"You sure?" he finds himself asking, the words tripping out almost accidentally. One more check. Because they're crossing boundaries and closed doors and breaking down walls, slamming into uncharted (and til-now-forbidden) territory, into her bed, and so Luther can't help but ask. Make sure. That they're not going too quick, not biting off more than they can chew, not taking that one last step that's too suddenly and unexpectedly far for her comfort.

But then the aggrieved look he gets from Allison in return is eloquent enough alone, even completely wordless: a sort of if you stop now, Luther Hargreeves, I am going to murder you and bury your body in the garden, and so he laughs into the crook of her neck, mouthing at the angle of her jaw, following the thread of her pulse. He wonders if he could leave marks on her neck if he tried. Probably could, but shouldn't. (Even so many years on, discretion still feels like the watchword.)

"Okay, okay," Luther says, bemused, as his hand slides further under her shirt. Exploring the curve of her stomach, the dip of her belly-button, even as all her muscles tense underneath him like a bow-string going taut at the contact. "But if you ever do. Reach a point of wanting to stop for the night. You know that's okay."