86. Seeing Red
His favorite color used to be yellow. Golden, shiny, like a big piece of pineapple. He used to look at the sun just a little too long and wonder what it would be like if he could cut out a small slice of it and carry it around with him. He's heard a song about that. Some girl singing about a pocket full of sunshine. Shawn's pretty certain that one of his drunken ramblings might have inspired the lyrics, but he doesn't have enough evidence to sue for royalties.
Later, he liked blue. Blue, like the sky. Like the ocean. Like icy eyes that bore into him too intently, daring him to make a mistake. Blue that could melt with a sudden, unexpected flash of humor or passion. Blue that made his blood race and his breath catch in his throat.
But right now, with his body trapped between a chilly concrete block wall and a hot, lean body, he's reevaluating his favorite colors. Because, yes, those warm pools of intense blue are gorgeous, but he can't help but notice the crimson blush creeping up a white neck and staining pale cheeks and ears. Can't stop a small moan when a pink tongue darts out to dampen kiss swollen, ruddy lips. Can't stop himself from wrapping a burgundy tie tighter around his fist and yanking it's owner back down toward him.
Yeah, Shawn decides as he arches into that delicious heat and leans up on his toes to recapture that mouth, red is definitely his new favorite color.
Kristin: I like the idea of police picnics. Don't know why, really. Probably something to do with the alliteration. Ahem…yeah.
10/100