Out of Style [inspired by "Style" from 1989]

Part 8: We Come Back Every Time

I'm baaaaack.

Hi.

So, before I continue writing old stories, I reread what I've already got.  So I did that.  Then I scrolled down and read the comments that were less than a year old. The most predominant issue people brought up was forgiving someone who's left you.

"Style", the song, is literally about a girl saying her and this guy will never go 'out of style'.  If I wrote her turning him away, a) there wouldn't be much of a story, and b) it would go against what the song says.  It's not meant to be real--it's made-up.  Everyone is entitled to their opinions.  I just want to reinforce that I'm writing a character.  I'm not a blonde female with a condo and an ex who wears leopard print jackets.  I'm a brunette female University student, and most of my exes have been more skinny jeans and worn-in T-shirt sort of guys.

ANYWAY.  Preaching over.  Story next.  THANK YOU guys for all of the reads and comments.  I'm floored by the numbers.  I didn't actually expect anyone to read this, honestly.  I posted it because I wanted to write it.  You guys rock.

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Recap:

"Tell me, love." He croons. "Tell me you like what I do to you."

"I love it," I whisper. The smile drops from his face, and my sweater's yanked over my head. He unhooks my bra and sends it the way of my scarf. And then his mouth is on me, stroking my formerly neglected breast with his tongue. He nips, and heat floods through me. I can't hold back the moan, and his hips grind into mine when he hears it.

"So. Fucking. Sweet." He's trailing his lips down my stomach, his words vibrating against my skin. He stops when he reaches the top of my jeans, and slips his tongue in between the fabric and my skin. I try to move my hips, but he's got them pinned with his hands now.

He looks up at me and smirks. "These are in the way. What do you say we get rid of them?"

He's talking about my jeans. He slides a finger in the spot his tongue has just vacated and pulls the fabric away from me. The room's air feels cold on the spot that's still wet from his mouth. I nod, and he has the button undone and the zipper down in seconds. He presses a kiss to each of my hips, and then he starts to pull down my jeans.

My body heats up, anticipating what's about to happen.  I might like to tell myself that I've gotten over my physical reaction to him, but clearly I've been lying.

He yanks my jeans down, and lean backs off the bed so he can pull them off fully.  He chucks them.  They hit a lamp I'd left on in my hurry to meet him earlier, and it rocks back and forth.  Light wavers through the room, but he and I just stare at each other.

He's back on me about two seconds later. He pushes his thigh between my legs, and rests his forearms on either side of my head before leaning down to kiss me.  Lightly.  Quickly.  And so not what I want right now.

"You forgot something," I say.  He grins.

"Nah.  I'm providing us with a very effective barrier.  I want to draw this out, love.  Make you scream for me a bit."  He grins.

I raise an eyebrow.  "What, you think me being completely naked will get you too excited?"

His eyes flash.  "Oh," he says, voice rougher.  "I fucking know it will."

I lift my hips, pressing against his thigh.  He just watches me.  I reach up and dig my nails into his upper arms.  His eyes are wary, but I don't think he's expecting it when I roll us over, closer toward the middle of the bed.  I straddle him, settling myself against the naked ridge of his erection.  His eyes, hooded, watch me.  Then I start to move.

Air hisses out between his teeth.  His hands fist against the pillow.  I rest one hand, flat, on his abs.  I move myself back and forth, grinding against him.

"Does that feel good?" I tease.  I'm getting a bit breathless.  

Because it sure as hell feels good to me.

His hands shoot out, grab my hips, and he yanks me forward so I'm perched on his chest.  I look down at him warily.

"I liked where I was," I say.  He grins, one side of his mouth curving higher than the other.

He even makes smiling look sexy.

"Trust me, love.  You'll like this better."

He lifts his head, and brushes his lips against the fabric between my legs.  I jerk instinctively, but his grip on me is like iron.  He reaches down and slides his thumb in the space his lips have just vacated.  My breathing is loud.

He looks up at me then, flashes that grin again, and then slips a finger past the lace edge of my thong and slides it inside me.

I jolt.  He swears.

"So, fucking wet, love."

I don't mean to, but I tighten around him.  His expression goes from amused to in pain.

"Fuck.  Don't do that.  I'm trying to go slow."

I'm breathing hard.  I decide I really, really hate slow.  So it's probably a good thing when his thumb joins the party and he starts stroking me with it.

It occurs to me that it's probably been way too long since I've had sex if something as simple is this has my body going haywire.

His fingers move faster.  I start panting, trying to move my hips back and forth.  He's teasing me, not giving me what I need.

"Bastard," I gasp.  

Then I'm on my back again.  My thong gets yanked down and tossed away.  His guitar-calloused finger tips dig into my inner thighs and push them apart.  His eyes flash to mine, he grins, and then I feel his tongue between my legs.

Holy hell.

My hands fist in the sheets.  I can't breathe fast enough.  My hips buck.  He reaches up and anchors them with his hands.

"Fuck."  The word is an exhalation.  And possibly a prayer.

He pulls back, and I lift my head to glare at him.  He licks his lips.

Oh.