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

Part Nine: Can't Stop Thinking 'Bout You

Okay, HOW did I only realize there was a Style music video tonight??  I am a horrible fan.

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Recap

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.

My head falls back. I close my eyes.

"Look at me, love." His voice is deeper than usual.

"Make me," I say, glaring at him.  Which, I know, is exactly what he just told me to do.  Look at him, I mean.  But I think it's forgivable that my mind's a little foggy right now.  I was pretty distracted.  Up until he stopped.

I'd rather he started that thing with his tongue again.  I've decided I really like that thing with his tongue.

He grins.  "Watch me," he says.

So I do.

I watch as he presses a kiss to my inner thigh, as he meets my eyes again, and as he does that tongue thing.

I give up on the eye contact.  I throw my head back, regrip the hell out of my poor, abused bedsheets, and try to stop myself from gasping out phrases that I'll regret in the morning.

Realistically, it would be quite easy to tell him I love him, with the things he's doing to me right now.  I might even mean it.

I lose focus for a good two minutes.  All I care about is the feel of his tongue, and the waves coursing through my body.

And then it's gone.  Again.

I raise my head to glare at him.  He stares back at me.

"I can't watch you from here.  I need to see your face as you come apart for me."

Well then.

He moves over my body, kissing and biting his way up to my mouth.  I taste myself on his tongue.  I should probably be embarrassed about it, but I'm not.  I feel...powerful.

I'm also impatient, so I thread my fingers through his hair and anchor him to me.  His erection is pressing into my thigh, and it's driving my crazy.

I kiss him back, hard.  I bite his lip.  I pull his hair.  He grins against my mouth.

"You want rough, love?"

He doesn't wait for my answer.  He pulls back, and wraps a hand around my throat to keep me on the bed.  My heart rate speeds up.  

I never would've though I liked being held down like this.

"Condom."  It's a command.  From me.

He raises an eyebrow.  "Are we done playing, then?"

I point at my night table.  He grins, and leans over my to reach it.  

I bite his nipple.  Hard.  His cock jerks against my leg.

Things progress quickly after that.

I hear the foil rip, I watch him roll the condom down over himself, and then he's positioned right where he needs to be.

I expect him to ask if I'm ready.  He doesn't.  He thrusts, and damn.

His hand is on my throat again, but that's not stopping my hands from reaching up to his back.  Or my nails from digging into it.  My legs wrap around his hips.  I can't get close enough.  

One thing I'd forgotten about him, or maybe blocked from my memory, is the way he fucks.  Sometimes, he has finesse.  Skill.  Self-control.  Other times, like this?  It's like he can't help himself.  His free hand cups my breast.  Squeezes.  My breathing has lost any sort of recognizable rhythm.

I lose track of everything but him.  His lips crushing against mine.  His body moving inside of me.  The noises he makes, like he can't stop himself.  Can't keep quiet.  Can't slow down.

And I really, really don't want him to.

His breathing is ragged.  I raise my hips, wanting more of him.  He pulls back, raising his torso, angling himself differently.  He hits a new spot inside me.

My world explodes.