When he mouths at her neck now, teeth grazing her skin, he can taste the sweet-saltiness of her sweat. When he rocks forward, she shifts up to meet him on each thrust. When his fingers dig into her flesh, her nails sink in harder in return until they finally break through enough to scrape him raw, a few faint scratches dug into his shoulder that only heightens the pleasure with how it balances against that slight sting of pain. Compared to their slow, sedate leadup earlier, it's finally fast and rough now, greedy, seizing hold of one another in any way possible; they're in that mind-numb, nerves-shot phase where if the doorbell or phone rang right this moment, the intruder would quite literally wind up dead for interrupting. Nothing exists outside of this room, outside of the taste of Allison's sweat, the pebbling of her nipples as she arches up to plaster her body against his, the hard lines of Luther's chest and stomach and hips rippling over her as he pushes in.
And all that electric pleasure is coiling lower and lower and tighter and tighter, finally finding satisfaction after all the patient buildup of his tongue between her legs and then her hand around his cock. Luther barrels toward like a man on a mission, pistoning into her. They've christened this house pretty much everywhere over the years — in the bed, the shower, against the wall, on the kitchen counter, one time on the stairs when they'd come stumbling home covered in dust and debris and their own dried blood and had barely gotten in the door before they'd started ripping each others' uniforms off — but really, the where and the how doesn't matter. Never has.
Just this: the fact that it's her, Allison making those noises beneath him, the only one he's ever wanted to drive over the edge like this, the only one to do likewise to him, as her heel digs into him and she half-rises off the cushions and Luther's rhythm is turning erratic, that iron self-control slipping, everything collapsing in on the tight, close sensation where their bodies meet.
And then, at last, it's all just blissfully empty: one last shuddering wave of pleasure wracking through him and one last thrust, his kiss missing her mouth and landing against her jaw instead, the tendons standing out in his arms where he's propped himself up, as he finally comes and it all goes a little faint around the edges, hazy and blurry with pleasure.
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And all that electric pleasure is coiling lower and lower and tighter and tighter, finally finding satisfaction after all the patient buildup of his tongue between her legs and then her hand around his cock. Luther barrels toward like a man on a mission, pistoning into her. They've christened this house pretty much everywhere over the years — in the bed, the shower, against the wall, on the kitchen counter, one time on the stairs when they'd come stumbling home covered in dust and debris and their own dried blood and had barely gotten in the door before they'd started ripping each others' uniforms off — but really, the where and the how doesn't matter. Never has.
Just this: the fact that it's her, Allison making those noises beneath him, the only one he's ever wanted to drive over the edge like this, the only one to do likewise to him, as her heel digs into him and she half-rises off the cushions and Luther's rhythm is turning erratic, that iron self-control slipping, everything collapsing in on the tight, close sensation where their bodies meet.
And then, at last, it's all just blissfully empty: one last shuddering wave of pleasure wracking through him and one last thrust, his kiss missing her mouth and landing against her jaw instead, the tendons standing out in his arms where he's propped himself up, as he finally comes and it all goes a little faint around the edges, hazy and blurry with pleasure.