[Cain's hand remains twisted in the front of a shirt long enough to take what he wants from the kiss, which is not slow or languid. That isn't how he kisses strangers. It's hard pressure, tight lips, daring edge of teeth and brief, wet slide of tongue. It's hot and combative, and if it didn't hurt to move, he'd be pushing Cy up against the wall by the door. It's pleasant. More than pleasant—an interruption to the furious, churning thoughts in his mind, removing him from the moment by the warm press of a mouth and the physical proximity of another body. No expectations. He doesn't know Cy, and Cy doesn't know him. So why does it feel like he's doing something wrong?
After a few slippery seconds of that, he backs off with a lingering, evaluative look. He rubs his tongue against the inner line of his own teeth, tasting smoke and beer and something sweet. Apple?]
Thanks. [A word punctuated when fingers steals Cy's cigarette and perch it between his own lips; he turns away.] I can get to the kitchen from here on my own, big guy.
no subject
After a few slippery seconds of that, he backs off with a lingering, evaluative look. He rubs his tongue against the inner line of his own teeth, tasting smoke and beer and something sweet. Apple?]
Thanks. [A word punctuated when fingers steals Cy's cigarette and perch it between his own lips; he turns away.] I can get to the kitchen from here on my own, big guy.