Re: AHS: Sam A & Cris M
The curl of her fingers around the knot of his tie shouldn't have surprised him, but it did, all Spanish pink with a diagonal pattern of red and yellow diamonds hooked by a coil of white, careless as anything, all beneath the cast of that gappy, guapa grin. There was no resistance. He looked at her, the sideways scrape of her palms on his the crisp overwhite of his shirt, everything close and slow, the heated oil of the music moving unhurriedly. Her arms went up, hips on his, his hands slipping to the slope of her waist, but he—determinedly—listened to what she said over the blare of music, in her narrow camp of vowels and Jersey Spanish.
If anything about her story pushed buttons of disapproval, it didn't show on his face. It rang close to so many stories he knew, heard from the lips of some poor, terrorized girl, or the sweet kid down the street.
"Little young for a gringita to marry, isn't it?" But he nodded, his steps slow and sure. By his count, that put her at 24 or 25, which fit with everything else he knew about her. (Which, granted, wasn't much.) His smile went fond with the sort of annoyance only siblings bred. "Sound like mis hermanas. Like every damn day was a celebration. Made me move all the furniture too."
Sam was close, the cloves still on her breath, and after a minute, he cleared his throat.
"I think I'm gonna need a drink after this one." Just one, as he was driving, but something strong. None of that blood-red wine.