[ A better, more coherent Peter Quill might laugh warmly at that command while Gamora's tugging at her shirt. He might say, "You're making it kind of hard, considering you're in the middle of stripping me," or he might challenge her and ask, "Or else what?"
But as it is, he moans when uses his hair like reins, tugging his mouth away. That same strained noise escapes from the back of his throat – ostensibly agreement – and he helps her strip him of her shirt. It's clumsy and awkward and made far more difficult by that mounting need in him, that voice screaming want, want, want, that visceral need to keep touching her, to stay close, to keep their skin pressed together.
They finally tear his shirt away, and if he were more present, he'd notice the sound of more than a few seams snapping and popping in their haste. For now, he just chucks the offending article of clothing away to the deck and instantly forgets about it. His skin is flushed, hypersensitive to her touch, and he can feel heat bounding through him, leaving him dizzy, making his eyes ache in that peculiar way fevers always tend to. That headache still pounds behind his temples, stronger now than when he first noticed it, but he forgets about that, too. His hands ruck up Gamora's – his – shirt, both hands exploring her skin, tracing the curves of her body, and he mouths at her throat, tasting the salt of her sweat, drinking in the heat that had worried him only moments before. ]
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But as it is, he moans when uses his hair like reins, tugging his mouth away. That same strained noise escapes from the back of his throat – ostensibly agreement – and he helps her strip him of her shirt. It's clumsy and awkward and made far more difficult by that mounting need in him, that voice screaming want, want, want, that visceral need to keep touching her, to stay close, to keep their skin pressed together.
They finally tear his shirt away, and if he were more present, he'd notice the sound of more than a few seams snapping and popping in their haste. For now, he just chucks the offending article of clothing away to the deck and instantly forgets about it. His skin is flushed, hypersensitive to her touch, and he can feel heat bounding through him, leaving him dizzy, making his eyes ache in that peculiar way fevers always tend to. That headache still pounds behind his temples, stronger now than when he first noticed it, but he forgets about that, too. His hands ruck up Gamora's – his – shirt, both hands exploring her skin, tracing the curves of her body, and he mouths at her throat, tasting the salt of her sweat, drinking in the heat that had worried him only moments before. ]