[ luke finds himself leaning back on his hands, breathing hard, face flushed and chest red. he thinks he's been stunned, too caught up within the tornado of clarisse la rue — and a part of him doesn't give a shit if she throws him around like a rag doll and does whatever the hell she wants to him as long as she continues to keep her fingers gripped so tightly in his hair. but the sensation is lost and luke feels as cold as the ocean. she crooks her finger towards him, but it only draws a slow forming smile from him. his eyes rest appreciatively on how his shirt looks on her, as red as her rage and almost like that of his neck. ] Fine. [ he smirks and begins to bounce himself off of the bed. with his back to her, he sheds himself of his shirt, dropping what is now a victim of war to the floor. he turns so he can face her; with his head dipped slightly, he glances at her, then, through his lashes, his eyes tracing up and down her figure, from her long, powerful legs, up that torso of hers that contains so much rage. ]
[ his button may already be undone, but luke feels his mouth curve upward as he places his hands on his hips, loops his fingers into the waistband, and pulls his jeans down purposefully slow. she says they don't have all day, but doesn't she know they could have eternity if they wanted? a part of luke wants that — eternity of warmth, of being caught up in a whirlwind that bites and snaps and slaps at him, and pulls him from deep within the tartarus pit of self-pity and self-loathing he had found himself in. underneath his jeans he dons dark boxer briefs, pulled tight across his hips — and it's obvious to her naked eye what kind of a hard bargain she seems to drive. ]
[ but luke doesn't pull them down, despite hooking his fingers into the waistband teasingly. he takes the step he needs to drop his knee onto the bed, before he's crawling up it slowly, as if he's a panther and she's now his prey. ] You got somewhere to be, La Rue? [ underneath me, he thinks, even though he's certain he'll be on his back while she sits upon him as if she is a throne and he is merely nothing but wood. ]
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[ his button may already be undone, but luke feels his mouth curve upward as he places his hands on his hips, loops his fingers into the waistband, and pulls his jeans down purposefully slow. she says they don't have all day, but doesn't she know they could have eternity if they wanted? a part of luke wants that — eternity of warmth, of being caught up in a whirlwind that bites and snaps and slaps at him, and pulls him from deep within the tartarus pit of self-pity and self-loathing he had found himself in. underneath his jeans he dons dark boxer briefs, pulled tight across his hips — and it's obvious to her naked eye what kind of a hard bargain she seems to drive. ]
[ but luke doesn't pull them down, despite hooking his fingers into the waistband teasingly. he takes the step he needs to drop his knee onto the bed, before he's crawling up it slowly, as if he's a panther and she's now his prey. ] You got somewhere to be, La Rue? [ underneath me, he thinks, even though he's certain he'll be on his back while she sits upon him as if she is a throne and he is merely nothing but wood. ]