Why didn't she think about this when she was hurrying him?
When all she was focused on was 'not being that person.' The asshole who makes the whole line wait so that they can get in a cab by themselves. Refusing to get in the ones before them with anyone else in them. Refusing to let anyone else get in with them even if the cab line was basically a mile long. It was all dumb.
But so was thinking her reputation or decency was of higher importance than not being settled directly on Luther, held to Luther, by Luther. Because he had no choice in the matter. The way this dress hugs her body perfectly, hiding nothing, but also gives her no distract from any slightest pressure continually pressing through it. Every nerve in her body had to be screaming at this point; every muscle poised between fight, flight, and freeze in the perfect agreement of all three.
In the way Allison Hargreeves neverever reacted to a threat. But nothing else in the whole god damn fucking universe was Luther Hargreeves.
With his hands on her. Were this cab and this dress constantly sliding her in little jots forward and back on his lap. Was the way his breath kept tickling the hairs on the back of her neck or her shoulder anytime he breathed out. Was the bump of her hair or her head into his face at the sudden fast stops. Was the faintest awareness of one of the people to their side whispering something that sounded like mumbled mumble Hargreeves mumble and not having the vaguest clue which one of them that might have been.
Or if her brain was just melting and reaching for anything. She was such an idiot—more than anyone else on the planet tonight.
Allison clenches her teeth, trying to find anything to distract herself that isn't letting her gaze slide sharp to the people next to her, either. She doesn't want to give any of the three of them a sign of how hard she feels rattled. Like parts of her might vibrate off, or burn away under Luther's touch.
(How long had she wanted Luther to just reach out and touch her? How many days, weeks, months, years? Shoulders, and thighs, and arms, next to each other, but also never any closer, and not in anything like this. And not. She'd never wanted anything about Luther to be against his will.
It was why it was never him. Never. Never. Never. Not except in training when she was told she had to.
Not even that day when he said no and made her leave alone.)
Allison tried to make her ears stop ringing, stop feeling hot, pushed a question out that she hoped didn't come out high pitch, and too fast, the first even vaguely logical, non-related, sounding question her brain could put together: "What did you do before coming to the museum?"
no subject
When all she was focused on was 'not being that person.' The asshole who makes the whole line wait so that they can get in a cab by themselves. Refusing to get in the ones before them with anyone else in them. Refusing to let anyone else get in with them even if the cab line was basically a mile long. It was all dumb.
But so was thinking her reputation or decency was of higher importance than not being settled directly on Luther, held to Luther, by Luther. Because he had no choice in the matter. The way this dress hugs her body perfectly, hiding nothing, but also gives her no distract from any slightest pressure continually pressing through it. Every nerve in her body had to be screaming at this point; every muscle poised between fight, flight, and freeze in the perfect agreement of all three.
In the way Allison Hargreeves never ever reacted to a threat.
But nothing else in the whole god damn fucking universe was Luther Hargreeves.
With his hands on her. Were this cab and this dress constantly sliding her in little jots forward and back on his lap. Was the way his breath kept tickling the hairs on the back of her neck or her shoulder anytime he breathed out. Was the bump of her hair or her head into his face at the sudden fast stops. Was the faintest awareness of one of the people to their side whispering something that sounded like mumbled mumble Hargreeves mumble and not having the vaguest clue which one of them that might have been.
Or if her brain was just melting and reaching for anything.
She was such an idiot—more than anyone else on the planet tonight.
Allison clenches her teeth, trying to find anything to distract herself that isn't letting her gaze slide sharp to the people next to her, either. She doesn't want to give any of the three of them a sign of how hard she feels rattled. Like parts of her might vibrate off, or burn away under Luther's touch.
(How long had she wanted Luther to just reach out and touch her? How many days, weeks, months, years? Shoulders, and thighs, and arms, next to each other, but also never any closer, and not in anything like this. And not. She'd never wanted anything about Luther to be against his will.
It was why it was never him. Never. Never. Never.
Not except in training when she was told she had to.
Not even that day when he said no and made her leave alone.)
Allison tried to make her ears stop ringing, stop feeling hot, pushed a question out that she hoped didn't come out high pitch, and too fast, the first even vaguely logical, non-related, sounding question her brain could put together: "What did you do before coming to the museum?"