Charlie pays attention to them while he spends a moment adjusting his bits and iron, swaying herself down to the floor, running her hands over and into her anatomy wherever she can reach, and basically taking every bit of their attention with it. It's not sex; it's the prospect of it that's got them caught up, him caught up. It's that glorious moment right before you get down to the business of ins and outs, that split second between intent and action, stretched out to an endless, excruciating infinity, and they have no way to stop it. It's impossible to stop without taking that plunge, and they can't, trapped on the outside of what she's doing like flies on a pearl of bitter honey.
He wears a red bandana
He looks back up right as she returns, fingers twitching at the front of her shirt, and there's that pool again. It should be darker underwater, he thinks as she swings a leg over and straddles his, boots flat to the foor as she winds her hips to keep all other eyes on her denim-sheathed ass, but it's light in between her breasts. Just an acre of perfect, smooth skin on display for him, scalded cream instead of the milky coffee of her throat.
Plays a cool piana
Charlie smiles, and it's a wicked, wicked thing. "C'mon, Raul. Don't stop playing now."
In a honky tonk, down in Mexico
The hell with it. He pushes his face down into her and inhales.
He wears a purple sash, and a black moustache
A mingled scent of sweat and sweet air and underneath it all the sharp tang of metal; hot, heady steel baked by the sun, the ghost of a dozen teenage sunsets spent groping in the backseat of a broken-down borrowed car. He pulls it in once, twice before its joined by the reek of booze and he sputters as it suddenly floods over the bottom of his face, stinging deep in the back of his open nose. Raul looks up. She's got the bottle of tequila balanced over the back of one hand, and the pull she just took is dribbling out over her bottom lip, catching in the hollow of her throat before it slides down between her breasts and beyond. The thought of it pooling in her navel just about kills him, so he opens his mouth to trade scent for taste, sucking and nibbling until there's nothing else left in his head. The hell with the troopers, too.
In a honky tonk, down in Mexico
It's blue agave from the bottle and salt from her skin, the grit of dust from a morning spent in the desert the day before and the bitter flavour of the coyote tobacco she's been chewing all night to stay alert; the taste of her mouth in his.
In Mexico...
The tempo jacks up and Raul runs his hand over his face as she pulls back, an attempt to clear his head that backfires like a stick of short-fused dynamite. She definitely smells like that everywhere.
All of a sudden in walks a chick
He actually reaches after her this time as she slides away, snapping her hips in a roll, a buck towards each panting man in front of her.
In Mexico...
Her leg flashes out and her bootheel snaps down as she pushes out her chest, rapping hard against the mellowed tile.
Joe starts playin on a latin kick
The shirt comes off as she tosses her head, sweaty hair finally flying loose of the plait and there's that tied-up thing she does with her clothes again, and where, oh Jesus, where on God's gutted earth did she find a black lace bra?
In Mexico...
Her thumb darts down into her jeans, and he wonders, he hopes, he prays as it comes back up hooked on something-
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Down in Mexico 4/?
Date: 2011-12-14 06:35 am (UTC)He wears a red bandana
He looks back up right as she returns, fingers twitching at the front of her shirt, and there's that pool again. It should be darker underwater, he thinks as she swings a leg over and straddles his, boots flat to the foor as she winds her hips to keep all other eyes on her denim-sheathed ass, but it's light in between her breasts. Just an acre of perfect, smooth skin on display for him, scalded cream instead of the milky coffee of her throat.
Plays a cool piana
Charlie smiles, and it's a wicked, wicked thing. "C'mon, Raul. Don't stop playing now."
In a honky tonk, down in Mexico
The hell with it. He pushes his face down into her and inhales.
He wears a purple sash, and a black moustache
A mingled scent of sweat and sweet air and underneath it all the sharp tang of metal; hot, heady steel baked by the sun, the ghost of a dozen teenage sunsets spent groping in the backseat of a broken-down borrowed car. He pulls it in once, twice before its joined by the reek of booze and he sputters as it suddenly floods over the bottom of his face, stinging deep in the back of his open nose. Raul looks up. She's got the bottle of tequila balanced over the back of one hand, and the pull she just took is dribbling out over her bottom lip, catching in the hollow of her throat before it slides down between her breasts and beyond. The thought of it pooling in her navel just about kills him, so he opens his mouth to trade scent for taste, sucking and nibbling until there's nothing else left in his head. The hell with the troopers, too.
In a honky tonk, down in Mexico
It's blue agave from the bottle and salt from her skin, the grit of dust from a morning spent in the desert the day before and the bitter flavour of the coyote tobacco she's been chewing all night to stay alert; the taste of her mouth in his.
In Mexico...
The tempo jacks up and Raul runs his hand over his face as she pulls back, an attempt to clear his head that backfires like a stick of short-fused dynamite. She definitely smells like that everywhere.
All of a sudden in walks a chick
He actually reaches after her this time as she slides away, snapping her hips in a roll, a buck towards each panting man in front of her.
In Mexico...
Her leg flashes out and her bootheel snaps down as she pushes out her chest, rapping hard against the mellowed tile.
Joe starts playin on a latin kick
The shirt comes off as she tosses her head, sweaty hair finally flying loose of the plait and there's that tied-up thing she does with her clothes again, and where, oh Jesus, where on God's gutted earth did she find a black lace bra?
In Mexico...
Her thumb darts down into her jeans, and he wonders, he hopes, he prays as it comes back up hooked on something-
Around her waist she wore three fishnets
Yup. Matching set.