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

Part 3: I've Been There Too, a Few Times

Last time on...etc

  "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.

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          He's got my hands pinned behind my back, his body pressed against mine as fully as possible, and if I try to back up anymore I'm going to trip on the armchair.  So I try to take a step forward.  Shockingly, he doesn't let me.

        "Are you going to trap me here forever?  I told you to go."

         He takes one of his hands away from its grip on my wrist and uses it to tip my chin up so I meet his eyes.  "Tell me you really mean that.  Look at me and make me believe it."

      "I..."  My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.  "I don't want you to go.  But that's exactly why you should!  You're a bad idea.  The worst.  I don't like who I am around you."

       His pupils dilate at the first part of my sentence, the admission that cost me a fair bit of pride, but then he just looks angry.

       "And who do you think you are when you're around me."  His voice is low.  Dangerous.

       "Weak.  Pathetic.  You make me hate myself."

      He lets go of me and takes a step back, staring at me like I've just informed him that he's actually part lizard.  I feel a twinge of guilt at how harsh my words were, but it's too late to change it now.

       "I make you hate yourself."  It's a statement, not a question, and his voice sounds off.  I blink, taking a deep breath before replying.

     "You make me feel like things are spinning out of control, and I don't like it."

     "You can't control everything."  His voice sounds a bit more normal now, but he's looking at the wall behind me instead of at my face.  It makes me feel like someone's squeezing something in the vicinity of my chest, but I ignore the feeling.

       "You're right.  But there are some things I can control.  I couldn't control you leaving, but I can make sure that I never feel that awful again."

       There.  I've said it.  I've blamed him for leaving.  Whether or not our relationship had its problems isn't really relevant to me just now.  Regardless of why he did it, he still left.  I'm not sure if that's something I can ever forgive.

     He schools his expression, but I see the flash of pain in his eyes before he manages to mask it.  As much as I'd like to deny this, it bothers me that I've caused it in him.  

     He moves forward more quickly than I'd expected him to, considering how still he'd been a second before.  He grabs my hand, but instead of pinning it behind me again he presses it against his chest.  My fingers flex, an impulse, and I meet his gaze.  

       "I know this is corny as hell, but can you feel that?  It's fucking racing.  You terrify me."

       He's talking about his heart, and he's not lying.  I try to pull my hand back, and he lets me.  "I'm not a scary person." I say. He just stares at me in that unnerving way he has.  If he had brown eyes, it probably wouldn't be so unusual, but because it's him I just can't look away.

       'You have the power to fucking break me.  I don't let anyone have that over me.  No one."  He takes a breath.  "But you don't even realize, do you?"

      I shake my head.  "Stop it.  You're being an idiot."

     "An idiot?"  He grabs my hand again, placing it on his abdomen and sliding it lower this time.  He stops when he reaches his goal, and my eyes widen.  "You tell me you can't stand the way you feel with me, and my first reaction is panic."  He gestures to his chest with his free hand, referencing his heart I guess.  "My second is to prove to you that you're all I can fucking think about.  To mark you, so that every guy who fucking looks at you knows you're mine.  I want to make you scream my name, even when you're too fucking turned on to remember yours.  I want everyone else to know that they can't have you."  

     My fingers flex again, completely on their own I swear.  His pupils dilate as he looks at me.  I don't know what to say to that.  My thoughts are so jumbled that I can't even figure out what I want to say.

     I still haven't moved my hand.

     "Being with you scared the hell out of me.  You made me feel weak.  I didn't know how to deal with that."  He tilts his head down, meeting my eyes full-on.  "I was a fucking idiot to leave."

       I feel my heart racing before I even realize why.  How many times had I wanted to hear him say this?  How many times had I lay in bed, picturing this scenario?  My imagination doesn't compare with the reality, but the reality is much more frightening.  I don't know what to say to any of it.  I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

     He just stares at me.  We don't move.  I know the ball's in my court, for the first time in a long time, but I have no idea what to do with it.