Re: Log, Ocean's Eleven, Seven Hills: Sam A & Cris M
The tension in the line of Cris' body, muscles taut, was evidence of what likely Sam (and anyone watching) already knew: it was sheer, well-exercised willpower keeping him in his seat. His finger flexed between the bones of her teeth, against the flesh of her bottom lip, and against the muscle of her tongue. There was no resistance as she sucked, blood floret printed on mound of knuckle, and Cris' breathing went from measured to choppy, his gaze fixed—breaking only when Sam's hips twitched and that throaty sound wedged under his finger and through gappy teeth, parted lips.
Maybe he was as filthy as the men on the sofas with their wives, but he didn't button it down; he didn't pretend to be much of anything else.
Slowly, he dragged his finger out, drawing it over serrated teeth, spit stringing along in threads. He touched the half-moon of the girl's chin with all the weight of a shadow, and then, he kissed her, there, bent over the chessboard, villain and queen, cassock cast off and barrio bared—it wasn't chaste, it wasn't demure, but he kept himself in check. He didn't touch anything more than her chin and the blade of his tongue did little more than graze, and in spite of the grate of hunger that was there and greedy, he didn't linger.
Cris pulled back, red pearling his lips, blink slow.
"As soon as you're outta here, mami, whenever—" He looked at her like there was nothing else there and he made her a promise quietly. "Voy a hacerte gozar tanto que vas a implorar misericordia." He tapped her chin with a smile, and asked her one more time: "¿Es eso lo que quiere?"