Everything is the mad dizzying rush. The constancy of Luther slamming himself into her, harder and faster and deeper, and even when there is the low graded complain of her bones at the impact and the knowledge the concussive force of him, especially as he stops trying to hold himself back from the ledge, stops doing anything but aiming for the end, will hurt later, she doesn't care. There's a blistering bright edge that it feeds into every time, lighting up her nerves, dipping her straight into the electric current of it, pain and pleasure, fingers locked, turning her veins into promising flames.
A paltry detail signed away over a decade ago for Luther; having, wanting, getting every single bit of Luther. It's all a testimony to exactly what she wants.
None of it matters, nothing matters at all, outside of these few feet of space, and gasping breaths and grabbing hands. The way their bodies know what they need most more their minds as Luther's precision slips more and more. His thrust turning manic, driven, single-minded beyond any other focus. Desperation masquerading as grim determination, everything whittling down to the place where their bodies meet over, and over, and over again.
They've been doing this for so long; it's easy to judge, easy to gauge, years into it, when Luther starts slipping more, more, more, fingers digging into her hips, teeth threatening against her neck, body turn more furious unstoppable machine, and it will be soon. When to push her hand between them, and start winding hard, tight circles with her middle finger against her clit, raw-sensitive, and strung up like she's touching a firecracker, between the two of them, that makes her body push only more into him, and sends her skittering even harder right into that perfect, cresting heat.
It's not at the same second, but it's not all that long right after, forcing her eyes opening, loving watching the moment Luther suddenly goes almost pitch silent still, practically vibrating with that force finally bigger and stronger than even his mind can martial, before he's shuddering with it, the next second, eyes half rolling back, lost utterly in the sensation rolling over him, as his cock spasms, emptying inside of her. He's momentarily lost to it, his face slack and open, and it's perfect.
Allison's mind is glazed, aftershocks in waves still trembling through her muscles, warm and white, when she tugs him down from the arms still propping up any part of him. Inches of space become outcast entirely. Dragging the mountain of him closer, down on to her, all warm, damp skin and heavy inert bones, collapsing like a house blown apart, wreckage only measurable in tonnage. It's impressive to no one in the room, Allison can still want anything more, even when she couldn't make her brain pull together a cohesive thought no less sentence.
It's visceral and physical, and almost childish in a way. But it's only him, always him, everything him, every way, every time. He is the only gravity in the universe left holding her to the couch, to time, to her bones, and any part of her still being substantial at all. Sighing contented against his skin, when he does give in, somewhere in the mix of still not even having her breathing back near normal.
no subject
A paltry detail signed away over a decade ago for Luther;
having, wanting, getting every single bit of Luther.
It's all a testimony to exactly what she wants.
None of it matters, nothing matters at all, outside of these few feet of space, and gasping breaths and grabbing hands. The way their bodies know what they need most more their minds as Luther's precision slips more and more. His thrust turning manic, driven, single-minded beyond any other focus. Desperation masquerading as grim determination, everything whittling down to the place where their bodies meet over, and over, and over again.
They've been doing this for so long; it's easy to judge, easy to gauge, years into it, when Luther starts slipping more, more, more, fingers digging into her hips, teeth threatening against her neck, body turn more furious unstoppable machine, and it will be soon. When to push her hand between them, and start winding hard, tight circles with her middle finger against her clit, raw-sensitive, and strung up like she's touching a firecracker, between the two of them, that makes her body push only more into him, and sends her skittering even harder right into that perfect, cresting heat.
It's not at the same second, but it's not all that long right after, forcing her eyes opening, loving watching the moment Luther suddenly goes almost pitch silent still, practically vibrating with that force finally bigger and stronger than even his mind can martial, before he's shuddering with it, the next second, eyes half rolling back, lost utterly in the sensation rolling over him, as his cock spasms, emptying inside of her. He's momentarily lost to it, his face slack and open, and it's perfect.
Allison's mind is glazed, aftershocks in waves still trembling through her muscles, warm and white, when she tugs him down from the arms still propping up any part of him. Inches of space become outcast entirely. Dragging the mountain of him closer, down on to her, all warm, damp skin and heavy inert bones, collapsing like a house blown apart, wreckage only measurable in tonnage. It's impressive to no one in the room, Allison can still want anything more, even when she couldn't make her brain pull together a cohesive thought no less sentence.
It's visceral and physical, and almost childish in a way. But it's only him, always him, everything him, every way, every time. He is the only gravity in the universe left holding her to the couch, to time, to her bones, and any part of her still being substantial at all. Sighing contented against his skin, when he does give in, somewhere in the mix of still not even having her breathing back near normal.