Chapter 11 #3
Luke’s hands come up instinctively to rest on my thighs. He’s already hard beneath the sheet—morning biology is a beautiful thing.
“Preston,” he groans, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Did you… did you fix your hair?”
“I woke up like this,” I lie seamlessly. “Stop talking.”
I lean down and kiss him. He tastes like sleep and warmth. He kisses me back, his hands tightening on my legs, his hips bucking up to meet me.
I reach down, finding the bottle of lube on the nightstand. I’m quick about it, coating my fingers, reaching back to prep myself just a little more, ensuring I’m slick and ready. Luke watches me, his eyes darkening, his hands gripping my hips to hold me steady.
“You’re eager,” he murmurs, his thumbs tracing the line of my hipbones.
“I’m efficient,” I correct him.
I line myself up. I lift my hips, positioning the head of his cock at my entrance, and then I sink down.
It is glorious.
I slide down inch by inch, stretching to accommodate him. He fills me completely, hitting all the places that are still tender from last night, waking them up with a fresh wave of heat. I throw my head back, gasping as I bottom out against his pelvis.
“Oh, fuck,” Luke hisses, his head falling back into the pillow, his neck arching. “Preston… you feel… god.”
“I’m driving this morning,” I murmur, bracing my hands on his chest. I can feel his heart hammering against my palms. “You just lay there.”
I begin to move.
It’s different from last night. Last night was about him owning me.
This morning, it’s about me worshiping him.
I ride him with a slow, grinding rhythm, rolling my hips to maximize the friction.
I watch his face. I love the way his brow furrows.
I love the way his jaw clenches as he tries to hold back a moan.
I speed up. The bed frame—which is definitely from IKEA—protests loudly with a rhythmic squeak-squeak-squeak. I don't care.
Luke’s hands slide up my back, gripping my shoulders, then tangling in my hair. He pulls me down for a bruising kiss, his tongue meeting mine, stealing my breath.
“Harder,” Luke commands against my mouth. “Grind down.”
I obey. I lift and slam down, burying him inside me. The sensation is blinding. I’m sweating, panting, lost in the friction and the heat and the smell of him.
“Luke,” I gasp, my rhythm getting erratic. “I’m close. I’m gonna—”
Luke grips my waist, helping me, thrusting up to meet my descent. “Come on. Come on, York. Take it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The pleasure is a white-hot wire pulling tight in my belly. I’m right there. I’m falling over the edge.
DING-DONG.
The doorbell rings. It is loud. It is insistent. It echoes through the apartment.
My eyes fly open. Luke freezes mid-thrust.
“The Breville!” I shout.
The realization hits me at the exact same moment as the orgasm. I come hard, crying out, my body convulsing around him. Luke groans, thrusting up one last time, and finishes with a shout that is partially a curse word and partially my name.
We collapse.
I fall forward onto his chest, panting, completely spent. The room is silent for three seconds.
DING-DONG.
“Preston,” Luke wheezes, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving under me. “Did you just climax to the sound of a delivery buzzer?”
I lift my head. I am flushed, sweating, and completely unrepentant.
“It’s a very high-quality machine,” I say breathlessly. “Stainless steel. Conical burr grinder. It excites me.”
Luke laughs. He laughs so hard the bed shakes. He kisses my forehead, then swats my ass.
“Get off. I have to go get your mechanical child before they take it back to the depot.”
Luke puts on sweatpants—grey sweatpants, bless him—and goes downstairs.
I stumble out of bed, wrap the duvet around myself like a toga, and shuffle into the kitchen to assess the situation.
I pause. I squint.
“This is a structural hazard,” I whisper.
Luke’s kitchen is… lived in. That is the polite term. There are spices on the counter. There is a stack of mail on the table. There is a blender that looks like it’s from 1990.
Where is the Breville going to go? It needs space. It needs a shrine.
I start moving things. I stack the mail. I move the blender to the top of the fridge (sorry, blender). I organize the spices by height. I clear a pristine two-foot square of counter space near the outlet.
The door opens. Luke walks in, carrying a massive cardboard box. He looks disheveled and sexy and domestic.
“It’s heavy,” he says, dropping it on the floor. “Jesus, York. Did you order the industrial size?”
“It’s the Barista Express,” I say, kneeling to open the box with a steak knife I found in the sink. “It’s necessary.”
We spend the next twenty minutes setting it up. I am in my element. I flush the lines. I fill the hopper. I dial in the grind size. Luke leans against the counter, drinking a glass of water, watching me with an amused smile.
“You look happy,” he observes.
“I am happy. I’m making proper coffee. Hand me the tamper.”
He hands me the tamper. Our fingers brush.
“There,” I say, stepping back to admire the gleaming chrome machine sitting amidst the chaos of his kitchen. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s shiny,” Luke agrees. “So, can I have a cup? Or is it just for looking at?”
“Patience. The machine needs to warm up.”
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest (I have discarded the duvet and put on Luke’s oversized t-shirt).
“This is great,” I say, gesturing to the machine. “I can’t wait to dial in the extraction next time I stay over.”
The words hang in the air.
Next time.
I freeze. My stomach does a sour flip.
Stupid, I think. Stupid, stupid York.
I look at Luke. He hasn't flinched. But the insecurity, the old York paranoia, rears its ugly head.
“I mean,” I start backpedaling, my voice rising in pitch. “If… if there is a next time. I know how this works. Sunday mornings are different than Saturday nights. I know guys say things in the dark that expire by brunch.”
I look down at my bare feet.
“I know I’m a lot,” I mumble. “I bought an appliance for your house on a first date. That’s insane. I’m aware it’s insane. You probably think I’m trying to buy my way into your drawers again, but I promise, I just really hate Folgers, and I—”
“Preston.”
Luke steps forward. He puts his hands on the counter on either side of me, trapping me.
“Look at me.”
I look up. He’s not laughing. He looks… solid.
“You think I slept with you for a coffee maker?” he asks.
“No. Maybe. I don't know,” I admit. “People have done more for less. I’m the Spare, Luke. I’m the fun one. I’m the one people date until they find someone serious.”
Luke stares at me. He reaches out and tucks a piece of messy hair behind my ear.
“You bought an appliance, Preston,” he says softly. “That takes up counter space. In Queens, counter space is more valuable than gold.”
He kisses my nose.
“That machine isn't going anywhere,” he says. “And neither are you. Unless you want to? Because I was planning on taking you to get bagels in an hour.”
I stare at him. The panic in my chest loosens, unspooling into something warm.
“Bagels?” I ask.
“Everything bagels. With lox.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”
Luke smiles. He leans in and kisses me—a slow, coffee-flavoured promise.
“Good. Now, we smell like sex and tacos. Shower. Then bagels.”
The shower is small.
It is a fibreglass stall that was clearly designed for one person who stands very still. Fitting two grown men inside is a lesson in physics and intimacy.
We stand under the spray, chest to chest. The water pressure is terrible, but the heat is good. Luke washes my back with a rough washcloth and that pine-scented bar soap. It scratches a little. It’s abrasive.
It feels like home.
“Turn around,” Luke murmurs.
I turn. He lathers the soap over my chest, his hands broad and heavy. He isn't rushing. He’s just cleaning me. It’s such a simple, domestic act, but it makes my throat tight.
I lean my forehead against his wet shoulder.
“I could get used to this,” I confess quietly.
“To the bad water pressure?” Luke chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest.
“To the company.”
Luke stops moving. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug under the water.
“Me too,” he says.
Getting out of the shower with Luke Silva is an exercise in logistics. The bathroom is roughly the size of a postage stamp, and the steam is so thick I’m concerned for the structural integrity of the drywall.
We step out into the bedroom. The air is cold.
Luke is in his boxer briefs—tight, black, excellent—toweling off his hair. I am essentially a naked, shivering newborn. I haven't located a towel yet. I am stark raving nude in the middle of Queens.
"Where is the—" I start.
CLICK. CLACK. TURN.
The sound of a dead-breaker unlocking echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.
I freeze. My nipples freeze.
"Luke," I squeak. "Did we get robbed?"
"Robbers don't use keys," Luke says, frowning. He lowers the towel from his head. "Wait. Oh god. No."
The front door flies open with enough force to rattle the windows.
"LUCAS MATEO SILVA!"
The voice is not human. It is the voice of Old Testament retribution.
"Mama?" Luke looks terrified. He steps forward, one hand holding his towel, wearing nothing but his Calvins.
"Are you keeping the towel?" I hiss, panicking. "Luke! I am nude! I am fully nude!"
I spin in a circle. There are no clothes. There are no towels. My pants are across the room, a journey I cannot make without flashing the hallway.
I grab the only thing within reach.
The empty cardboard box for the Breville Barista Express.
I clutch the cardboard to my crotch like a shield. It is large, thank god, but I am painfully aware that my ass is completely exposed to the elements.
Mama Ortiz stomps into the room. She is wearing a blindingly yellow raincoat and a scrub cap with cartoon avocados on it. She looks like a furious banana.
She stops.
She looks at Luke, half-wet and in his underwear.
She looks at me, clutching a kitchen appliance box to my genitals, shivering, with water dripping off my nose.
The silence stretches for a geological era.
"So," Mama Ortiz says. She doesn't yell. She just stares at my cardboard shield. "This is why you don't text me back. You are playing... what is this? Moving day without pants?"
"Mama!" Luke yells, his voice cracking like a teenager’s. "You can’t just walk in here! I’m twenty-nine!"
"You are an idiot, that is what you are!" She waves a Tupperware container aggressively. "I thought Alistair York had you deported! I thought you were dead in a ditch! I come here to check your pulse, and instead I find..."
She gestures vaguely at me.
"...the hospital mascot. Naked."
"I am not the mascot," I say, trying to muster some dignity while hiding behind cardboard. "I am a valued medical intern. Good morning. Lovely raincoat."
Mama Ortiz stares at me. Her eyes drift down to the box covering my nether regions.
"Breville," she reads. "Fancy."
"It makes excellent espresso," I say weakly. "Conical burrs."
"Preston," Luke groans, covering his face with his hand. "Stop talking about the burrs."
Mama Ortiz marches forward. I flinch, clutching the box tighter, prepared to be assaulted with arroz con pollo.
Instead, she slams the Tupperware down on the dresser next to Luke’s keys.
"Put some clothes on," she barks at me. "I work in a hospital, baby. I have seen more penises before my morning coffee than you have seen in your life. Yours is not special. Move the box."
"I will not move the box!" I cry out. "It is my dignity box!"
"Lucas," she snaps, turning on him. "Why is the Spare naked in your bedroom on a Sunday morning?"
"Because we’re dating!" Luke shouts back. "We are dating, Mama! I slept with him! It was great! Now please, for the love of God, go to the kitchen!"
Mama Ortiz pauses. Her face goes through a complex journey—shock, calculation, and finally, a terrifying smirk.
"Dating," she hums. She looks at me again. She looks at my frantic grip on the cardboard.
"Well," she says. "At least he buys you appliances. The last one only bought you protein powder."
She looks me dead in the eye.
"You are too skinny. There is chicken in the container. If you do not eat it, I will tell the entire surgical floor that you wear..." She squints at my discarded socks on the floor. "...socks with little ducks on them."
"They are mallards!" I defend myself. "They are vintage!"
"Eat the chicken," she commands.
She turns on her heel. She marches to the door. She pauses, hand on the knob.
"And Lucas?"
"Yes?" Luke breathes, looking like he’s about to have a cardiac event.
"Nice boxers. But next time, lock the top deadbolt. The bottom one sticks."
SLAM.
She is gone.
The apartment is silent, save for the sound of my heavy breathing and the drip-drip-drip of water from my hair hitting the cardboard box.
I slowly lower the Breville box.
"I need to go to the hospital," I whisper. "I think I’m having a stroke."
Luke stares at the closed door. Then he looks at me. Then he looks at the box.
He starts to giggle.
It’s not a cool, detached chuckle. It is a full-body, wheezing giggle. He sits down on the edge of the bed, putting his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
"Your dignity box," he wheezes.
"It was high-quality cardboard!" I shout, throwing the box across the room. "Don't look at me! I have been seen by the matriarch! I am compromised!"
Luke reaches out, grabs my wrist, and yanks me toward him. I stumble, falling onto the bed—and him—in a tangle of limbs.
"You're ridiculous," he says, grinning down at me, tracing the line of my jaw. "You're a nude socialite who fought my mother with a cardboard box."
"Did I win?" I ask breathlessly.
"Preston," Luke kisses me. "Nobody beats Rosa Ortiz. But you survived. That’s a win."
"Good," I manage. "Now feed me the chicken. I’m terrified of what happens if I don't eat it."