Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
Cris didn't hate as easy as everyone seemed to think he did. He had strong reactions, he followed his gut, but it was rare he hated a person and he didn't think morality had anything to do with that. His eyebrows knitted together at the fullstop—the pause, like whatever she was gonna say, she didn't want him to hear, now that she thought about it—, and there was no ease in his expression until she leaned back and kissed him. He knew some of the story that she patched together, and even though he didn't blame kids like Joey—or, hell, all the kids he'd grown up with and himself—for the pipeline that fed them into bad behavior, gangs and community gone rotten and cored, he did think people were responsible for what they did, scared or not.—Not that he said that now, not about Joey. He focused instead on what she said about herself. It didn't surprise him she couldn't do it. By his count—by the count of the Ten Commandments, for Christ's sake,— that made her better than him, in spite of the necessity of that bullet bursting medulla oblongata. It was something no one should be able to do, he thought. It was playing God in the worst way.
But there were some things worse than playing God. Raping someone, por ejemplo.
He knew what her apology meant, Jersey tight and gutted through the gap in her teeth, and Cris pushed stringy black from Sam's cheeks without a word. He returned the kiss before he strung the others along, like stars from garland, a needy pressure on steamed pink that wanted to give and take in equal measure—a fine line to find. It was a kiss that took that apology, el perdón de los pecados. Uncharacteristic, but so blood-soaked, it came on its own. It was too earnest for the reactive hardness of his cock beneath her weight, but it was what it was.
He smiled when she laughed, but it gave way quick to the clench of jaw. Her fingers found the tension there, wet-tipped and warm from the bath. Cris forced a deep breath, only a little surprised by Sam's abrupt attention in the face of his many complaints. The water moved around them both, displacing and replacing itself, and if he looked down at the peek of nipples, it was brief, a fissure of dark between brows and a frown growing in the face of that youthful, gringita confusion.
His lip curled in some distaste and his voice was flatlined wry from a grimace.
"She called me 'bugs,' mami." He ran his tongue over his teeth and scratched black hair with dripping fingers, and waited for Sam to say something, skin twitching with agitation made physical.