"So bossy," Luther says, still smirking. As if she hasn't already been bossy and domineering, every minute of her entire life; when Allison says jump, Rumor or no, then his only question is how high. He'd do it anyway. He'd lay the world at her feet anyway. The nails digging into his back makes his spine arch into the touch, that light delicious scrape of contact and almost-pain, and she can feel the muscles shifting under her hand.
"I guess I've—" He breathes in sharply as her fingers dip beneath his trousers and run along the waistband, sliding along the bare skin of his lower abdomen that is so, so close and yet not close enough. He presses forward, closer, instinctively trying to shrink all the available distance between them, but with her hand still floating tantalisingly distant it just means grinding against her leg. "No choice, then."
And he obliges: one heavy hand settling on hers where she can help to drag the pyjama bottoms off together, down the straight angle of his hips and thighs. Luther's tall enough and his legs long enough that it goes less gracefully than when he'd tugged off her slacks; he has to rest his weight against an elbow for a moment, face buried in her neck, until he eventually manages to kick the pjs loose and he's finally fully naked and sprawled over her, hard and aching. No boxers. She already knows he sleeps commando.
And then Luther gives her an assessing look like he's sizing her up for dress code violations; appraising the mismatched clothing, Allison still half-naked as well. "You're breaking the rules, too. Get rid of the bra," he says, and there's a touch of that steel in his voice, the whipcrack of orders he uses in the field and, sometimes, here. There's a glint in his blue eyes, a devouring hunger and an impishness that only comes out here, with her, with this way they easily trade off the reins between each other and nudge at each other. It's a game. It's always been a game.
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"I guess I've—" He breathes in sharply as her fingers dip beneath his trousers and run along the waistband, sliding along the bare skin of his lower abdomen that is so, so close and yet not close enough. He presses forward, closer, instinctively trying to shrink all the available distance between them, but with her hand still floating tantalisingly distant it just means grinding against her leg. "No choice, then."
And he obliges: one heavy hand settling on hers where she can help to drag the pyjama bottoms off together, down the straight angle of his hips and thighs. Luther's tall enough and his legs long enough that it goes less gracefully than when he'd tugged off her slacks; he has to rest his weight against an elbow for a moment, face buried in her neck, until he eventually manages to kick the pjs loose and he's finally fully naked and sprawled over her, hard and aching. No boxers. She already knows he sleeps commando.
And then Luther gives her an assessing look like he's sizing her up for dress code violations; appraising the mismatched clothing, Allison still half-naked as well. "You're breaking the rules, too. Get rid of the bra," he says, and there's a touch of that steel in his voice, the whipcrack of orders he uses in the field and, sometimes, here. There's a glint in his blue eyes, a devouring hunger and an impishness that only comes out here, with her, with this way they easily trade off the reins between each other and nudge at each other. It's a game. It's always been a game.