Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
It was good they were moving, prolly, for botha them. Neithera them were in any kinda state to do anything more than what they were doing, and even that was questionable, but it didn't really matter, huh? Cris wasn't trying to get off. He wanted Sam, yeah. He always did. But, he just wanted to be near her right now, kissing her, touching her, but it was without the same gasoline and butane burn he normally had when he wasn't so sapped. But, he knew they needed to get to the bed, so he started 'em on that path, ready to curl 'round her as soon as they hit the mattress.
She talked as they went up the stairs, and Cris listened, heedlessa the trail behind them in those too-mixed grays. He tried to imagine being locked in someplace—or even just having a room with somebody you were with. It was all foreign to him—that kinda thing, going in steps and piece by piece. Maybe 'cause he plunged so damn fast, like somebody'd tied an anchor 'round his ankles—which was why he'd been talking 'bout this for a year. But now, she was ready for it too, into it, and the guy just shook his head as they got up to that studio, door unlocked and locked—whatever needed doing.
But, he still didn't say nothing. Not 'til they were before purple-petal'd bed, and he was undoing the last couple buttonsa his dress shirt Sam had on.
"I want you with me, there. Not as a guest, huh? You and me. I'm not going to kick you outta your own home when my kid comes, amor." He smiled at her, shedding the soiled white offa her shoulders, if she let him, and stepping outta his own sweats, sticky as they were. His thighs bore the colors of a bled-through city, but he didn't even notice. He was crawling onto that narrow bed, hand still in Sam's, pulling her. "Maybe you can decorate the place better, huh? Put up that Klimt." A grin, tired at the edgesa swollen lips, but sincere.