Sarah giggled, sipping her dulce de leche in unprompted mirth. Sky grinned. He had won; he had taken this beautiful girl to Havana, not only winning a thousand dollars but also a great victory in his own personal book. The reputation would be fantastic. Maybe not so much for her...
What would she think, once she sobered up?
They chattered, him assuring her that Bacardi was definitely NOT alcoholic, which had she not already been under its influence, she wouldn't have believed. She stood, swinging around the table unsteadily and planting her lips on his. She was warm, but her hands unsteady, gripping at his lapel. Sarah pulled him closer, trying in her own inexperienced, tipsy way to slide into his lap.
He pushed her away, maybe a little harder than was needed. Why had he done that? She was beautiful, and drunk, and very eager to please. But, she was different than other girls... It must be the bun still severely perched on her head, a last reminder of her missionary status. He smiled, pulling it loose. Her reddish brown curls tumbled down around her face, making her all the more beautiful. She leaned in to kiss him again.
He pushed her away. Again. What the hell was he doing? The less decent part of him slapped the other part, chastizing himself about his better judgement. But when he had pushed her away, she fell on the ground, legs parted, her face reddened, smiling, getting up, wrapping her arms around him.
Well, he thought, as they embraced, if the plane takes five hours, and we really should get back before five, we could spend a little time here. They pulled away, gasping for air, going back under. Lips parted, exploring, tasting. Yes, we could kill some time here.