Say You Will by Deefective
She's got my hands up against the wall, trapped beneath her Aloe Vera-smooth palms and her Free Spa Day-manicured nails. And she's grinding her whole body against mine. I mean, really going at it. She's thrusting herself at me so hard, I can feel everything. The blue fabric of her jeans; the ones she said she liked best because they make her ass look like an upside down heart. The little bump from her belly ring; the one that got infected last summer because she used to rub red paint on it and let it dry. I can feel the cotton in her Rolling Stones t-shirt; the one I bought her for her birthday last year, the day she told me that I owed her nothing and vice versa, understand?
I'm staring at her as she's pressed against me, black eyelashes batting in slow motion, and all I can think about is the shirt.
I really like that shirt. It's the only thing I've given her that she hasn't thrown away yet.
"You know I don't listen to this kind of music."
Her brown eyes had squinted against the sun when she turned her head and looked up at me, looked up at the slowly creeping smile I didn't feel like hiding this time.
And she's wearing it tonight, even though I didn't ask her to. I was afraid that would make her think she had forgotten to throw this one out as well.
"What're you thinking about?" she whispers, moving her lips along my neck. I want to tell her that I'm thinking about the shirt. That I'm thinking about her and the shirt. That I'm thinking about us and the shirt. But she kisses me right below my ear and all the blood that would've been used to move my mouth rushes right out of my head and straight into my dick. And I feel her smile. And I know what she wants me to do to her right now. But she still doesn't know what I'm really thinking.
She's kissing me, slowly moving her tongue in this lazy circle. Teasing me, testing me, trying to make me forget what's on my mind. She's always doing that. With her yellow polka dot bikinis and her legs that are always shaved and the small lines that appear around her eyes when she's laughing really hard.
"I love you," I tell her. The words move hurriedly from my mouth to her ear but I know she's already rolling her eyes. And kissing her teeth. And clenching her jaw.
She backs away from me, taking the fire with her. And it's cold as she's standing in front of me, arms crossed and a slight scowl on her face. It's so cold. But I don't pull at her waist or tug at her shirt or make those whimpering sounds she likes so much. Maybe we can do things my way tonight.
She stares at me.
"You're thinking about the stupid shirt, aren't you?"
I like the way her jeans sit on her waist, one side a little bit lower than the other. That's my fault. I'm always doing that and she tells me that it's annoying because whenever someone walks in she ends up looking like a whore. But she never stops me. I can see the thin, swirly black lace that traces her skin, leading into her pants, and I want to pull both sides down until they're at her ankles, just so I can see the rest of the design.
"Fine," she says, uncrossing her arms. "I'll just take it off then."
She reaches for the material and tries to pull it over her head but I'm holding her hand down and I'm making the whimpering sounds she likes so much and I'm telling her not to do it but she pushes my arms away and takes a step back. And she raises it over her head and dangles it from her fingers, then I'm crying. I'm crying so hard that I sink to my knees and my head is in my hands. I'm crying so hard that my chest keeps heaving and my breath keeps wheezing and my tears are so salty. And she's always so silent.
I'm sniffling as I pick myself up and wipe my dripping nose with my sleeve. She says she can't help but smile when watches me do that because I remind her of a little kid. She tells me how much she hates little kids. She's watching me and I'm looking at her, shirt still dangling from her fingers.
"I love you," I tell her.
And she's kissing me then, lips rough against my own, shirt sliding to the floor between us. Her fingers are wiping the remaining tears from my face and my arms are lifting her up, legs wrapping around my waist. I walk us to the bed and lay her down carefully. She would usually tell me to do it again, to throw her on the bed like a bag of garbage, but tonight she lets me have my way a little bit. Tonight, she lets me run my fingers down her spine and unclasp her bra myself. She lets me ease it off her shoulders and hear her breathe raggedly when my mouth meets her left nipple, leaving a moist trail as it travels to the right. I'm tracing this small circle down the middle of her tits and she's pulling off my shirt and raising her hips against mine. I'm down to her belly button now, kissing the silver metal and hooking my fingers in her jean belt loops.
I kiss a line across her stomach as I pull her pants down and I know she's smiling and looking at me, forearms holding her slightly upright. I look up at her, my left hand inching its way up her thigh. We stare at each other. And I blink first. She rolls her eyes, falling back unto the bed, sighing.
"I don't even listen to that kind of music."
And I'm smiling and blowing raspberries on her tummy and she's telling me to cut that shit out but she's holding in giggles as I move up to her lips. We kiss and undress, her fire burning beneath the covers.
I'm walking her home and she's in my grey button down and I want to tell her that I want to hold her hand. And I'm thinking about the shirt. About her and the shirt. About us and the shirt. About the shirt still on the floor beside the wall in my room.
She's never liked the idea of sleeping over.
A/N: I'm slightly interested in continuing this story but I'm not sure yet. Hopefully, if I do I'll actually finish it some day.