Her lips press gently against his, and she's touching too much of him not to feel that he doesn't move. He doesn't. But. He doesn't jerk away either. Or press her back, as though all her strength to fight, it wouldn't even shift the air beside his smallest push. He's done it before. They both know he's capable of it. But Luther doesn't.
He's simply still and quiet. The race of his heart beneath her fingers not slowed in the slightest. She doesn't know what is going on in his head exactly, but she softens the surprise kiss, slows it, without stopping. Gentle, almost coaxing, a soundless request to come to her, come back to her, follow her; hand sliding up the back of his neck slowly, thumb running gently from in his hair down the back of his neck.
Allison doesn't need a race. She doesn't even need this to go anywhere. She just needs himwith her. Whatever that looks like. Even if they need to stop kissing (even as insane and wholly impossible as that feels with her lips still against his). She considers pulling back, but then Luther's fingers raise, brushing the curve of her shoulder so soft that it feels almost uncertain. Shy. Barely braved.
But it's enough, and more than enough, when his hand is warm and heavy through the thin cloth covering her shoulder, choosing to touch her, and more than enough, when Luther's mouth finally moves, and he's kissing her back, again, letting her heart breathe out again. Let go of that momentary consideration (for a moment, but she knows, maybe not entirely).
She can take this incredibly slow, the way nothing else in her life has ever felt like it could be. But Luther has always been the eternal outlier. The place she was always supposed to have started. Tried everything. Learned everything. Where she'd felt safest. Happiest. It feels like that all over, again, in its own way. New and never touched, even though she knows she's nowhere near that. So very far from it, the fact curls cold guilt in her stomach.
But maybe she can tip that to her advantage. Be the ground all of this rests on.
Luther can.
The race of his pulse under her thumb, a constant pounding that feels like it's running electricity up her wrist and into her arm, continually reminding her it's not just her. Especially as Luther slowly presses his mouth deeper, longer, slowly more and more open against hers; that slowly less and less cautious pass of his tongue, into her mouth, against her own. She can keep pace with him, pulling him slowly closer, slowly further out.
no subject
He's simply still and quiet. The race of his heart beneath her fingers not slowed in the slightest. She doesn't know what is going on in his head exactly, but she softens the surprise kiss, slows it, without stopping. Gentle, almost coaxing, a soundless request to come to her, come back to her, follow her; hand sliding up the back of his neck slowly, thumb running gently from in his hair down the back of his neck.
Allison doesn't need a race. She doesn't even need this to go anywhere. She just needs him with her. Whatever that looks like. Even if they need to stop kissing (even as insane and wholly impossible as that feels with her lips still against his). She considers pulling back, but then Luther's fingers raise, brushing the curve of her shoulder so soft that it feels almost uncertain. Shy. Barely braved.
But it's enough, and more than enough, when his hand is warm and heavy through the thin cloth covering her shoulder, choosing to touch her, and more than enough, when Luther's mouth finally moves, and he's kissing her back, again, letting her heart breathe out again. Let go of that momentary consideration (for a moment, but she knows, maybe not entirely).
She can take this incredibly slow, the way nothing else in her life has ever felt like it could be. But Luther has always been the eternal outlier. The place she was always supposed to have started. Tried everything. Learned everything. Where she'd felt safest. Happiest. It feels like that all over, again, in its own way. New and never touched, even though she knows she's nowhere near that. So very far from it, the fact curls cold guilt in her stomach.
But maybe she can tip that to her advantage.
Be the ground all of this rests on.
Luther can.
The race of his pulse under her thumb, a constant pounding that feels like it's running electricity up her wrist and into her arm, continually reminding her it's not just her. Especially as Luther slowly presses his mouth deeper, longer, slowly more and more open against hers; that slowly less and less cautious pass of his tongue, into her mouth, against her own. She can keep pace with him, pulling him slowly closer, slowly further out.