Re: Log, Ocean's Eleven, Seven Hills: Sam A & Cris M
Sam ran, kicked up heels, kiss-mussed lips, hair braided black and cheeks blooming rose-pink, and she laughed, happy and linda, the weight of her still felt on Cris' feet, her heat still clinging to him, the taste of her bloody against the roof of his mouth. He ignored the tantrum happening over by the couches and ran a hand over his mouth again, brusque palm, biting down on his urge to run after the girl and forcing himself to take slow steps after her. The casual display was unconvincing and he knew it, after the whole table thing, but he played it out anyway, sneakers treading over what felt like miles of tiles, everything a cresting green-blue, like maybe color could calm whatever it was that dogged these women, nipping at white heels like some crazed dog.
The guest bathroom had a door Cris knew would be busted open in only a few minutes. Still, even as he came into the small room, Sam perched atop the toilet like it was an altar and she was the offering, he dutifully turned to punch in the lock. But as soon as he had, as soon as the perfunctory precautions were taken, he was over at that altar for obscene prayer.—He all but sat on her feet, knees around the back of the toilet. One swat at her butt so she'd lift and he scooped her ass up in his palms, knuckles on cold porcelain, and he brought her into his lap again, where her spine would be against the back of the toilet and her chest to his.
He took a moment to look at her, at the lit-blue of her eyes and smeared poppy lips, and he smiled, curved finger inching her chin up, all kinds of fucking fond and admiring.
"Ay, mami, tu eres muy sexy." A grated scratch of voice, words broken between them as Cris shed the skin of willpower and crushed his mouth to Sam's with fevered possessiveness. It was messy and grasping, because he hadn't been lying when he told her he missed her—it wasn't just this, but this was part of it. A moan against her mouth and he was teeth skinning her bottom lip and more taking. His hands breached the cinched waistband of her pants in the back and he took two handfuls of her ass, rolling palms as he rocked up into her, cock hard under stiff denim and brass button biting through whitewashed fabric. He wanted to fuck her—Dios, did he—, but there wasn't time. Kiss-drunk, he brought a hand 'round to slip past tabbed pants, to touch her when he wanted to taste her.