She's usually the one to lose patience with their foreplay first, yanking him closer and snapping them both to the next stage. And so Luther has learned how to roll with it and give as good as he gets, how to seize their limited time once there's that particular glint and hunger in Allison's eye, a certain demanding edge to her kisses that promises and asks for, demands, more.
She is, of course, the one person in the world most able to shut him up — and this is one of the most enjoyable ways to do it, with Luther's mouth entirely preoccupied and her hand eventually winding into his short blond hair, pressing him even closer to that bundle of nerves as he works her over, slowly, steadily, patiently. Hanging onto him for solid foundation, even as he pins her beneath him where she can't squirm away from the stimulation. Where all she can do is ride it out, cresting each relentless wave of pleasure.
He takes exquisite pride in this, as he always does: in her coming undone beneath him, in knowing that he did this, his teeth and tongue lapping at her and stubble scraping against her inner thighs did this. And his name, his name in that moan in Allison's voice, has an electrifying effect on him as it always does — the sound ripples through him and makes his own breath catch, and now he's almost painfully hard himself, erection pressing into the sofa where he's neglecting it. But he remains disciplined, focused, easily able to shoulder aside that distraction when there's the beauty of Allison spread out before him, her body starting to buck with each expert flick of his tongue, and even more once he adds a finger, two. Playing her like an instrument he's been learning and mastering for years, listening for and following those small sounds wrenched out of her throat, or when her fingers tighten in his hair: a sign that yes, that, do that more.
no subject
She is, of course, the one person in the world most able to shut him up — and this is one of the most enjoyable ways to do it, with Luther's mouth entirely preoccupied and her hand eventually winding into his short blond hair, pressing him even closer to that bundle of nerves as he works her over, slowly, steadily, patiently. Hanging onto him for solid foundation, even as he pins her beneath him where she can't squirm away from the stimulation. Where all she can do is ride it out, cresting each relentless wave of pleasure.
He takes exquisite pride in this, as he always does: in her coming undone beneath him, in knowing that he did this, his teeth and tongue lapping at her and stubble scraping against her inner thighs did this. And his name, his name in that moan in Allison's voice, has an electrifying effect on him as it always does — the sound ripples through him and makes his own breath catch, and now he's almost painfully hard himself, erection pressing into the sofa where he's neglecting it. But he remains disciplined, focused, easily able to shoulder aside that distraction when there's the beauty of Allison spread out before him, her body starting to buck with each expert flick of his tongue, and even more once he adds a finger, two. Playing her like an instrument he's been learning and mastering for years, listening for and following those small sounds wrenched out of her throat, or when her fingers tighten in his hair: a sign that yes, that, do that more.