What else am I good for? I've got a V8 for the motor in my mouth and a brain that ticks too quick to bother scratching and pecking paper. Plus I was never first pick for sports. If it hadn't been for radio I'd have spun my wheels out and ended up in the looney bin.
[The percentage of that Sandra would be able to parse is hovering at eighteen percent, but the sweet smoke is loosening more than just the tight binds on his muscles. It all spills out like a fountain that shot superfluous air.
As such, he doesn't see the shove coming.]
—Oof!
[Back to the pillow-nest he goes. She edges closer, hand lingering atop his chest, the touch softer than what she'd laid on his cheek when they first met mano-a-mano. Richie's smile creeps back on, followed by a smug snicker.]
It was a one way deal, Sandy. I talked and they could listen, or they could be spoilsports and change the station. More people tuned in than out, I'll have you know. My babble is a hot commodity.
[He lays his own hand atop hers. Traces the edges of those fine fingers. They're all sinew — some people had podgy hands no matter how much they worked with them, but hers were firm under the buttery slip of her skin.]
'Course if you're sick of all my yapping, there's a few ways to shut me up in person.
[Her eyes, sealed shut as always, look romantically dreamy with the lashes dusting her cheeks. He used to be unsettled by the lack of visual connection, but the more he'd popped into the Orb for chats and wine and music blasting on his turntable outside, the differences between them wiped clear. Locking gazes hardly seemed necessary now. He could see and hear and sense what she was feeling when she spoke it, when she moved, unfettered and catlike.
Having her eyes closed only made her doubly prepared for when he lifts halfway to catch her mouth in a kiss. Rash, maybe, and were this ten or twenty years ago he'd have been too gun-shy to jump to the point. But right now delays only looked like time wasted.
So he keeps it soft. One hand to her cheek. Tasting a touch of the fyrra on her lips as he dusts his own over top. Doesn't linger, in case she needs to say no.
no subject
[The percentage of that Sandra would be able to parse is hovering at eighteen percent, but the sweet smoke is loosening more than just the tight binds on his muscles. It all spills out like a fountain that shot superfluous air.
As such, he doesn't see the shove coming.]
—Oof!
[Back to the pillow-nest he goes. She edges closer, hand lingering atop his chest, the touch softer than what she'd laid on his cheek when they first met mano-a-mano. Richie's smile creeps back on, followed by a smug snicker.]
It was a one way deal, Sandy. I talked and they could listen, or they could be spoilsports and change the station. More people tuned in than out, I'll have you know. My babble is a hot commodity.
[He lays his own hand atop hers. Traces the edges of those fine fingers. They're all sinew — some people had podgy hands no matter how much they worked with them, but hers were firm under the buttery slip of her skin.]
'Course if you're sick of all my yapping, there's a few ways to shut me up in person.
[Her eyes, sealed shut as always, look romantically dreamy with the lashes dusting her cheeks. He used to be unsettled by the lack of visual connection, but the more he'd popped into the Orb for chats and wine and music blasting on his turntable outside, the differences between them wiped clear. Locking gazes hardly seemed necessary now. He could see and hear and sense what she was feeling when she spoke it, when she moved, unfettered and catlike.
Having her eyes closed only made her doubly prepared for when he lifts halfway to catch her mouth in a kiss. Rash, maybe, and were this ten or twenty years ago he'd have been too gun-shy to jump to the point. But right now delays only looked like time wasted.
So he keeps it soft. One hand to her cheek. Tasting a touch of the fyrra on her lips as he dusts his own over top. Doesn't linger, in case she needs to say no.
He pulls off gently, waiting for the answer.]