Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
It was terrifying, yeah. He'd agree to that. He wasn't so good at coping without her around either. But, maybe she didn't know that, 'cause she hadn't seen him that month she was gone. Or 'cause he was usually with her. But, he really wasn't so good. It wasn't the same as it was for her, prolly, 'cause he wasn't the one pregnant and jonesing, but he did need her. He meant that when he said it however many fucking times he'd said it. He didn't know if she believed him—that he wasn't exaggerating, but, it didn't matter, 'cause it was true.
Sam's voice was loud, not the whisper from before, that tremulous, tenuous thing that sounded like it'd break any second. Nah, she had volume now, some force. True to form, Cris didn't listen to that order.
"I'M the one doin' it. I get to decide if it's fair or if it's shit. You want me to tell you that takin' carea me is shit?" He got a lil louder too, but it wasn't explosive or nothing. Just heels digging in and breath hot, mashed up between them. Hotter still, the closer they got, the gringa with her legs 'round his waist and back, the resta her all crowded between his thighs. Cris moved hands from her belly, up, dragging palms over that once-white dress shirt, trailsa color following—his hands moved over her tits, up her throat, 'til fingers curled on her cheeks and in her hair, palms sticking to her jaw, and he looked at her when she muttered. "You dunno, Sam. Me. That I wouldn't do it, huh? I was this close today. I ran into your dealer, huh? I had his gun to his stomach and I wanted to do it." He didn't wanna admit that, 'cause he knew how terrifying it was, how messed up, and he knew all the shit it said about him, stuff he couldn't take back.
She tugged him more and he went willing, 'til they were near nose-to-nose, his hands solid where they sat. She said she wanted a hit and he looked at her. He knew she did. He kissed her soft, nudging her with his nose when he pulled back, paint from her face on his.
"I know, baby. Thank you for tellin' me." He meant that. He knew it was fucking hard. His lashes practically brushed her cheeks. "What would help?"