Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
The whole love thing was kind of seriously fucking terrifying. Maybe if she'd had normal relationships before Neil, yeah? But she hadn't, and being locked away like some fucking safeguarded virgin in a New Jersey tower hadn't done shit for her as a teenager, and she'd never loved Al. And so it was all Neil, and three years of waiting, only for that shit to be over as soon as he said the words. So, yeah, no. Sam didn't want love, and she didn't want the words, and maybe that was all messed up in her head. But Neil wasn't far in the rearview, and that shit was all fresh.
Plus, she really believed that shit she spouted about love being based on knowing someone well. She believed that. She didn't have parameters for what counted as well, though, yeah? And her problem was she didn't think he knew her. She still believed he had some anesthetized view of her, something better than she fucking was, and that he didn't get just how messed up she was. She liked that; she hated that. She wanted to hold onto it, and she wanted to disabuse him of everything, so he could save himself before he ended up splattered at the lip of a train track again.
She kissed him with all the fucking fear she'd swallowed while he was gone, cotton-slow and yet still desperate. But he shifted, and she sighed and put her head against his heartbeat, black tresses spread out like some tangled blanket against the white and skin and hair of his chest. Her legs slid between his, knees against the bed and she shifted until her knee pressed against his inner thigh. Like he was just part of the bedding, and there was trust in that shit for the sedated girl who remembered vague nightmares involving white jackets with straps.
Her hand was a balled fist against that white, the king safely in her grip, and she had to tip her head to look back up at him, settled now, heavy limbs and fucking comfortable.
That blush was still there, and she rubbed her cheek against his shirt, as if that would get rid of it or something. She didn't give a fuck about the old lady at the door. Neil's agreement that he would get her a place meant that old lady was temporary, yeah? Gone soon, and she knew she should tell him to go home too, to check on his job and his kid. She knew that shit, but he felt safe, and she didn't think about boxes and hearts while he was warm beneath her. Selfish, and so she didn't say shit about him going. His fingers were on her cheeks, and there was something about his voice that she really fucking liked. Like his smile, yeah? And she didn't have language for it, but she thought she could paint it if someone gave her canvas and a palette.
He said he'd never known anyone like her either, and she scoffed, yeah? Fucking scoff, and some of the sedation must be starting to wear off because she didn't answer him from her unwittingly proprietary sprawl. She pushed herself up between his thighs, and she looked down at him on the obscene gold. "Bullshit. I was a mess at that party. Or do you mean after?" she asked, curious, and it wasn't anything about Micah or Joey, and that was nice, yeah?