Chapter 11
The Queens Protocol
LUKE
The taco truck, El Rey, is parked under the rattle of the N train tracks in Astoria. It is a beacon of stainless steel and neon in the damp Queens night.
It smells of charcoal, roasting pork, and freedom.
I watch Preston York—heir to a medical empire, currently wearing lavender linen trousers and a cashmere sweater tied around his neck like he’s about to christen a sailboat—try to eat an Al Pastor taco while standing on a cracked sidewalk.
He tilts his head. Salsa verde drips dangerously close to his white polo. He takes a bite that is decidedly un-aristocratic.
He moans. It is a loud, obscene sound that makes the guy waiting for his burrito turn around and look.
“Oh my god,” Preston says, chewing with his eyes closed. “This is… this is spiritual.”
“It’s pork, York,” I say, leaning against the hood of the Porsche we parked (illegally) near a hydrant. “Marinated in chiles and anxiety.”
Preston opens his eyes. He looks at the half-eaten taco in his hand with reverence.
“The sandwich,” he says seriously. “The Victorian sandwich Harrison Vane was lecturing us about? That was hate.This? This is love.”
He takes another bite, catching a piece of pineapple before it falls. He wipes his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin that disintegrates on contact.
“You’ve got a little…” I reach out, thumbing a smudge of sauce from the corner of his lip.
Preston freezes. He leans into my touch, his blue eyes darkening under the streetlights. The train rattles overhead, a deafening roar that shakes the ground, but he doesn't flinch. He just stares at me.
“We’re in Queens,” he says, as if stating a scientific discovery.
“Yeah. We are.”
“And my father is probably currently having a panic attack because he can’t track my phone.”
“Probably.”
Preston grins. It’s a sharp, reckless grin. “Good.”
He finishes the taco in two bites. He crumples the foil and tosses it into the trash can with a perfect arc.
“I’m still hungry,” he announces.
“For tacos?”
He steps closer, invading my personal space. He crowds me against the Porsche, his hip bumping my thigh. The heat coming off him is stronger than the humidity in the air.
“No,” he whispers. “Not for tacos.”
My breath hitches. “My apartment is three blocks away.”
My apartment is a fourth-floor walk-up. It is not a country club. It does not smell of cut grass and old money. It smells of the fabric softener my mom buys in bulk and the coffee I brewed this morning.
I unlock the door and push it open.
“Welcome to the humble abode,” I say, tossing my keys into the bowl by the door. “Shoes off. My abuela haunts this place, and she hates street grit.”
Preston kicks off his loafers. He steps inside, looking around.
It’s small. The living room is mostly books—stacks of medical journals, paperbacks, textbooks. There’s a comfortable, sagging couch and a TV that’s probably too big for the wall.
“It’s…” Preston walks to the bookshelf, running a finger along the spine of Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine. “It’s real.”
“It’s crowded,” I correct, shutting the door. “And the radiator clanks in D minor.”
Preston turns to me. He looks wildly out of place here in his pastels, like a macaroon dropped on a subway platform, but he doesn't look uncomfortable. He looks… settled.
“I like it,” he says. “It doesn't feel like a museum.”
He walks toward me. The playfulness from the taco truck is gone, replaced by a focused intensity that makes my pulse jump.
“So,” he says, stopping a foot away. “The date. The real date. Did we survive?”
“We survived,” I confirm. “You didn't run when I threatened your dad with the St. Barts logs.”
“Run? Luke, I was taking notes.” He reaches out, his hands landing on my waist. “You defended me. No one… no one ever stands up to them for me. Max does, sometimes, but he fights them with logic. You fought them with a shiv.”
“I’m from Queens,” I say, my hands finding his shoulders. “We fight dirty.”
“I love dirty,” Preston murmurs.
He kisses me.
It starts slow, a testing of waters we’ve been skirting for weeks. His lips are soft, tasting faintly of spice and sweetness. But then his hands tighten on my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the dam breaks.
I groan, opening my mouth to him. Preston deepens the kiss instantly, his tongue sliding against mine, hot and demanding. He walks me backward until my legs hit the edge of the couch. I stumble, and he follows, pressing me down until I’m sitting, then looming over me.
“Bedroom,” I manage to gasp, breaking the kiss for air. “The couch is lumpy.”
Preston’s eyes are blown wide, dark with intent. “Lead the way.”
I grab his hand and pull him into the bedroom. It’s cleaner than the living room—bed made, thankfully—but the streetlights outside cast long, orange shadows across the duvet.
I turn to face him. He’s standing there in that ridiculous lavender outfit, looking expensive and unattainable, except he’s right here, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters.
“The sweater,” I say, stepping closer. “Lose it.”
Preston unties the cashmere sleeves from around his neck. He drops the sweater to the floor. I reach out and capture his hands when he reaches for the hem of his polo.
“Stop,” I order.
Preston freezes. He looks at me, surprised.
“Hands down,” I say. My voice drops to the tone I use in the trauma bay. Calm. Authoritative. Not a suggestion.
Preston hesitates for a fraction of a second, then lowers his hands to his sides. His breath hitches.
“Yes, sir,” he whispers, a playful glint in his eye that vanishes when I step into his space.
I reach for the collar of his shirt. I pop the buttons slowly, maintaining eye contact. I slide my hands under the fabric, skimming up his ribs. His skin is hot.
“You’re usually the one trying to manage everything,” I murmur, pushing the shirt up his chest. “Managing your family. Managing the caddy. Trying to prove you’re not just a spare part.”
“Luke…”
“Quiet,” I say. I pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside. I press my palm flat against his bare chest. His heart is hammering against my hand. “Tonight, you don't manage anything. You don't make decisions. You just take orders. Do you understand?”
Preston shudders. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the blue. He nods.
“Use your words, Dr. York.”
“Yes,” he breathes. “I understand.”
I unbuckle his belt. The sound of the leather clearing the loop is loud in the quiet room. I unzip his linen trousers and shove them down, taking his boxer briefs with them.
He steps out of them, kicking them away. He stands before me, naked and beautiful and trembling.
I drop to my knees.
Preston gasps, his hands instinctively reaching for my head.
“Don't touch me yet,” I warn, looking up at him. “Stand still.”
He grips the edge of the dresser instead, his knuckles white.
I wrap my hand around him. He’s leaking pre-cum, slick and hot. I stroke him once, firmly, and his hips snap forward.
“So responsive,” I tease, swirling my thumb over the head. “Is this what it takes to get the York composure to crack? Just a little authority?”
“Please,” he groans, his head thrown back.
I take him in my mouth. I don't go gentle. I take him deep, swirling my tongue, using the suction to drag a moan out of him. He tastes expensive and messy all at once. His hips jerk, trying to set the pace.
I tighten my grip at the base. I control the rhythm. I control the depth. I make him wait, I make him whine, and when he starts to get close, I pull back.
“Luke—fuck,” he pants, looking down at me with desperate, glazed eyes. “Why did you stop?”
“Because I don’t want you to come yet, you don’t get to release until I tell you to.”
I stand up. I strip off my own clothes quickly—polo, shorts, boxers—tossing them onto the chair. When I’m naked, I push him backward until his knees hit the mattress.
“Get on the bed,” I order. “On your back.”
Preston scrambles onto the bed. He lies back, looking up at me, his chest heaving. He looks wrecked already.
I crawl over him. I position myself between his legs. I reach into the nightstand drawer and pull out the bottle of lube.
“Safe?” I ask, unscrewing the cap.
“PrEP,” Preston breathes, his eyes locked on mine. “Since I started residency. You?”
“Same,” I confirm. “Good.”
I squeeze a generous amount of the slick liquid onto my fingers. I spread his legs wider, draping them over my shoulders.
“Relax,” I say, pressing a thumb against his entrance.
He tenses.
“Preston,” I say, using my Chief Resident voice. The one that makes interns freeze. “Look at me.”
He locks eyes with me.
“Submit,” I whisper. “Let me have this.”
He exhales, a long, shaky breath, and his body goes lax. “Yours,” he says. “I’m yours.”
I slide one finger in. He’s tight, but he yields. I add a second, scissoring them, stretching him open. He makes a broken noise in the back of his throat, his hands clutching the sheets.
I find his prostate and curl my fingers, pressing up firmly.
Preston cries out, his hips snapping up off the mattress. “Luke—right there. God.”
“You like that?” I ask, keeping the pressure steady. “You like giving up control?”
“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, please.”
I prep him until he’s loose and slick. I position myself at his entrance, the head of my cock brushing against him.
He reaches for me, desperate. “Luke, please. Now.”
I push in.
It’s a slow, steady invasion. I claim him inch by inch. He’s tight, incredibly hot, wrapping around me like he was made for this. I sink in to the hilt, feeling him stretch to accommodate all of me. Skin to skin. Nothing between us.
Preston throws his head back, a silent scream of pleasure on his lips.
I hold still. I lean down, bracing my hands on either side of his head.
“Look at me,” I command.
He opens his eyes. They’re wet.
“You’re taking this so well,” I praise him, kissing his forehead. “Good boy.”
He shudders at the praise. “Move. Please, move.”
I withdraw almost completely, then thrust back in hard.