Fine, Allison huffs as if she's been properly chided, a play at insolence and grudging obedience, dragging her heels as she complies, and he almost laughs at the act. Because it's a a familiar and familiarly maddening move: dragging her heels only because even these few added languorous seconds is its own kind of torture, testing Luther's vaunted patience, chipping away at it, seeing exactly how far she can push him. How long before his whole body's like a vibrating bowstring, desperate for more touch, for her hands on him, his cock straining.

Once she's finally naked and teasingly pulled him back to her, Luther's own mouth curves in a smile as he says, "Much," — and as if to to prove his point, he sinks lower and catches a nipple lightly between his teeth before starting to suckle. Making up for lost time, and making up for the part of her that had been clothed until now.

It's not the single-minded, almost-competitive performance of earlier; he's slower now, as if reacquainting and mapping her body all over again, nevermind that he memorised it long ago. Her soft curves and lean muscle, the angle where he has to prop a knee between hers, the small sound she makes when his tongue swirls around her nipple. How far he has to reach downwards to slide his fingers between her legs; confirming that she's still wet and slick from his earlier efforts, her earlier orgasm.

"Allison," he says, and though he doesn't say anything else, there's still a question packed into that one word, her name, a rising lilt and a tightness in his voice, an unspoken please—