Chapter 11 #2
He cries out. I set a rhythm—deep, punishing strokes that hit that sweet spot every single time. With every thrust, I strip away the York name, the expectations, the lavender linen. Here, he isn't the Spare. He’s just Preston. And he’s mine.
“Luke,” he moans, my name a prayer on his lips. His legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper.
I pick up the pace. The bed frame creaks. I lean down, capturing his mouth, kissing him with bruising intensity as I drive into him.
I reach between our bodies and wrap my hand around his cock. I stroke him in time with my thrusts.
“I’m gonna—” Preston gasps, his body bowing. “Luke, I can’t hold it.”
“Don't,” I growl against his neck. “Let go. Give it to me.”
I pound into him, hard and fast. He clamps down around me, milking me, and that’s it.
Preston comes with a shout, spilling hot over his stomach and my hand. The spasms of his climax trigger mine. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and empty myself into him, filling him completely, my body shaking with the force of it.
We collapse.
I slump onto him, careful not to crush him, but unable to move far. My heart is hammering against his chest.
We lie there for a long time, just breathing. The radiator clanks in the corner—D minor, right on cue.
Preston lifts a hand, tracing the sweat on my shoulder. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in three different directions. His lips are swollen. He looks thoroughly claimed.
“Wow,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I agree, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead. “Wow.”
I roll off him, pulling the sheet up to cover us. He immediately curls into my side, resting his head on my chest, his arm thrown over my stomach.
“So,” he says, his voice sleepy and satisfied, tracing a pattern on my skin. “Does this mean I pass the interview? Am I officially the boyfriend?”
I look down at him. The Spare Heir. The guy who let me dismantle him completely in a Queens walk-up.
“I don't know,” I tease, running my hand through his messy hair. “I might need to check your references. See if you can fix a divot.”
Preston laughs, the sound vibrating against my ribs.
“I can learn,” he says. “I’m a quick study. Especially when the teacher is strict.”
“Watch it, York.” I kiss the top of his head. “You’re staying the night. But be warned, I make terrible coffee. It’s Folgers, and it’s old.”
Preston stiffens. He lifts his head, looking horrified. “Folgers? Luke. No.”
He sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist, and reaches for his phone which he discarded on the rug earlier. The screen lights up his face in the dark room.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Crisis management,” he mutters. He unlocks his phone and opens an app. “Alexa, order the Breville Barista Express Espresso Machine. The stainless steel one.”
I stare at him. “Preston. It is two in the morning.”
He ignores me. “Add to cart.” He pauses, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looks at me. “Luke. What is your address? Specifically. Does the buzzer work, or do I need to leave instructions?”
I blink. “You’re serious. You’re ordering an espresso machine right now?”
“I am not drinking Folgers, Luke. I have standards. Address. Now.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “34-12 31st Avenue. Apartment 4B. The buzzer works, but you have to press it hard.”
Preston repeats the address into the phone. “Overnight delivery. 8:00 AM to 11:00 AM window.” He taps the screen with a decisive click. “Placed.”
He drops the phone back onto the rug and flops back down onto my chest, pulling the duvet up to his chin.
“You are ridiculous,” I say, wrapping my arm around him. “You know that?”
“I am caffeinated,” he corrects, nuzzling into my neck. “Or I will be tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I realize, looking at the ceiling. “I’m off. You’re off.”
Preston hums happily. “Exactly. We can sleep in. We don’t have to move until the delivery guy buzzes. And then youcan go down and get it, because I’m not wearing pants until Monday.”
I smile, tightening my hold on him. The radiator clanks again, louder this time.
“Deal,” I say.
Preston lets out a long sigh, his breathing already evening out. “Hey, Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“Best date ever.”
I kiss his temple, closing my eyes. The city noise outside seems far away.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Best date ever.”
For the first time in a long time, the silence isn't heavy. It’s full.
PRESTON
7:00 AM.
The light coming through the window is aggressive. It’s unfiltered, orange-hued, and accompanied by the sound of a garbage truck backing up with the auditory subtlety of a dying dinosaur. It is the antithesis of the blackout curtains and triple-paned soundproofing at the York Penthouse.
I love it.
I am lying on my side, staring at the back of Lucas Silva’s head. He is asleep. He sleeps like he does everything else: efficiently. Still, deep breaths, taking up exactly his fair share of the mattress.
I carefully lift the duvet. My body feels… used. In the best possible way. There’s a delicious, heavy ache in my hips and a soreness that reminds me, vividly, of exactly how dominant the Chief Resident can be when he takes his tie off.
I need to pee. And I need to brush my teeth. And, crucially, I need to curate the "I Woke Up Like This" aesthetic, because right now I suspect I look less like a Sleeping Beauty and more like a raccoon that got caught in a wind tunnel.
I slide out of bed. The floor is cold.
I tiptoe to the bathroom, closing the door with a click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. I wince, waiting for Luke to stir. Silence. Good.
I unlock my phone. The screen is blinding.
I open the group chat named "SURGICAL TRAUMA (AND PRESTON)" which Jax created last week despite Maxwell’s three distinct formal protests.
Maxwell York (6:47 AM):
Preston. Proof of life required immediately. Father is vibrating with rage. If you have been murdered in Queens, please reply ‘Y’ so I can clear your browser history.
Dr. Jax O’Connell (6:52 AM):
He’s not dead, Max. He’s just otherwise occupied. Leave the kid alone. Let him have his morning wood in peace.
Maxwell York (6:53 AM):
Jesus, Jax. Have some decorum. He is likely traumatized from the dinner.
Dr. Jax O’Connell (6:54 AM):
Traumatized? Please. He’s doing exactly what we did after the Christmas Gala. Remember? When you ‘forgot’ your pager in the on-call room and we didn’t leave until you were walking like a baby giraffe?
My face creates its own thermal energy. I type with thumb-banging ferocity.
Preston York (7:21 AM):
I AM REPORTING YOU BOTH TO HR. ALSO, I AM ALIVE. STOP DISCUSSING MY SEX LIFE. I AM GOING TO BUY THE HOSPITAL AND FIRE YOU.
Dr. Jax O’Connell (7:22 AM):
Aww, look at him using all caps. He’s definitely naked. Have fun, Princess. Don't pull a hamstring, make sure you stop for stretching.
Maxwell York (7:23 AM):
Please ensure you are hydrated. And Preston? Fix your hair. I can sense it from here.
I throw the phone onto the pile of clothes.
"I hate this family," I whisper. "I hate everyone except the man currently occupying the bed outside this door."
I look in the mirror.
“Oh god,” I whisper.
My hair is standing up in a fin. There is a smudge of something—taco sauce? Lubricant? A mixture of both?—on my collarbone. My eyes are puffy.
This will not do.
I spend the next twenty minutes engaged in high-stakes crisis management.
I wash my face with Luke’s bar soap (which smells like pine and makes my skin feel tight, but beggars can’t be choosers).
I finger-comb my hair until it looks "artfully tousled" rather than "electrocuted.
" I use a dab of toothpaste on my finger to scrub away the morning breath.
And then, I attend to the… logistics.
I clean myself up. Thoroughly. Because while last night was spontaneous and frantic and mind-blowing, this morning? I have a plan. And that plan involves waking Luke up in a way that ensures I don't have to wear pants until at least noon.
As I’m rinsing off, I catch my own reflection again. I look… giddy.
Stop it, I tell myself. You are Preston York. You do not gush.
But I am gushing. Internally.
I think about the guys I dated at prep school. The ones at St. Andrews. It was always a transaction. They liked the dinners. They liked the weekends in the Hamptons. They liked the idea of being "York-adjacent." I never knew if they were looking at me or at the credit limit on my Amex.
But Luke?
Luke threatened my father. Luke drove a rusty wedge into the York family dynasty just to defend me. He didn't want the Black Card; he wanted the Black Binder.
He wants me. The messy, neurotic, over-caffeinated Spare.
A terrifying thought hits me: I think I’m in love with him.
“No,” I whisper to the shower curtain. “Too soon. That is Stage 5 Clinger behavior. Do not say it. Do not be weird. Just go have sex.”
I take a deep breath. I splash cold water on my face one last time. I check the mirror.
Tousled hair? Check. Flush on cheeks? Check. Ready for round two? Check.
I open the door and slip back into the bedroom.
Luke hasn't moved. I crawl back under the covers, pressing my cold feet against his warm calves.
He grunts, shifting in his sleep.
I drape an arm over his waist, nuzzling my face into the crook of his neck. I wait.
Three minutes later, his breathing changes. He shifts again, rolling onto his back. One eye cracks open. It’s dark, unfocused, and groggy.
“Mm?” he makes a noise that is half-question, half-growl.
“Morning, Chief,” I whisper, pitching my voice to be low and husky. “Did you sleep well?”
Luke blinks. He focuses on me. He takes in the (carefully curated) hair, the smooth skin, the way I’m looking at him.
“You’re awake,” he rasps. His morning voice is deep enough to vibrate the mattress. “What time is it?”
“Time for the Sunday shift,” I say.
I don't give him time to wake up fully. I swing my leg over his hips, straddling him. The duvet pools around my waist, leaving my chest bare.