"This is different, I don't know, maybe you've changed things arou—"
Before Luther can keep half-protesting, though, she's already caught his mouth again and he's muffling a laugh against her lips. He's strong enough that he's cradling Allison with just an arm against the curve of her thighs, while his other hand hovers into the darkness to feel his way towards the bed, to hopefully not knock over or break any lamps.
But in their eagerness, he's still moving too quickly; his shins collide with the edge of the bed sooner than expected, and it trips both of them onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and the breath being knocked out of them as they land on each other. He shifts his weight onto an elbow, trying not to crush her, a hand splayed apologetically against her stomach. "Shit. I'm sorry."
Even at the best of times, Luther hasn't been especially interested in sex (and a small internal voice is too-knowing, realising, it wasn't the what but rather the who). But it turns out a single right word or touch or heated look from Allison is, apparently, enough to drive him to absolute distraction; he already feels too-aware of everything, the warmth in his cheeks, the patter of his frantic giddy heartbeat, his skin too hot on the frame of his body, too desperately conscious of how close their bodies are pressed against each other now, even with all these layers between them.
no subject
Before Luther can keep half-protesting, though, she's already caught his mouth again and he's muffling a laugh against her lips. He's strong enough that he's cradling Allison with just an arm against the curve of her thighs, while his other hand hovers into the darkness to feel his way towards the bed, to hopefully not knock over or break any lamps.
But in their eagerness, he's still moving too quickly; his shins collide with the edge of the bed sooner than expected, and it trips both of them onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and the breath being knocked out of them as they land on each other. He shifts his weight onto an elbow, trying not to crush her, a hand splayed apologetically against her stomach. "Shit. I'm sorry."
Even at the best of times, Luther hasn't been especially interested in sex (and a small internal voice is too-knowing, realising, it wasn't the what but rather the who). But it turns out a single right word or touch or heated look from Allison is, apparently, enough to drive him to absolute distraction; he already feels too-aware of everything, the warmth in his cheeks, the patter of his frantic giddy heartbeat, his skin too hot on the frame of his body, too desperately conscious of how close their bodies are pressed against each other now, even with all these layers between them.