Re: Log, Ocean's Eleven, Seven Hills: Sam A & Cris M
She'd gotten used to the feeling of infiltrating some world she wasn't part of. With Neil, and Cris had darker skin, yeah? But the age thing was the same. She knew what it was like to be here, with these rich bitches and their Betty Crocker problems. She knew their staid old men liked their cocks sucked dirty, because these women didn't do that shit. She had their numbers, every fucking asshole in this joint, because she'd lived the belief in their eyes for fucking years. Like Neil's parents, Chloe, Alexander, all that fucking noise. She'd gotten used to it along the way, just like she'd gotten used to sushi and expensive clothes and really comfortable beds. Handing over AmEx Black to bitches with knowing gazes. She didn't care how anyone was looking at them. She cared about what the people she cared about thought, and the rest of the world could kiss her fucking ass.
But, yeah, she knew they wouldn't kick her out. It was too much money in their pockets to keep her there, and to keep her there for as long as they could. She knew that, but she liked the therapist. The shrink, not so fucking much, but she liked the therapist. And for now, she felt safe. She could sleep here without worrying about Micah or the world outside, and maybe that was fucked up too. Somewhere along the line, institutions had become some fucking security blanket, and she gummed on a pacifier of anti-anxiety drugs, and part of her knew she had to kick that habit, just like she had to kick the others.
But none of that was for that moment. Fuck and no.
No, just then the only thing in the fucking word was the black and starved look he was giving her. That shit was still new enough that she craved it, yeah? Someone looking at her like fucking her was something that made it hard for them to sit still, there, across a fucking chessboard. Not like some thing that they could take or leave, and not like some fucking seductive game played by a recluse.
It was almost as a good as a needle in a vein.
The chess pieces clattered, and she knew now that he liked his fingers in her mouth. She had no fucking clue why, but she knew he liked it, and she closed his teeth on his finger and held it there. Her tongue drew circles around the salt-calloused tip as he smiled, and the blacks of her eyes went blown and wide as he came closer.
And, yeah, fuck the rules; she didn't answer his question.
She let up on the pressure of her teeth, and she sucked his finger to the base, cheeks roses, but who the fuck cared? She nodded; answer enough, yeah, and the base of his finger against her lips as her went cheeks concave with wet suction. Unintentional, she wriggled her hips impatiently, and she made a sound in the back of her throat that wasn't made for fucking chess.