Re: Log, Ocean's Eleven, Seven Hills: Sam A & Cris M
It was all fucking building up, frantic and fevered and close, and Sam's hands were hot on his cheeks, holding on as she rode his fingers hard, and Cris wanted to give it to her—eyes open, a glassy black, and he wanted to watch.—The knock didn't register right away. It was the quiet metallic betrayal of the lock that made him finally turn toward the door, behind his back as it was. When the door opened with force, predictable and anticipated as it was, it was like being dragged, bodily, away from that cliff they both wanted to go over, and Cris gave a groan of irritation, the denial very physical, and, as Catholic as his blush was, his shame was the simple and immediate annoyance of being caught.
The clipped tones of the director broke on the shore of Cris' shoulders and he looked back at Sam, fingers still knuckle-deep inside her. He pulled out slowly, wet, sticky fingers trailing up with only a cruel jolt, a tweak to her abused clit, before withdrawing from the novice white.
"Yes, sir." His voice was coals raked orange, disrespect couched without care of caution in language the old white guy expected from someone like him. He didn't bother looking at the gathered people. He stood, hand to Sam's back to lift her with him in a buckle of biceps and set her on her feet on the tiles. He grabbed his jacket up with tacky fingers, and turned, before the orderlies could rush Sam, to tip her chin up toward him and kiss her, the both of them smeared with spit and lipstick and wet. "Soy tuya, mami."
Cris didn't bother washing his hands. He ignored the woman in pearls and her smile. Security hooked him, taking him by the shoulders and steering him out of the bathroom. It was obvious what had been going on in there, and obvious from the stiff walk of the man in jeans that they'd been sadly and cruelly interrupted. He should have used the jacket to cover himself, cock hard and obvious in denim, but he didn't. He wasn't going to see these people ever again, so let him look like the animal they thought he was. Head high, and Cris made sure to kick the king, still toppled on the floor, with the toe of his sneaker, even though it made security jerk him hard by the elbow.