Barely-there references that really don't matter and are quite missable, but are handy if confusion arises are GGRKS, Tears of the Sword, Just Be Friends and Gakupo's version of World is Mine.
She tumbled onto the sheets, catching him as he fell atop and igniting the spark against his tongue (again) as he found a suitable position. She slid her right leg between his and hooked the left over his waist, her fingers trembling only slightly as she grasped the back of his white garment. In turn, he held himself up on his elbows and cradled her face between his long fingers, indulging in her as he desired.
Even reciprocating as she was, Luka wanted nothing more than to bite his tongue.
This was all wrong. It was never the kind of love she wanted. She, who was so shy on the inside, protecting herself outwardly with coldness, and even violence, only wished for a humble, true love. Nothing like this. A partner who was only out to make her a notch in his bedpost-- a good story to tell, a tale for bragging, a trophy on his metaphorical nightstand-- was never a part of her plans.
But he was charming, and his words had always struck a chord in her far more than she cared to admit. Even now, though she knew it was a lie, as his hair (loose by her own doing) curtained her face in soft violet strands, his heat just there above her, his disarming smile hidden in that curtain for only her to see... it was unsettling how her heart could palpitate so rapidly.
Because she knew this was it she allowed him into her bed. She didn't want the fluttering heart or the pink cheeks or the flustered lies. Not if he was the cause. Touching his soft cheek now and coaxing him back to her lips (when had he stopped touching and contented himself with watching? Did it matter? So embarrassing...), she reminded herself that because she had given in, the thrill of the chase was gone, and he would tire of her. He liked exciting things. He seemed to enjoy picking himself up after the blow of rejection and going right back at it with the same fervency, as though nothing had halted his efforts before. He called it 'coy' but she knew that it was 'denial.'
If she gave him this, he would get bored of the mundane life and leave her (in a good, un-annoying kind of way, she reminded herself weakly as his hands did terrible-wonderful things to parts of her she didn't know could feels so good), and then she could continue her life uninterrupted, as if nothing had shaken her, made her love songs a little less tragic, a little more happy.
And she could enjoy him now and pretend that he didn't want this with every other breasted creature that breathed.
With any luck, he would mistake the tears dampening her cheeks for those of pleasure.