Re: In-person: Sam & Cris
[He knows he's gotta go too. And maybe he ain't all the strength she thinks, 'cause he don't make that first movea distance. He clings harder than ever, and it takes Sam's strength and determination—her will—after that toothy, possessive kiss in pearling spit—to split them apart.
Cris can still feel the rutcha nails on his belly and his shirt is rucked up too, high. Sam stands, low jeans, fast breath, and he looks at her from the havena his sofa. He hardly blinks as he gets to his feet, fingers catching the elastic waistbanda his own pants to keep them up, and he pushes into the girl once more. One more collision, more frisson and frissure, and his hand closes over hers, over the Caridad.] Te amo, Sam. [Too breathy, and maybe he's dizzy from drink. Cris squeezes his eyes shut, then forces them open.] Okay. [He says it to himself, into bramble-blonde bared from hood. And maybe he went and made it harder, cleaving to her, but at least he gets one more chance to slant mouth rough and whiskey over hers before he breaks back. If he's crying, it's only wetness on cheeks and lingering 'long lashes. His voice is the same gravel as before, upheaval.] Okay, mami, go. [Fingers on Sam's shoulders and he urges her to the stairs, turning her. He swats at her ass—and that's like familiarity and motion and another day.
The paternal parta him hitches her jeans up from the ass. He lets himself put his nose in her hair, close as they are, but that's it. He shores away again, toward the sofa, clearing his throat.] Get in bed. I'll be back. Pronto.