She's not thinking about it. She's not thinking about it. She's not thinking about it.
She's not thinking about it when she's gathering her skirts. She's not thinking about it when she's considering just how to Tetris herself into the cab, with her skirts in hand, around Luther's far too tall for the world, or the cab, body. She's not thinking about it when she finally gets her feet, then her legs, and all of the fabric, between his legs and out of the door. She's not thinking about it when Luther is rigid stillness beneath her, and she's not going to look back.
Just forward, as she leans forward to give the cabby the name of a location and the cross-streets, even though he probably doesn't need it. Which happens right before the cab takes off and all of her fabric, silky and slick moves, sends her lurching into what probably was going to be a disastrous landslide into the people next to them, before Luther's hands were suddenly on her, pulling her back, in one place. On his lap. On. He's.
Allison swallows through the spike of surprising warmth in the top of her cheeks, as other warmth, Luther's hands, Luther's arm sliding like a bar around her waist, suddenly permeates this incredibly too thin fabric, and it's all too much like it isn't there under those fingers, gripping her hip just a little too hard. Making sure she can't suddenly go face-planting into any other people or the passenger seat in front of her on his watch.
Before everything goes suddenly haywire as Luther starts talking.
She's mortified and horrified when her first reaction is overwhelmingly instantaneous. Her eyelids half-closing against her will, in surprised shock, something else entirely, as a shiver that might be goosebumps on her bare shoulders, travels lightning-fast, clenching her stomach, and not stopping there, when the center of her body throbs in the worst way—muscles fluttering in a disastrous little heated spasm between her legs.
And her face has gone as hot as if she'd been slapped suddenly. She can't even tell if it's more shame or. Or. Or.
(She's wrong. She can't not pay attention. This was the worst idea.
She survived Dr. Terminal and the Murder Magician and her father and Hollywood, but she's going to die right here. On Luther's lap. In the tight curl of his arm against her stomach, hand curled the whole span of her hip. The careless, unaffected closeness of his mouth all but touching her bare skin. That doesn't even have a liar's millimeter scrap of silk or velvet between them. Like it's all nothing. Like she is.)
Allison has to swallow twice before she can even force her throat to give her the voice no one has been allowed to silence since the moment she walked down those stairs and away from her father for good.
"Coffee." Is stupid. But the only thing she can grab first. Hard. She has to do better. She has to. She licks her lips, even though her jaw can't unclench any further than that. She forces out words, even as she has to raise a hand and catch it on the shoulder of the seat in front of her as the cab swerves right hard, sliding through traffic. "A place not far from one of my work outlets."
Though it'll be after wherever these people are going first. Not that she can say that. She might want to get out with them.
no subject
She's not thinking about it when she's gathering her skirts. She's not thinking about it when she's considering just how to Tetris herself into the cab, with her skirts in hand, around Luther's far too tall for the world, or the cab, body. She's not thinking about it when she finally gets her feet, then her legs, and all of the fabric, between his legs and out of the door. She's not thinking about it when Luther is rigid stillness beneath her, and she's not going to look back.
Just forward, as she leans forward to give the cabby the name of a location and the cross-streets, even though he probably doesn't need it. Which happens right before the cab takes off and all of her fabric, silky and slick moves, sends her lurching into what probably was going to be a disastrous landslide into the people next to them, before Luther's hands were suddenly on her, pulling her back, in one place. On his lap. On. He's.
Allison swallows through the spike of surprising warmth in the top of her cheeks, as other warmth, Luther's hands, Luther's arm sliding like a bar around her waist, suddenly permeates this incredibly too thin fabric, and it's all too much like it isn't there under those fingers, gripping her hip just a little too hard. Making sure she can't suddenly go face-planting into any other people or the passenger seat in front of her on his watch.
Before everything goes suddenly haywire as Luther starts talking.
She's mortified and horrified when her first reaction is overwhelmingly instantaneous. Her eyelids half-closing against her will, in surprised shock, something else entirely, as a shiver that might be goosebumps on her bare shoulders, travels lightning-fast, clenching her stomach, and not stopping there, when the center of her body throbs in the worst way—muscles fluttering in a disastrous little heated spasm between her legs.
And her face has gone as hot as if she'd been slapped suddenly.
She can't even tell if it's more shame or. Or. Or.
(She's wrong. She can't not pay attention. This was the worst idea.
She survived Dr. Terminal and the Murder Magician and her father and Hollywood, but she's going to die right here. On Luther's lap. In the tight curl of his arm against her stomach, hand curled the whole span of her hip. The careless, unaffected closeness of his mouth all but touching her bare skin. That doesn't even have a liar's millimeter scrap of silk or velvet between them. Like it's all nothing. Like she is.)
Allison has to swallow twice before she can even force her throat to give her the voice no one has been allowed to silence since the moment she walked down those stairs and away from her father for good.
"Coffee." Is stupid. But the only thing she can grab first. Hard. She has to do better. She has to. She licks her lips, even though her jaw can't unclench any further than that. She forces out words, even as she has to raise a hand and catch it on the shoulder of the seat in front of her as the cab swerves right hard, sliding through traffic. "A place not far from one of my work outlets."
Though it'll be after wherever these people are going first.
Not that she can say that. She might want to get out with them.