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

Part 2: He's Taking Off His Coat

If you haven't seen it yet, check out Taylor Swift's Blank Space video.  It's epic.  And Sean O'Pry is gorgeous.
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   He's silent for the rest of the drive, and so am I.  What can I say to that?  

     He takes me home and walks me to the door of my condo complex.  I figure that's where he'll stay, so I use my code to unlock the door and turn to say goodbye.  I expect him to be standing where he was a moment ago, about a foot away from me with his hands in his pockets.  Instead he's right behind me.  Does he think he's coming inside?

       "Um--" I start, but he cuts me off.  

       "I just want some water," he says.  "If that's okay."

       Water.  Suuure.  I keep my cynicism to myself though, and shrug in response.  

      The elevator ride, like most of the car ride, is silent.  Shocker.

      I unlock the door to my condo, and he's right behind me again.  I kick off my ankle boots and pad toward the kitchen.  I don't bother turning the lights on--I don't want him to think I'm inviting him to stay.  I grab a glass and fill it at my water cooler.  I'm tempted to give him lukewarm tap water, but that would be petty.  Actually, I'd love to give him a bottle of water--to go--but I stopped buying disposable plastic.  Stupid global warming.

      I shake my head quickly.  I'm blaming climate change now?!  Talk about refusal to accept responsibility.

      I walk back into the family room.  He's taken off his coat and is standing in the middle of the room.  I eye the coat, which he's draped over the side of one of my armchairs.  Leopard print?  Seriously?  Who even wears that?

     He clears his throat.  I look at him, an eyebrow raised.

      "Here."  I shove the glass at him.  At little too vigorously, actually.  Some of it sloshes over the side.  He takes it, mumbling something that I assume means 'thanks'.  I sit down on the armchair that isn't wearing his ridiculous coat and resist the urge to cross my arms.  He frowns and puts the glass down on an end table.

      "I miss you." He says again.  I blink at him.  

       "What?"

       "I miss you." He repeats.  I stare at him.

       "Were you missing me when you were all over that brunette last month?"  I regret saying it as soon as the words are out of my mouth.  Stupid.  Acting jealous?  What am I, sixteen?  He broke up with me. Ugh.

      "Yeah."  He kicks at the floor.  He's still wearing his shoes, and it makes an out-of-place squeak.  "That's true."

      I blink.  For some reason, I'd been expecting him to deny it.  

      He looks up at me, green eyes meeting mine.  "I tried.  I tried to stop thinking about you.  But I fucking can't.  Do you know how bloody annoying that is?"

      I force myself not to laugh.  "Oh, yeah.  Horrible."  I'm betting he can practically taste the sarcasm in my voice, it's so thick.  He steps forward, moving closer to me.  

      "I'm serious.  I don't want to think about you.  I don't want to see your face every time I see a fucking blonde, or someone wearing red lipstick.  But I can't stop."

       Who knew such blatant hate could make a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside?  I stand up, keeping the eye contact.  "You broke up with me.  What makes you think I'm willing to hear you talking about how much you don't like me, in my house?"

      He ignores me.  "Do you miss me?"

      "What?"  I say, avoiding having to answer.  He moves forward until his nose is about half an inch away from mine.

      "Do. You. Miss. Me."

      "Do you care."

      He takes another step toward me and I back up.  The back of my knees hit the chair.  

      "Answer the question."  His voice is low.  It sends a thrill through me, and I mentally smack myself. 

       "Of course I fucking miss you!" I snap.  "I loved you, you asshole!"

      He stares at me.  "I can't fucking get enough of you."

      I put my hands on his chest and push.  "That's too bad.  Now get out."

      I'm shaking.  I don't want to think too hard about why, because I know the answer will give him way too much credit.  He runs his fingers through his hair, dislodging his bandana.  He doesn't seem to notice.

       "Why can't I get you out of my head?  You're a fucking nightmare."

       "And proud of it.  Leave."

       He ignores me.  Again.  I groan.

       "What do you want?  What can I say that will make you leave?"

       "You." He growls, closing the distance between us in one stride.  He grabs my hands and pins them behind my back.  He leans forward until his lips brush my ear.  "I fucking dream about the way you moaned my name."

    I shiver.  I can't lie to myself this time--it's a reaction to him.  His closeness.  The warmth of his body.  The growl in his voice.  Dammit.

     "Leave." I say.  But my voice is a bit shaky and doesn't hold much conviction.  His hands tighten on my wrists.  

      "No."  He trails his lips along my throat, and then bites.  Hard.  I gasp.

       "What are you doing?"  My voice is stronger now. 

       "I'm taking what's mine."  He trails his lips up and across my jaw.  I resist the urge to press up against him, but he takes care of that for me--he uses his hold on my hands to push me toward him until our bodies are pressed together.  I can feel the hardest part of him against my stomach.  

       "I don't belong to you." I hiss.  He nips at my ear.  

       "Mine," he repeats.  "Even if I have to remind you exactly what that means."

      I shiver.  Again.  My body is a fucking traitor.