She loves him like this. She loves everything about Luther, but she loves the million things that are just hers the best. Nothing like the impeccable suits at Gabriel's side. Or his costume, when or if it's ever needed. This side of him, never seen, never shared. Soft cotton and terrible-yet-perfect timing and sassy words pressed into her skin.
Her shirts goes god knows where once her arms and hair are free, leaving her in her light peach bra, even as he skips to below her chest, his mouth leaving a warm trail against her ribs, her stomach. Well toned muscles tightening and releasing in fast, little flutters under the skin that never stops being sensitive to his touch no matter what all she's put it through, or the scars it's collected over the years.
"He says as if it's not just a room away, hasn't been for years, " Allison chides, but her voice stretches, words injected with more air and so much less focus. Her thigh and calf tightening against his body, ankle pressing in his muscles, as it's sliding up his back while he moves downward, no question to the opposing message that anywhere else is the very last thing she wants to be.
Her hand on his shoulder -- and she already wants this cotton shirt she liked only a second ago and finds in her way this next one, to go, too; wants the vast expanse of his skin under her fingers, against hers -- has to slip up, against his neck, the side of his face. Each new touch of his mouth on her skin, causing her shoulders and hips to press a little harder into the couch while pushing up the rest of her against his mouth.
Each touch of it a tick slowly tightening in the base of her stomach, steadily kicking up the throbbing already begun her between her legs, warm and undoubtedly already getting wet with the want for Luther that she's never once felt any shame over.
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Her shirts goes god knows where once her arms and hair are free, leaving her in her light peach bra, even as he skips to below her chest, his mouth leaving a warm trail against her ribs, her stomach. Well toned muscles tightening and releasing in fast, little flutters under the skin that never stops being sensitive to his touch no matter what all she's put it through, or the scars it's collected over the years.
"He says as if it's not just a room away, hasn't been for years, " Allison chides, but her voice stretches, words injected with more air and so much less focus. Her thigh and calf tightening against his body, ankle pressing in his muscles, as it's sliding up his back while he moves downward, no question to the opposing message that anywhere else is the very last thing she wants to be.
Her hand on his shoulder -- and she already wants this cotton shirt she liked only a second ago and finds in her way this next one, to go, too; wants the vast expanse of his skin under her fingers, against hers -- has to slip up, against his neck, the side of his face. Each new touch of his mouth on her skin, causing her shoulders and hips to press a little harder into the couch while pushing up the rest of her against his mouth.
Each touch of it a tick slowly tightening in the base of her stomach, steadily kicking up the throbbing already begun her between her legs, warm and undoubtedly already getting wet with the want for Luther that she's never once felt any shame over.