Re: In-person: Sam & Cris
[He wants her to possess him. She does. And if she bites and he hisses, still golden-hour whiskey rich, he meets her, eye for an eye. Her hands slide over his belly and he curls his fingers over the loose waistbanda those jeans, shoves them under denim to palm her ass. It ain't exactly sentimental, but—maybe it is too, huh? If you can imagine that kinda thing as sweet. 'Cause he missed her and if she possesses him, he possesses her. Or he wants to.
Five minutes. Not long. But, what does he care? Has he ever?—He wants to flip her, so she's beneath him on that sofa and he's over her, but he stops himself, letting his fingers flex and constrict in muted action, tugging her to his belly hard, crushing her hands between their bodies.] I will, [he tells her, close. He feels bad 'bout drinking. He knows she'll think he's like Neil. But, he'd poured it earlier, after she'd disappeared, and he's been taking it slow. It's not like his head is bubbles. Shadows seem darker, but that's all.] I always will, huh? [He says it too hard. Just like he kissed too hard—both with teeth, and tongue up against enamel-back.] I promise. [He kisses her again, before he peels back enough to ask, quiet:] D'you trust me?