Ruin Me // Michael Clifford (OUTTAKES)

Michael x Stella ("I want you")

"I want you. Only you." His words were breathless and strained, almost as if he was having trouble getting them out. I wouldn't have doubted if he was. "I have never wanted anyone or anything more, not in my entire life."

My breath caught, and I felt the heat of a flush creeping up my neck, familiar to me in other situations, but completely foreign to me now. I couldn't tear my eyes away, not when his burned into me with an intensity that could have set my skin on fire. I was almost sure it had when (BLA BLA BLA)

He took a cautious step toward me, his eyes never leaving mine as he hooked his thumbs into my belt loops.

"I want you, baby. I want these--" his fingers tugged on my belt loops, his mouth now hovering by my ear, "--down. I want this," he grazed his fingers along my spine, dragging my shirt up my back, "on the ground."

I was a spark, I was a flame, I was the kindling to the fire that he lit under me. Soon enough, I was that fire, burning everything in my path until I found my way back to him.

"Michael," I whispered, my eyes fluttering shut as his fingertips danced along every bone in my spine, his other hand bunching up my plain, cotton shirt so tight that his knuckles were turning white. His breath hitched when his hand reached my shoulder, dropping the bottom of my shirt just to pull my sleeve down my shoulder. Every mark on my skin would soon be on display for him, and, by the look in his eyes--liquid fire--he knew as much. And he loved it.

My own heart stopped beating for a split second as the corners of his lips turned up at the first sight of the freckles dotting my shoulder. I had never been in this position before. I didn't know what to do, how to move. I didn't know what to do with my body. His eyes found mine once again as his lips traced the pattern of my freckles, the way one might point up at the night sky and trace the outline of the Big Dipper. I had always been uneasy about my freckles, thinking that they had somehow escaped from Apollo himself and clawed their way up my skin to be one more "eff you" that I had to hide from the world.

"I want to know every freckle on your body," he mumbled against my shoulder, dragging his lips toward my collarbone, "on a personal level. And I intend to find every--" Kiss. "--single--" Kiss. "--one."

But with Michael, every freckle seemed to be created with him in mind. From the look in his eyes, at least, that's what he thought.

I wasn't about to correct him.

My hand found its way to his hair, bleached-blond strands falling through my fingers as I wove through his hair. His breath hitched, and I smiled despite myself. Giving it a little tug, Michael let out a strangled moan, something that I had only heard on TV, something I had never thought I would hear in real life, much less be the cause of.

"Stella," he breathed, his scattered breaths heating up my skin. The sound of him whispering my name sent shivers down my spine. I took this as an encouragement to curl my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. I felt him smile into my shoulder. Somehow I knew that this one, this smile, was one of the first genuine ones that he had given me.

When his hands trailed down my back toward my jeans, I went still. He didn't notice, and his lips continued their gentle assault against my skin, while his fingers began to tug downward on my belt loops. About to reveal parts of me that I wasn't ready to share with Michael yet.

Michael hadn't come across them yet, but in about five seconds, he would bear witness to the faint white lines, long and short, raised and smooth, that decorated my lower stomach like paint splatter. And when he worked his way down even further, the same atrocity would be etched into my thighs. Michael had been a part of so many firsts for me, but showing someone this side of myself, a side that only my eyes have ever seen, wasn't something I was eager to jump into.

"Michael," I whispered, gripping his shoulders. He took that as encouragement as he tugged once again on my belt loops, his lips skimming along my jawline toward my earlobe.

"Stella," he breathed out, as if he were using his dying breath and he wanted his last words to be my name on his tongue. "I want you, so bad."

Something clicked in my brain; I'm not quite sure how that was possible, as Michael had cast a heavy fog over my every thought during this moment. However, something did click, and I put my hands onto his chest and gave him a gentle shove backward, sending him stumbling against the bedframe.

"What? Shit. What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes searching my face. "Did I hurt you?"

I was slightly startled to hear him concerned for my well-being, especially during a time that would seemingly have been beneficial primarily for him. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen, my attention drawn to them when he ran his tongue over them. But as I shook my head, his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he ran his hand through his hair, slightly mussed from what I can only assume was from the desire of my own hand.

"What exactly is it?" I asked him, my eyes searching his for any hint of sincerity. "That you want."

"I don't understand." His eyebrows knit together, his chest rising up and down rapidly as he tried to slow his breathing. "What do I want?"

As his eyes took a certain--suspicious--glint, I could guess at his next words before he spoke them, so I cut him off.

"Michael," I focused my eyes on a pile of schoolbooks in the corner, a much less dangerous thing to focus on than trying to pick apart the emotions radiating off of Michael's face right now. "You said you wanted me. Want me. And then you started trying to take my clothes off. What exactly is it that you want?"

As realization hit, his eyes widened fractionally, and he took a step toward me, his hand reaching out. "Stella--", he started, but I wouldn't let him finish. I couldn't let him finish. Not when I didn't want to know what he was about to say.

"I don't want to be--," I took a deep breath, my throat closing up with building emotion. "I am not going to be, some toy, that you can wind up and play with whenever you feel like it. I deserve to have someone want me for something other than what's underneath my clothes."

I waited for him to say something--anything--but he just looked at the floor, studying it like he could get it to change color with sheer willpower if he wanted it to.

"I want someone to want me for what's in here," I tapped a finger against my temple, "And I want someone to, eventually, love me for what's in here." I pressed a closed fist to my heart. Hopefully it would mask the sound of it fracturing, slowly breaking by a boy that I should have never given this much power to.

He was quiet for a long time. Long enough for me to start getting worried, thinking maybe he was having second thoughts. Then, with a soft smile, he looked into my eyes as if seeing me for the first time, lingering just a second longer than would be normal.