She gets them at just the right angle for Luther to push forward, plunging himself inside her, lost in the sensation of wet heat and pressure and her knee tightening on his hip as she pulls him even closer; until he's bottoming out and kissing her again, his mouth turning sloppy and desperate. A helpless moan ripples out from him, swallowed up by the kiss. The man coming increasingly untethered, all awareness narrowing down to this, just this, the slick warmth of Allison around him and clenching harder, pulling him closer. It's his whole world. This sofa, this living room, her naked heaving body spread out underneath him, this new-found land. Right now, she's the only thing that matters.

They'd been separated for so many years, before — a literal brick wall between them, windows, curfews, rules, the long expanse of the breakfast table. Living in their own little world, lost in each other and in whatever they could have of each other. Living off scraps. Every small innocent touch doled out with delicacy and subtlety, something carved out between the lines.

Nowadays, they get to shatter all those lines and boundaries. They can finally be as close as it's possible to get, methodically taking each other apart in the privacy of their shared home: Luther filling her up, Allison's nails sinking into the meat of his shoulder as she hangs on, as he starts to settle back into a rolling rhythm, fucking her into the couch cushions with each snap of his hips. His mouth is still on hers, a hand catching her thigh to drag her against him and drive himself deeper. His fingers dig in too hard into her skin; there'll be bruises on her thigh come tomorrow, the imprint of Luther's hands all over her.