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The air in the VIP section of the "Leopard's Grace" was a luxury in itself: filtered, quiet, and laden with the scent of aged leather, expensive champagne, and the dry aroma of old money. Here, the sound of the chips was a heavy, dull clunk, not the cheerful jingle of the main salon. The minimum bet was ten thousand dollars. Insanity. An obscenity. And precisely because of that, for Niall Horan, his turn at the VIP blackjack table was a kind of paid mental break.
It was almost impossible for someone in their right mind to bet ten thousand dollars on a single hand frivolously. The clients here were rich, yes, but calculating. They played for business, for boredom, or to launder money, not for the thrill of real risk. So Niall dealt cards with the calm of a metronome, his mind wandering to the cheeseburger and cold beer that awaited him at the corner pub. His tuxedo was impeccable, his white-gloved hands moved with an automated efficiency that he detested. He hated the preprogrammed phrases he had to repeat, but they were part of the protocol. "Bets are open." "Blackjack, congratulations." "You have a fourteen, sir." "I'm sorry." "Good luck." They made him feel like a recording, but it was the job.
The table was semi-occupied. A couple of oil magnates with glazed looks, a socialite playing with distracted boredom, and an elderly man who smelled of mothballs and past defeats. Niall had been on duty for an hour and had another to go. The monotony was almost palpable.
Until the atmosphere was sliced with a knife.
He entered.
Zayn Malik.
A name whispered with a mix of reverence and fear. A magnate of opaque origins and even more opaque businesses, whose fortune was as vast as it was mysterious. His presence was a rare event, and always left a trail of rumors and absurd financial moves.
He was, undeniably, imposing. Tall, with a black tailored suit that clung to his shoulders with an aggressive elegance. His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles and golden skin, framed by slightly disheveled dark hair. But it was his eyes that chilled the blood: deep, dark, almost black, and loaded with such absolute confidence that it bordered on insulting.
He walked directly to Niall's table with a tranquility that seemed arrogant to Niall at once. Fantastic, thought Niall, with an internal flash of annoyance. Just what he needed. A big shot with a god-like build and an attitude of owning the universe.
Zayn slid into the chair across from him without a word. His gaze did not rest on the cards or the felt, but on Niall. He scrutinized him from head to toe, lingering on his blue eyes, which blinked uncomfortably under the weight of that attention, and then on his gloved hands.
He placed two heavy ceramic chips, a black obsidian with a gold inlay. Each was worth twenty-five thousand euros. Fifty thousand in total.
"Good evening," said Zayn, his voice low, rough, with a northern accent that sophistication hadn't quite polished off.
"Good evening, sir. Bets are open," Niall responded, forcing his professional tone. "Minimum ten thousand."
Zayn nodded almost imperceptibly, pushing the chips to the circle. The socialite held her breath.
"Good luck." Niall dealt. Zayn received a 16. Niall, the dealer, showed a 9.
"You have a sixteen, sir," Niall announced mechanically.
Zayn studied his cards, then Niall's exposed card. His expression was impenetrable. He tapped the table lightly with two fingers. Double down.
Niall suppressed a raised eyebrow. Doubling down with a 16 was reckless, almost suicidal. But the rules were the rules. He slid a single card. A 5 of clubs. 21.
"Twenty-one," said Niall.
He turned over his cards. He had a 9 and an 8. 17. He lost.
"Congratulations, sir," said Niall as he pushed Zayn's chips, now one hundred thousand euros, towards him.
Zayn didn't blink. He showed no hint of emotion. He just nodded, as if they had just served him a coffee. He pulled out two identical black chips from the inner pocket of his jacket and placed them in the circle. Fifty thousand more.
The second hand was quicker. Zayn drew a 19. He stood. Niall had a 6 and a jack. 16. He had to hit. He drew a 7. 23. He busted.
"Nineteen. You win, sir," Niall announced, now pushing one hundred thousand euros towards Zayn.
Zayn collected his winnings but left the original chips in the circle. His gaze had never left Niall. He didn't look at the cards; he watched how Niall's hands shuffled, how his agile and sure fingers dealt with millimeter precision. He watched the intensity of Niall's blue eyes focused on the game.
"Any advice, dealer?" Zayn asked suddenly, his voice a whisper that only Niall caught.
The question was a transgression. A provocation.
"The rules prohibit me from advising, sir. Good luck," Niall responded, with the tensest professional smile of his life.
The third hand began. Zayn received an 11. Niall showed a 5.
"You have an eleven, sir."
Zayn didn't think. He placed two more identical black chips next to the originals. One hundred thousand euros in total on the table. Double down.
The air grew thicker. Even the bored oligarchs leaned forward. Niall felt a cold sweat on his nape. He dealt the card. An 8 of diamonds. 19.
Zayn showed no emotion. He stood.
Niall turned over his cards. He had a 5 and a 4. 9. He had to hit. A queen. 19. A push.
"Nineteen. Push," Niall announced, returning the chips to Zayn. He hadn't won, but he had risked one hundred thousand euros and kept them.
That's when Zayn made his move. Not with the cards, but with words.
"It seems that luck is indecisive tonight," Zayn commented, his voice deliberately casual. "Maybe I should change tactics. Look for a... different thrill."
His gaze slid from Niall's eyes to his hands, which rested on the deck.
"Your hands are very dexterous," Zayn observed, and the compliment sounded intimate, obscene in that context of icy formality. "Very steady."
Niall felt himself blush. The initial irritation mixed with a buzz of alarm and... something more. Something hot and curious.
"Thank you, sir. It's the job," Niall responded, averting his gaze to the deck. "Another hand?"
"Of course."
The fourth hand was the decisive one. Zayn received a pair of sevens. 14. Niall showed a 6.
A complicated hand. Splitting was an option, but risky.
Zayn looked at his cards, then at Niall. Not at his eyes, but at his lips. Then, with exasperating calm, he pulled out four more chips. Two he placed over each seven. Split. And then, he tapped the table twice, indicating that he was doubling the bet on each of the new hands. One hundred fifty thousand euros on the green felt.
Niall felt his heart stop. This was no longer recklessness. It was madness. He held his breath as he dealt.
In the first hand of sevens, Zayn received a 4. 11. He doubled down again, adding another chip. Dealt. A 9. 20. In the second hand, he received a jack. 17.
He had a 20 and a 17 against Niall's exposed 6.
Niall turned over his cards. He had a 6 and a queen. 16. He had to hit. He drew an 8. 24. He busted.
Zayn had won both hands. And he had doubled.
The silence was absolute. Niall, with a voice that sounded alien, announced, "Twenty and seventeen. You win, sir."
He pushed towards Zayn a mountain of black chips. More than two hundred fifty thousand euros. A fortune.
Zayn didn't look at the chips. His gaze was fixed on Niall, on the blush that tinted his cheeks, on the slight tremor of his now ungloved hands (he had taken them off at some point, Niall didn't even remember when).
"It seems the thrill showed up after all," Zayn said, his voice a whisper loaded with intention.
And then, he did the unexpected. From the pile of winnings, he took two black chips. Fifty thousand euros. He slid them across the felt, beyond any circle, until they stopped just at the edge, in front of Niall.
"For you," Zayn said, and his tone left no room for doubt. "For your... impeccable professionalism."
Niall froze. The world narrowed to those two ceramic discs and those dark eyes that undressed him. Fifty thousand euros. A tip. An insult. A dream.
"Sir, I... I can't. It is strictly prohibited to accept tips of this... nature."
"The rules," Zayn cut him off, standing up and adjusting his cuffs with lethal elegance, "are for people who care about losing. I am not one of them." He leaned slightly, placing his hands on the edge of the table, invading Niall's space. "My suite is the penthouse. Reception has instructions. Your shift ends soon, right?"
It wasn't a question. It was an order disguised as an invitation.
Before Niall could articulate a response, Zayn turned and left, leaving behind the fortune in chips, the electrified air, and a completely paralyzed Niall, with the echo of words resonating in his mind: Fifty thousand euros. The penthouse suite.
He looked at the chips. Then he looked at the door where Zayn had disappeared. His heart pounded against his rib cage. The man's arrogance was insufferable. Annoying. Irritating.
But it was also the most exciting thing that had happened to him in his entire life.
And fifty thousand euros were fifty thousand euros.
With a trembling movement, he took the two black chips. They were incredibly heavy. He put them in his pants pocket, where they burned like hot coals.
His shift hadn't ended, but every second that passed was an eternity. He had a decision to make. And for the first time in a very long time, he didn't know what he was going to do. He only knew that the mysterious magnate had won much more than money that night. He had won Niall's complete attention. And maybe, something more.
***
The two black ceramic chips weighed in Niall's pocket like two foreign, throbbing hearts. Fifty thousand euros. A figure that swirled in his head, mixing with the image of Zayn Malik: his arrogance, his intensity, those dark eyes that had undressed him at the blackjack table.
The shift had ended. The bored magnates, the socialite, and the elderly man had vanished, leaving only the smell of sour champagne and the charged silence of the VIP room. Niall changed mechanically in the locker room, his fingers still trembling from the adrenaline of the plays and the intensity of that gaze. The chips, when transferred to the jacket of his street clothes, produced a dull, heavy sound. Fifty thousand. He could pay off debts. He could take a vacation. He could buy a decent car. He could do so many things... but only one thought repeated obsessively: the penthouse suite.
Should he go? The question hammered in his brain. It was madness. Recklessness. The man was a stranger, a magnate with more money than scruples, who handed out tips the size of a mortgage like they were candies. Was it charity? A whim? Or was it, as his eyes had insinuated with ferocity, an advance payment?
He walked through the neon-lit streets of London, the cold night air hitting his still-warm face. The address given to him by the casino concierge—bought with a fifty-euro bill—guided him to a neighborhood of opulent silence, where Georgian buildings stood as discreet guardians of ancient fortunes. He arrived at a door of solid oak and wrought iron, flanked by two stone lions. It didn't look like the entrance to an apartment. It looked like the entrance to a club so exclusive it didn't even have a name.
Before his courage completely abandoned him, he pressed the buzzer. The sound was so discreet that he doubted it had been heard inside.
But the door opened almost immediately, as if someone had been waiting on the other side.
And there was Zayn Malik.
He wasn't the impeccable man from the casino. This Zayn had his dark hair disheveled, as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly. He wore faded black jeans and a simple white cotton t-shirt, almost translucent in some spots, clinging to his torso with a slight dampness. He was barefoot. The loose t-shirt revealed, through its neckline, the intricate network of tattoos that snaked across his chest and shoulders: geometric designs, Arabic script, the outline of a hawk. In one hand, he held a cigarette, from which a slow spiral of bluish smoke rose, smelling of expensive tobacco and something spiced.
But the most striking were his eyes. That same absolute confidence, but now tinged with a domestic and predatory calm at the same time. He looked at Niall from head to toe, from his shoes to his wide blue eyes, disbelieving and nervous.
A slow, almost imperceptible smile curved on his lips.
"I knew you would come," he said, his voice even rougher than in the casino, like the growl of an engine idling. He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke from the corner of his lips, never taking his gaze off him.
Niall froze on the threshold. What was he supposed to say? That he came to thank him for the fifty thousand euros? That he came because he was flattered? That he came because he couldn't get him out of his head?
"I... the chips... " he stammered, feeling absurdly young and out of place. "I couldn't keep them. It's not right. They are... too much."
Zayn arched an eyebrow, amused.
"Coming to return a gift? How polite," he commented, with a touch of sarcasm that wasn't malicious, but incisive. "But I don't think that's it. Come in, Niall."
Hearing his name on Zayn's lips, pronounced with that rough familiarity, Niall felt a shiver. He hesitated for another second, but then, as if moved by an invisible thread, he crossed the threshold.
The interior took his breath away. It wasn't a hotel suite. It was a vast and open residence, a loft with vaulted ceilings and gigantic windows that framed the London skyline like a living painting. The decoration was industrial and luxurious at the same time: exposed steel beams, brick walls, but softened by immense white leather sofas, deep-colored Persian rugs, and modern artworks that seemed to be worth more than the entire building. The air smelled of tobacco, whisky, and a clean, woody perfume that was purely Zayn. Low-fi trip-hop music played barely audibly from invisible speakers, pulsing like a second heartbeat in the room.
Zayn closed the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms. The muscles of his arms tensed under the thin fabric of the t-shirt.
"What did you really come for?" he asked, his gaze roaming over Niall's body with a deliberate, evaluative slowness. "Tell me. I'm not a mind reader, although sometimes I seem like it."
Niall felt exposed. As if those chips in his pocket were irrefutable proof of a crime he hadn't yet committed.
"I don't know," he confessed, and it was the most honest thing he had said in weeks. "You... intrigued me. This... is madness."
"Zayn," he corrected softly. "Call me Zayn. And madness is the only thing that keeps things interesting when you've had it all." He advanced towards him, slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. The smoke from his cigarette created an ephemeral aura around his head. "You came because you wanted to know what's behind the bet. What I really wanted when I gave you those chips."
He stopped just a step away. Niall could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the intoxicating mix of tobacco, clean sweat, and woody cologne.
"And what did you want?" Niall managed to ask, his voice barely a whisper.
Zayn smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes for the first time, making them seem less impenetrable and more... dangerously attractive.
"I wanted to see if behind the perfect dealer, the boy with the steady hands and the protocol phrases, there was someone who dared to break the rules," he said. He raised the hand that didn't hold the cigarette and, with a delicacy that contrasted brutally with his dominant attitude, brushed the line of Niall's jaw with the back of his fingers. "I wanted to see those blue eyes without the mask of professionalism. I wanted to hear your voice without that robot tone you hate so much."
The contact was electric. Niall held his breath. Zayn knew. He knew everything. He had read his annoyance, his irritation, his curiosity, as if they were cards face up on a blackjack table.
"I don't... this isn't... " Niall tried to protest, but the words died on his lips when Zayn's fingers slid to his nape, tangling in his blond hair and pulling gently, forcing him to keep his gaze.
"Don't lie," murmured Zayn, his hot breath tinged with tobacco and mint. "It's not your strong suit. You played with the cards face up all night. I adore that about you."
And then, Zayn did something that completely disarmed Niall. He lowered his hand and slid his fingers inside Niall's jacket pocket, searching for the chips. His knuckles brushed Niall's abdomen through the fabric, making him suppress a gasp. He pulled out the two black chips, which glinted under the dim ambient light of the room.
"This," said Zayn, holding a chip between his index and thumb in front of Niall's face, "is not a payment. It's not charity." He dropped the chip. It fell to the polished concrete floor with a sharp, solid sound. "It's an excuse." He dropped the other. Clunk. "A ridiculously generous excuse for a handsome and bored boy to have a reason to come up to my door."
Niall looked at the chips on the floor. Fifty thousand euros. Thrown as if they were worthless coins. His heart pounded so hard he felt it was going to burst out of his chest. The arrogance of the gesture was monumental. He should have felt indignation. He should have turned around and left.
Instead, a wave of challenge, mixed with fierce desire, coursed through him. He didn't crouch. He knelt, keeping his gaze fixed on Zayn, whose expression of absolute confidence turned into intrigued curiosity. With deliberate movements, Niall picked up the two chips from the cold floor. He stood, and with a determination that surprised even himself, took Zayn's hand—the one that didn't hold the cigarette—feeling the warm, rough skin, the tiny scars, and the latent strength in those fingers. He opened Zayn's palm and placed the chips in it, closing the man's fingers around the black ceramic.
"I don't need your excuse," said Niall, his voice firmer than he expected, though still trembling slightly. "And I don't want your charity. If I'm here, it's because I want to be. Period."
The silence that followed was dense, charged. The low-fi music continued to pulse in the background. Zayn looked at his hand closed around the chips, then raised his gaze to Niall. The surprise in his eyes was genuine, and then it transformed into something much darker, more appreciative. A slow, genuinely admiring smile curved on his lips.
"Well, well," murmured Zayn, tossing the cigarette butt into a nearby glass ashtray without taking his eyes off Niall. "It seems I was wrong about you. You're not just a lucky dealer."
He dropped the chips into a small metal jar on a console, not caring where they landed. His attention was now completely focused on Niall.
"And what is it that you want, then?" asked Zayn, advancing another step, reducing the distance to almost nothing.
Niall didn't back away. He felt the heat of Zayn's body, smelled the tobacco and whisky on his breath. Adrenaline sang in his blood.
"I still don't know," he whispered, his gaze defiant. "But I'm here to find out."
It was then that Zayn closed the remaining distance. It wasn't a slow or hesitant approach. It was a taking of possession. His freed hand tangled in Niall's hair, pulling his head back with a force that made Niall escape a gasp. The other hand closed around his waist, pressing him against a hard, muscular body.
And then, his lips captured Niall's.
It wasn't a kiss. It was an assertion. A conquest. Zayn's lips were demanding, expert, knowing exactly how to move to dominate, to provoke. He tasted of bitter tobacco, smoky whisky, and pure, raw lust. Niall responded with an urgency he didn't know he possessed, his own hands rising to grip Zayn's shoulders, his fingers digging into the thin fabric of the t-shirt, feeling the heat and strength beneath. He opened his mouth under Zayn's pressure, allowing him to deepen the kiss, a muffled moan escaping his throat when Zayn's tongue met his.
Zayn kissed him as if he were starving, as if he had been waiting for this all night, all his life. One of his hands slid down Niall's back, exploring the curve of his spine, while the other kept his head firmly in place. The outside world—London, the casino, the absurd chips—faded away. There was only this: the pressure of the lips, the taste of tobacco, the rub of the cotton t-shirt, the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears.
When Zayn finally pulled away, they were both breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other. Niall's lips were swollen, sensitive, and burned.
"I knew," Zayn panted, his voice a deep growl. "I knew that under all that correctness there would be fire."
Niall couldn't respond. He could only look into those dark eyes, now veiled with desire.
"Now," murmured Zayn, sliding his lips along the line of Niall's jaw to his ear, "let's discover what else those steady hands are good for?"
Without waiting for a response, he took Niall's hand and guided him further into the residence, away from the door, the forgotten chips, everything except the heat burning between them.
The door to the master bedroom closed with a soft but definitive click, isolating the outside world. The same world that, minutes before, Niall had seen from the gigantic windows: a tapestry of neon lights and shadows that was London at high hours of the night. Now, there was only this room. A sanctuary of minimalist luxury where everything—from the black satin sheets to the abstract artworks on the walls—screamed the power and exquisite taste of Zayn Malik.
The kiss in the living room still burned on Niall's lips, a mark of fire and possession. His heart hammered against his ribs, a mix of nervousness and an intoxicating excitement. Zayn guided him a few more steps inside before letting go of his hand. He turned around, and in the dim light, his silhouette was as imposing as it had been at the blackjack table, but now infinitely more accessible and, for that very reason, more dangerous.
Zayn sat on the edge of the immense bed, which seemed to float in the center of the room. The low light from a metal floor lamp sculpted the muscles of his bare torso, playing with the shadows of his tattoos. He leaned back slightly on his elbows, adopting a pose of repose that was anything but relaxed. It was the pose of a predator in its territory, sure of its prey.
His almost black eyes in the low light roamed over Niall's body from head to toe, with an intensity that made Niall's skin prickle.
"Well," said Zayn, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the very air. "Here we are."
Niall stood, feeling suddenly very aware of his own street clothes, his posture, everything.
"Yes," he managed to articulate, his voice sounding strangely thin. "Here we are."
Zayn flashed a small, lopsided smile. It wasn't a kind smile. It was evaluative, challenging.
"You gave me quite a show at the table," he commented, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "Those hands... so steady. So precise." He paused, letting the words hang, loaded with intention. "Now show me what else they can do."
Niall blinked. The order—because that's what it was, an order disguised as an invitation—took him by surprise. Show me. It wasn't "undress" or "come here." It was something more... personal. More intimate. And much more provocative.
For an instant, a wave of indignation swept through him. Does he expect me to strip and dance for him like a stripper? What does he think he is?
But then he looked at Zayn. He looked at the absolute confidence in his eyes, the relaxed expectation in his posture. This wasn't a man who asked for cheap shows. This was a man who recognized the value of things and knew how to ask for them. And he was asking to see Niall, not a show.
A challenge sparked in Niall's blue eyes, replacing the nervousness. Zayn wanted a spectacle. He would give him one. But not the one he expected.
Instead of responding with words, Niall held Zayn's gaze. With deliberately slow, almost theatrical movements, he brought his hands to the first button of his shirt. Those fingers, which Zayn had praised, worked with the same precision he used to deal cards. Button by button, they yielded, revealing inch by inch his pale skin, sprinkled with freckles, and the contour of his slender torso.
Zayn said nothing. He only watched, immobile, his expression impassive but his eyes burning with a dark, intense light. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the slight sound of fabric sliding.
Once the shirt was completely unbuttoned, Niall slipped it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He didn't break eye contact with Zayn. Then, his fingers went to his belt. The metal of the buckle creaked in the quiet of the room. He unbuttoned his jeans, lowering the zipper with a sound that seemed amplified in the tense silence.
He stepped out of his jeans, letting them fall beside the shirt. Now he stood, in the center of the luxurious room, in front of Zayn, dressed only in his white underwear. The fabric contrasted sharply with his skin, pink with excitement and embarrassment. The garment hugged his hips, accentuating the slimness of his waist and the firm, round, and moldable curves of his ass.
Niall turned slightly to the side, not completely, but enough for Zayn to appreciate the curve. It wasn't an obscene pose, but a conscious and calculated exhibition of what he offered. He knew what he had, and he knew, by the way Zayn's breathing had become barely more audible, that Zayn liked it.
"Is this what you wanted to see?" Niall asked, his voice now more stable, charged with sensual challenge. "Or were you expecting something more?"
Zayn didn't respond immediately. His gaze had adhered to Niall's figure, roaming over every line, every curve revealed by the white underwear. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet Niall's. His expression remained serene, but the fire in his eyes had flared into a blaze.
"No," he said, his voice a raspy whisper, charged with an intention that made Niall's stomach flip. "I wasn't expecting something more. I was expecting exactly this."
He stood up from the bed with a feline grace that belied his size. He advanced towards Niall, not with quick steps, but with a deliberate slowness that was a thousand times more intimidating.
"But the view," he continued, stopping just in front of him, so close that Niall could feel the heat radiating from his body, "is only the appetizer."
He raised a hand and, with the back of his fingers, softly caressed the line of the elastic waistband of Niall's underwear. The touch was electric, making Niall catch his breath.
"Now," Zayn murmured, his hot breath on Niall's skin, "comes the main course."
And then, his fingers hooked into the white waistband and pulled it down, revealing completely what the fabric had only hinted at.
Zayn didn't pull him roughly. It was something much more irresistible. With his hands still hooked in the white waistband of Niall's underwear, he drew him towards him, a magnet of heat and muscle. Niall let himself be guided, his steps unsteady, until the edge of the mattress hit the back of his knees.
A small push, soft but firm, and Niall fell backward onto the black satin. The cold fabric was a shock against his hot skin. Before he could catch his breath, Zayn was on top of him, not crushing him, but framing him with his body, his knees on either side of Niall's hips.
Niall's underwear, now discarded and pulled down to mid-thigh, immobilized his legs, creating a feeling of vulnerability and exposure that made him blush from head to toe. But it was an exciting, desired vulnerability.
Zayn leaned on one hand beside Niall's head, while the other... the other hand slid between their bodies. Not directly towards his erection, which throbbed painfully against Zayn's abdomen. No. His hand found the sensitive inner flesh of Niall's thigh, and caressed it softly, a touch almost paternal that was incredibly erotic in its tenderness.
"See?" Zayn murmured, his mouth centimeters from Niall's. "This is what I wanted. To be able to look at everything. Touch everything."
Niall couldn't respond. He could only look into those dark eyes, clouded with desire. Instinctively, his own hips lifted from the mattress, seeking friction, seeking the contact he yearned for. His body, trapped by the underwear, arched, rubbing against Zayn's hard abdomen. The rub of Zayn's smooth black pants against his sensitive, bare skin was a delicious agony.
A low, involuntary moan escaped his lips.
Zayn smiled, a slow, satisfied expression.
"Yes, like that," he encouraged, his voice a growl. "Show me what you need. Rub against me like the needy kitten you are."
The words, so crude, should have embarrassed him. Instead, they fanned the fire within him. Niall repeated the movement, more deliberately this time, rubbing his erect length and bare stomach against Zayn's clothes. The sensation was frustrating—too many layers between them—but also intensely stimulating with what it promised.
Zayn leaned down and captured Niall's lips in a kiss that was both possessive and rewarding. While their tongues met, his hand on Niall's thigh moved higher, higher, until his thumb could brush the fine hairs at the base of his erection, and beyond, the sensitive and hidden place between his ass cheeks.
Niall broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, his eyes widening. Zayn didn't press. He only brushed, a ghost of a touch, a promise of what was to come.
"Do you want more?" Zayn asked, his breath hot against the corner of Niall's lips.
"Yes," Niall panted, beyond shame, beyond thought. "Please, Zayn. More."
"Then ask nicely," Zayn ordered, his voice soft but inflexible.
Niall swallowed, his mind clouded with need.
"Please..." he swallowed again. "Please, touch me."
It was the surrender Zayn was waiting for. With a quick movement, his fingers hooked into the white underwear and pulled it completely off, freeing Niall's legs and, finally, leaving him completely exposed and naked on the black satin. Zayn adjusted himself between Niall's now-open thighs, and this time, when Niall arched his hips, he didn't find the rough fabric of the jeans, but Zayn's hard and confined length through his pants, pressing directly against his own erection.
The contact, though still with a layer in between, was electrifying. Niall cried out, his hands flying to Zayn's shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt like an anchor.
Zayn began to move then, a slow and deliberate rocking of his hips that created exquisite and torturous friction between them. His mouth found the nape of Niall's neck, nipping and sucking the skin, marking him.
"This is only the beginning, darling," he murmured against his skin, each word a lash of heat. "Only the beginning of everything I'm going to do to you."
And Niall, trapped between the cold satin and Zayn's hot body, rubbing against him in an increasingly desperate rhythm, knew that he had completely underestimated the power of the bet he had made. And he couldn't be more excited about losing.
Zayn suddenly pulled away, breaking the contact of their sweaty bodies. The loss of heat made Niall groan in frustration, his hips instinctively seeking the friction that was no longer there.
"Shhh," Zayn murmured, putting a firm hand on Niall's abdomen to keep him still.
He knelt between Niall's open legs, his shadow engulfing him completely. His breathing was heavy, but his gaze was of absolute clarity and control. With fingers that didn't tremble, he unbuttoned his own pants, lowering the zipper with a sound that seemed amplified in the silent room. He pulled them down just enough, freeing his erection, which was as imposing as the rest of him, thick and arched, with the skin tight and shiny.
Niall swallowed, a mix of longing and nervousness tightening his stomach.
Zayn leaned over him, supporting his hands on either side of his head. His expression was serious, intense.
"I want that mouth," he ordered, his voice a low growl that admitted no discussion. "Now."
Niall nodded, unsure of his voice. He propped himself up on his elbows, but Zayn put a hand on his chest, pushing him gently back against the sheets.
"Not like that," said Zayn. "I want to see you come to me. I want you to give me what I want."
The order was clear. Niall bit his lip, then, with a somewhat clumsy movement, turned and knelt on the bed in front of Zayn. The position made him feel exposed, vulnerable, but the darkness in Zayn's eyes told him that that was exactly what he wanted.
He leaned forward, his heart pounding in his ears. The smell reached him first: a musky, salty, purely masculine aroma that was purely Zayn. It was the smell of his skin, of his excitement, of the dark and thick pubic hair that framed the base of his member. It wasn't a perfumed or artificial smell; it was raw, real, and in a primitive way, incredibly exciting.
He hesitated for a second, inhaling that aroma that filled his nose and head, making him dizzy.
"Don't just stare, darling," Zayn's voice was soft but charged with authority. "Put it in your mouth. Show me how good that tongue of yours is."
Niall closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and leaned in. His tongue came out first, a tentative lick to the tip, collecting the salty and unique taste of precum. Zayn emitted a deep groan, a vibration that Niall felt on his lips.
"That's it," Zayn encouraged, his hands tangling in Niall's blond hair, not pushing, but holding. "Like that. Now more. Take me all in."
Niall obeyed, opening his mouth and sliding it over the head and down the length. He wasn't an expert, but he was determined, guided by a visceral need to please. Zayn was big, and he had to strain to accommodate him, feeling how he stretched his jaw.
"Fuck, yes," Zayn panted, his hands in Niall's hair, not pumping, but holding. "That hot little mouth. Just like I imagined it."
Niall sank deeper, choking a little, tears welling up in his eyes. The smell of Zayn was now overwhelming, filling every one of his senses. Each time he approached the base, his nose buried in Zayn's pubic hair, and that musky, earthy, and sexual smell drove him wild.
"Does it feel good, huh?" Zayn asked, his voice ragged. "Do you like smelling me? Tasting me? You're just a needy kitten craving my cock, aren't you?"
Niall, with his mouth full, made a sound of affirmation, a moan that vibrated around Zayn.
"Speak," Zayn ordered, pulling gently on his hair to pull him out a bit. "Tell me."
Niall gasped, saliva running down his chin.
"Yes," he managed to say, his voice hoarse and broken. "I like it. I like your taste. Your smell."
"What else?" Zayn pressed, pumping his hips softly, sliding in and out of Niall's wet lips.
"I want... I want to make you feel good," Niall confessed, the shame burning his cheeks but the words coming out anyway.
"You're doing it, darling," Zayn murmured, his tone becoming a bit softer, almost admiring. "You're doing it so well. Now get back to work. I want to come in that good little mouth of yours."
The crudeness of the words made Niall shudder with pure desire. He dove back in, taking him as deeply as he could, choking willingly on him, in his taste, in his smell. Zayn's hands in his hair guided him, establishing a rhythm that was both demanding and rewarding.
"Yes, like that," Zayn panted, his breathing becoming ragged. "Like that, Niall. God, that tongue... That throat... You're perfect. My perfect dealer."
Niall lost himself in the act, in the dirty words that rained down on him, in the feeling of fullness, in the primal aroma that surrounded him. He no longer thought, only felt. And served. And for the first time, he felt that he was winning something infinitely more valuable than any casino chip.
Zayn leaned back against the piles of black silk pillows, a king on his throne. His body was a symphony of relaxed muscles and ink, illuminated by the ambient light. With an indolent gesture of his hand, he pointed to his crotch.
"Come here," he ordered, his voice a growl of pure authority. "I have something for that little mouth of yours."
Niall, still kneeling on the bed, crawled towards him. The atmosphere had changed; Zayn's detachment was palpable, even in his lust. It was clear that this was only about his pleasure.
Niall leaned in, burying his face in the darkness of Zayn's pubic hair. The smell was intense, musky, purely masculine. He opened his mouth and carefully took one of his testicles, enveloping it in the warm humidity of his mouth. It tasted of skin, of salt, of him.
"The other," Zayn panted, without emotion, as if giving an instruction more.
Niall obeyed, changing his attention, licking and sucking with devotion. While he did, Zayn began to give him small taps with the glans of his member, still wet, against his tongue and his lips. Each tap was a mark of ownership, a reminder of his place.
"Good boy," Zayn murmured, pumping his hips softly. "That tongue of yours should be everywhere."
The praise, though cold, tangled in Niall's mind. He wanted to give more, to be more for him. Moved by a blind instinct to please, to connect, one of his hands slid between Zayn's legs, further back. His fingers, trembling, sought the virgin territory of the perineum, barely brushing the tense and hidden entrance.
The change in Zayn was instantaneous and electric.
His body, previously relaxed, tensed like a wire. His hand closed like a claw around Niall's wrist, pulling it away with a force that made Niall cry out in pain and surprise.
"That's mine to touch," Zayn's voice wasn't a shout, it was a cutting and glacial lash, charged with fierce possessiveness.
Before Niall could process it, Zayn moved with feline speed. He grabbed him by the hips and flipped him brutally, as if he weighed nothing, placing him on all fours on the bed, with his ass exposed and elevated towards him. The position was obscenely vulnerable, and Niall groaned, a mix of shock and renewed excitement.
"If you want something to be touched," Zayn murmured, his voice now a low and dangerous promise just behind him, "I'm the one who does it."
Niall heard a spit, then felt Zayn's hands opening his ass cheeks. And then, the sensation.
Warm. Wet. Inevitable.
Zayn's tongue, flat and rough, licked a long and slow stripe from his perineum to his tailbone, covering every inch of sensitive skin, pubic hair, and salty sweat that it found on its path.
Niall screamed, a high and torn sound that he didn't recognize as his own. His body arched violently, his hands clutching the black satin sheets like a lifeline. It was too intimate, too visceral, too much.
Zayn didn't stop. He dove into him like a starving man, licking, tasting, savoring with an intensity that bordered on the devouring. His nose buried in Niall's flesh, inhaling deeply his essence, while his tongue focused on his entrance, pressing against the muscular ring with an insistence that made Niall see stars.
"God, Zayn!" Niall moaned, burying his face in the mattress, completely overwhelmed by the raw and primal sensation. "Please!"
Zayn pulled away only for a moment, panting. A low, satisfied and deeply filthy laugh vibrated against Niall's wet skin.
"What, please? Please, stop? I don't think so. You know what it tastes like to me?" Another lick, shorter and more lascivious, making Niall shudder. "To victory."
Niall moaned, a sound of pure surrender. His hips rocked instinctively backward, seeking more of that profaning mouth.
"To the fact that you're mine," continued Zayn, and this time, it wasn't just his tongue. A finger, as wet and hot as his mouth, joined the party, pressing softly against his entrance. "And I always take possession of what is mine. In the way that I want."
And then, Zayn's finger plunged inside him, at the same time that his mouth sealed around his entrance again, sucking and licking while his finger began a slow and torturous movement inside him.
Niall's world exploded in white and hot sensations. There was no more thought, only feeling. Only Zayn's mouth and finger claiming him, possessing him, turning him into nothing more than a body that moaned and surrendered on the altar of another man's desire. And he knew, in some remote corner of his mind, that he would never be the same again.
The atmosphere in the bedroom was dense, charged with the primal aroma of sex and sweat, mixed with the expensive whisky and tobacco that always seemed to orbit around Zayn Malik. The city light, a spectacle of neon and shadows, crept through the windows and painted silvery stripes across the entwined bodies. Zayn, now completely naked, was a sculpture of muscle and ink in the dim light. His erection, thick and arched, pulsed with an almost violent insistence, the tip bright and sensitive. He looked like a warrior god in the quiet before the battle.
Niall, on the other hand, was a spectacle of surrender. The impeccable dealer, the boy with an easy smile and infallible hands, had been disarmed. He panted, still convulsing from the echoes of the orgasm that Zayn had wrung from him with his mouth, but a new, more urgent fire burned in his veins. He moved with deliberate clumsiness, crawling toward the center of the bed, over the black satin sheets that were already damp and disheveled. With a moan that was half effort, half plea, he brought the soles of his feet together, opening his hips into a lotus position that was both an offering and a plea.
The posture elevated his ass, transforming it into the center of everything. They were two spheres of luminescent pallor in the darkness, perfectly round, firm but with a softness that promised to yield under the pressure of fingers or teeth. The curve was obscenely perfect, a geometry of desire that tightened and relaxed with each of Niall's ragged breaths. A pink, thin, and hot blush spread across the skin, and a few freckles, like faint constellations, dotted the landscape. The groin, completely exposed, showed his utmost vulnerability: his sex, erect and painfully swollen, throbbed against his stomach, and his entrance, still pink, swollen and shiny from Zayn's saliva, pulsed visibly, eagerly.
Zayn watched him like a collector before his most prized piece. A slow, predatory smile drew across his lips.
"Look at this," his voice was a low growl, charged with lust and possession. "The star dealer of 'Leopard’s Grace'... the one who deals out dreams and nightmares with surgeon's hands... on his knees, disheveled, offering me his most valuable merchandise." A low, gutural laugh escaped his chest. "And what merchandise. This is worth more than the entire VIP lounge combined."
He advanced toward the bed, his weight significantly sinking the mattress. He knelt between Niall's open legs, his shadow engulfing the smaller man. His hands, those same long and dexterous hands that Niall had seen handle hundred-thousand-euro chips with nonchalance, rose.
The first contact was electric. Zayn's palms, hot and rough, molded to Niall's ass not with desire, but with right. It was the possession of a man who was accustomed to having it all. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the firm and soft flesh, kneading with a force that made Niall moan and bury his face in the black satin, embarrassed and excited beyond all reason.
"God," Zayn murmured, almost to himself. "This curve... this skin... It's like gripping silk over marble." One of his hands slid toward the intergluteal cleft, brushing the palpable entrance with his thumb. "And this... this is the safe. And I have the key."
Niall moaned, a high and broken sound. Zayn responded with action, not words.
His hand rose and descended with explosive force.
SMACK!
The sound was obscenely clear, a wet and sharp burst that reverberated in the room. Niall's left cheek rippled under the impact, and a cry of surprise and pain was torn from his chest. Instantly, a red mark, in the shape of Zayn's hand, bloomed on the pale, hot, and sensitive skin.
"Do you like that, my little dealer?" Zayn asked, his voice a lascivious hum. "Do you like being marked? Being turned into my personal canvas? Do you prefer the sound of the chips or the sound of my hand on this perfect ass?"
SMACK!
The other cheek received the same treatment. Niall cried out again, his hips shuddering violently, and a new and shameful wave of excitement coursed through him, making his member throb and leak onto his stomach.
"Answer!" Zayn ordered, rubbing his hot palm over the now sensitive skin, spreading the heat. "What is the value of this bet, Niall? Huh?"
"You!" Niall panted, his voice distorted by tears and need. "You are the prize! Only you!"
"More specific, little whore," Zayn demanded, giving another smack, this time right in the center, making both cheeks shudder and the tips of his fingers brush against his entrance.
"I prefer your cock over any chip!" Niall shouted, completely broken, his professionalism a distant relic. "I prefer you using me! Only that!"
A deep and dark satisfaction crossed Zayn's face. "That's what I wanted to hear."
His hands firmly gripped the ass, spreading it with authority, fully exposing his rose, swollen and shiny entrance to the dim light. The cool air of the room made it pulse.
"The grand prize," Zayn murmured, aligning himself.
And then, he pushed.
It wasn't a penetration, it was a claiming. A brutal, deep, uncompromising taking of possession. Niall cried out, a torn sound that was pure raw sensation, as Zayn sank to the hilt in one thrust, filling him in a way that erased all thought. The lotus position allowed for devastating depth, and Zayn wasted not a millimeter.
Each thrust was a piston of fire. And with each one, Zayn's body drew closer, and the heavy and hot weight of his balls, large like ripe plums, struck against Niall's perineum and the base of his scrotum. Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound was wet, rhythmic, primal, a drum that marked the rhythm of his domination.
"Do you feel that, my fucking dealer?" Zayn panted, gripping his hips to drive him deeper, each word a lash of heat. "Do you feel how I fill you? How my balls strike you, claiming what's theirs? This is the only thing you should feel. Forget about the cards, forget about blackjack. Only this. My cock in your ass. You hear me?"
"Yes!" Niall cried, his mind blank, only sensation. "I feel you! God, I feel you everywhere!"
"This ass no longer deals cards," Zayn growled, the rhythm becoming frenzied, brutal. "It deals my cum. It's only good for one thing. For me to come inside. Is that clear?"
Niall could only moan, an animal sound of affirmation. The world narrowed down to the clap-clap-clap of their bodies, the smell of sex, the burn in his ass, and the overwhelming pleasure that consumed him.
The climax hit them like a train. It was violent, simultaneous, an explosion of hoarse shouts and possessive grunts. Zayn sank to the deepest point, pouring himself in long and hot pulses inside Niall, while the latter screamed his name, staining their stomachs with his own seed.
Zayn collapsed on top of him, his weight a sweaty and comforting mantle. They panted in unison, their hearts hammering against their chests.
After a moment, Zayn raised a hand and passed it softly, almost reverently, over Niall's ass, now hot, red, and marked with the imprint of his possession.
"My dealer," Zayn murmured, his voice hoarse from exertion, but charged with fierce tenderness. "My prize."
And Niall, marked, claimed, and completely demolished, knew in every fiber of his being that he had never won something so valuable in his life.