hot water.

One. Week.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. God knows how many seconds.

He reached for the small bar of soap and proceeded to glide it over his skin. His thoughts were astray, as they had been for the past week. He felt like he couldn't grasp a single concept for more than a minute before she found her way into his mind. It was torturous, really. He would sip from his cup of coffee in the morning and somehow be reminded of her dark, brassy orbs as he stared at the black drink in his mug. He would listen thoughtlessly to the buzz of chatter at The Wild Things, and his mind would recall how her sweet voice would ring in his ears and block out all other sound except for the anxious thump of his heart in his breast.

The most painful was when Styles would catch gazes with a woman whom bared any sort of resemblance to his vixen, which was painfully often, and would immediately feel his chest tighten as he realized that they were not her; they may have had the same dark curls down that cascaded down the length of their back, but their eyes wouldn't hold the same mischievous gleam. Or maybe they had a similar vumptuous chest, and he would be reminded of the way her breasts, even through the fabric of her red dress, had felt so soft and tender pressed against him.

"Fuck," he choked out, his mind betraying him as it continued its relentless torture. His fists pounded against the wet tile wall of the shower, his knuckles turning red and raw. His anger, for the first time in a long time, was directed at himself, and his inability to overcome the woman who he had spent a mere hour with. How was he to deal with a fury aimed at himself? How was he to deal with the ache in his chest, that throbbed right under his ribs where his seemingly black heart was?

How was he to deal with the possibility that his beautiful fox might only visit him in his harrowing dreams from now on, and never again in reality?

It was odd, actually, how not once could he find it in himself to be upset with her. Why should he not? It was her whom had slipped from his sight, and left him feeling a foreign sense of pain. It was her who had given him a taste of her divine body, a mere taste, and then ran away with every hope he had of getting another taste.

Just one more taste. He begged to whoever would listen. His eyes were closed as he let the water cascade along the golden planes of his body.

Just one more.

He rolled in his lips as he wrapped his hand around himself, his forehead resting against the cool tile. He pretended it was her small, frail hand as he moved it up and down his length.

"Carmen," he moaned under his breath, the sound of her name echoing through the walls of the bathroom. He could see her thick waves of hair, falling over her creamy shoulders and reaching just above her firm ass. He could feel her thumb running over his tip as he did so to himself.

The way her smooth muscles had tighetned around his hardened cock as she came.

He felt himself twitch in his hand.

The soft moans that fell from her ruby red lips.

Harry, Harry, Harry.

"F-fuck," he gasped, her sweet voice ringing in his ears as he climaxed. The hot sticky liquid coated his hand, and he looked down at it, biting his lip as he remembered the way his cum had seeped down her bare thigh after he had spilled himself in her, marking her as his own.

His own.

"Mine," he muttered under his breath, bringing his hand under the shower water to rinse it off. "She's mine."