His own words are clipped, strangled, forced out between his lips as he tries not to notice or think too much about the long line of his thigh between her legs. Luther's having to draw on iron control and discipline and that tightness in his jaw, trying desperately not to focus on the weight of her, or the way the swerve of traffic throws her even harder against him and he has to swallow against that tantalising pressure. As she squirms to readjust her position, and the movement presses her into him, and everything in him narrows down to the heat of that contact. Oh god. This is the worst.
(Don't. He can't. Not now. Not now when she's planted right on top of him.)
More critical questions which need answers and which he finds himself considering in a blind distracted panic: why doesn't she have a coat or a shawl or something. He can't stop looking at the curve of her shoulder so close to his mouth, right beneath his chin. He can smell Allison's shampoo, the cool crispness of spearmint and aloe vera with a subtle touch of honey, suddenly overwhelming when his face is almost pressed into her hair, jaw tucked against her neck.
He has never thought about Allison Hargreeves' shampoo before. It has never been relevant before. Now it's suddenly all he can think about.
He's also never had anyone in his lap before, let alone her, so this is a unique kind of hell and getting worse. It's like the worst kind of endurance test he never had to go through at the Academy, exercising a particular kind of willpower. There's not enough room for either of them to wear a seatbelt, so he has to keep hanging on. His fingers feel like they're burning where they're fanned against her stomach.
She said it wasn't a long trip, which is the only lifeline he has to cling to, even as he's trying to stare out the window and count the minutes and pretend he's watching the lights and streets of Los Angeles passing by, while he notices not a thing.
no subject
His own words are clipped, strangled, forced out between his lips as he tries not to notice or think too much about the long line of his thigh between her legs. Luther's having to draw on iron control and discipline and that tightness in his jaw, trying desperately not to focus on the weight of her, or the way the swerve of traffic throws her even harder against him and he has to swallow against that tantalising pressure. As she squirms to readjust her position, and the movement presses her into him, and everything in him narrows down to the heat of that contact. Oh god. This is the worst.
(Don't. He can't. Not now. Not now when she's planted right on top of him.)
More critical questions which need answers and which he finds himself considering in a blind distracted panic: why doesn't she have a coat or a shawl or something. He can't stop looking at the curve of her shoulder so close to his mouth, right beneath his chin. He can smell Allison's shampoo, the cool crispness of spearmint and aloe vera with a subtle touch of honey, suddenly overwhelming when his face is almost pressed into her hair, jaw tucked against her neck.
He has never thought about Allison Hargreeves' shampoo before. It has never been relevant before. Now it's suddenly all he can think about.
He's also never had anyone in his lap before, let alone her, so this is a unique kind of hell and getting worse. It's like the worst kind of endurance test he never had to go through at the Academy, exercising a particular kind of willpower. There's not enough room for either of them to wear a seatbelt, so he has to keep hanging on. His fingers feel like they're burning where they're fanned against her stomach.
She said it wasn't a long trip, which is the only lifeline he has to cling to, even as he's trying to stare out the window and count the minutes and pretend he's watching the lights and streets of Los Angeles passing by, while he notices not a thing.