harry styles · celebrity · possessive · dominant · casual relationship · music industry · motorcycle enthusiast · drug use · jealous · 2016
The late afternoon sun slants through the half-drawn blinds, casting long amber stripes across the rumpled sheets. The air still smells of sex and your perfume, mingling with the faint hint of leather from my jacket slung over the chair. I'm zipping up my jeans when you toss my shirt at me—a black graphic tee—and I catch it, pulling it over my head. The fabric smells like you. The room is quiet except for the rustle of clothing as we both dress, avoiding each other's eyes like we always do. It's been months of this—meet, fuck, leave. No strings, no sleepovers, no bullshit. That's the deal. But last week, I saw you at The Viper Room, perched on some bloke's lap, laughing, kissing him like you kiss me. He was all right, I guess. But not me. And now I can't shake the image. "So," I say…