Re: Log, Ocean's Eleven, Seven Hills: Sam A & Cris M
Her palm was almost enough to kill the words right there on his tongue, the kinda death you wish for—short and sweet and eaten alive—, but he managed, just saying whatever came to him, sentiments slaughter-raw, visceral in the clench of his jaw and the tendons in his neck. He wanted more; as good as this was, it only starved him more, down to the marrow of his bones, and it brought out the animal in him, that bony creature always lurking beneath his skin, but kept caged.—Cris fucked her for that. He swallowed her moans, the shudder-shake of her breath, the wet kisses, and he fucked her in those white scrubs, two fingers joined by a third and ugly scrape of palm against her clit.
Her nails on his neck—the way she rode his hand like she wanted more too. He didn't care about finesse, only that she felt good—and he could tell she did, split the fuck open, venom high in her cheeks—and Cris—he turned his face toward hers as she whispered, fast, filthy, blue, syllables tickling his ear and she rocked.
"Sí quiero." A savage, bloody promise. His cheek bumped hers and his lips ghosted over hers. Eyes peeled open and black on hers. "I want to watch you too. Coño. Quiero irme de aquí—feeling your wetness on me, through my fucking jeans."
Cris didn't think about right and wrong at moments like this. He was never surprised by his own indecency, not really. It came so fucking easy to him, like this was his true nature, nothing conscious about it.—He chased her mouth greedily then, biting into a kiss more relentless than the fingers deep inside of her, his teeth wolfish and white on her bottom lip.
"Mami—" It was all he could muster, and the hand weighing on the back of her neck slid down her back and beneath white. He took another fucking healthful handful of her ass—and, God, she had a good one,—like he was going to rip her in half, fingers pressing into the cleft there, trying to pull her closer, the fingers of his other hand smacking wet against her pussy. His groan was frustration and want growing together at the back of his throat and the kiss devolved to messy, spit, and take. He forgot whatever it was he'd been going to say. He forgot the little hand on the watch around his wrist. He forgot the fucking flimsy lock between them and the people outside. He forgot everything but the stripped down existence of nerves on fire, wet slip, pressure on his cock, fingers digging, and tongue and lips. He forgot everything but Sam.