Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
He knew she was in no state of mind to anticipate what he was doing, and he used that to his advantage. With her interrupted what against the cotton at his throat, warm and breathy, and the second one joining it, sealing heat there, raising goosebumps, he dropped her into the water, and let the swill-slosh of bubbles answer her. Sam wanted specifics, so he'd let the gold-domed room, mirrors ceiling-to-marbled-floor, everything appearing to glow under the overhead lights, with the tub throned and crowned in Georgia pink and black, the blushing brocades—he'd let it act as some kind of obscene stage, everything polished, but hard.
Cris laughed at the sheet of water she splashed at him in a chlorine blue, and he turned his shoulder to her instinctively as the warm water ran in fingers down bronzed skin. He grinned like forgetful youth, like they were kids playing in some fancy place they'd broken into.
"¡Ay, ojo!" He swatted a palm at her sopping scrubs, the pants that came for his face and the shirt that slapped at his stomach, but a sting-string of whipping droplets hit their mark, and by the time he was outta his undershirt, pants, socks, and boxers, everything was soaked through. They were discarded on the ritzy floor, amid puddling water and the sailing ships of bubbles, and he didn't care to move them some place safer and drier.
The pearling line of the scar that usually sliced angry over white skin on Sam's chest, between valley of breasts and down, he noted in a flash, was gone. It was harder to tell with her wrists, given the blotted red that raked along tendons, but there was something different about it, that he got.—Cris was muscle and some clinging film of dirt as he slid into the embrace of water, behind Sam, where she slouched. The sigh, her earlier laugh—after everything, they were good, and he kissed her behind the ear, where bubbles tickled at his nose, and he wrapped his arms around her, lugging her, soft and pliable and pale, into his lap.
The heat was good, loosening, easing tension from bones along with aches, and he let his head fall back along that marble lip, fingers tracing the invisible line of the scar over Sam's ribs.
"Most people I meet don't take my socks and jacket, mami," he told her in a voice soothed by the upward rise of steam, hoarseness dampening in humidity. Specifics, right? "Even when I'm dreamin'."