Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
The paint was worked warmer against all that canvas, all those hours, all that fear and anger and hurt, but it was cool where Sam slicked it to Cris' chest, amid bristling black. The smella it close filled his nose, like her cunt when he tongue-fucked her, and he associated it with her the same way—it was Sam, turpentine and mineral spirits and cloves cloying, heady, even wet deep in the nostrils, and if it wasn't for that paper-boned sadness, for all the depletiona panic that sapped botha them, he'd have her on that canvas, huh? On her back, prism splashed on white, white skin, and wicking the endsa her hair together into miniature brushes.—But, not now, not now. Now, she worked fingertips against his skin and he breathed, trying to take deeper breaths. He widened his thighs around her, trying to give her more room, while keeping her close.
She told him to listen as she moved onto her knees and he looked at her, a mess in his dress shirt, blood-mottled face, and her eyes unfocused. He sat with his hands low on her back, elbows against the insidesa his legs, and he blinked black on black, slow. There was stubbornness in the linea his lips, where they pressed together, but he nodded, huh? He nodded and he waited.