Chapter 13 #4
Luke’s eyes search mine. They are dark, dilated, and terrifyingly focused.
“Tonight was real,” Luke says. “And so is this. I don't want the performance, Preston. I don't want the Court Jester. I just want you.”
He kisses me.
It isn't a question; it’s a claiming. He kisses me hard, swallowing the protest in my throat. I make a noise, something desperate and high, and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
He feels solid against me. The countertop digs into my lower back, but the pressure of his hips against mine grounds me.
Luke breaks the kiss, gasping. He reaches for my bow tie—which is already undone—and pulls it completely off, tossing it onto the floor. Next goes his own tie. Then he grips the front of my shirt.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Buttons hit the linoleum floor.
“Bedroom,” he growls against my neck, his teeth grazing the pulse point.
“I thought we were having coffee,” I manage to say, breathless.
“Caffeinate later.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the bedroom. I stumble after him, kicking off my shoes as we go.
We tumble onto the bed. The room is lit only by the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows across the messy duvet.
Luke pushes me down onto my back. He doesn't rush. He stands at the edge of the bed and strips off his shirt, revealing the broad chest and the defining scars of a man who works with his hands. He unbuckles his belt, the sound of the leather snapping echoing in the small room.
I watch him, my mouth dry. He looks like a statue come to life, but warmer. Better.
He crawls over me, settling his weight between my legs. He feels heavy, and for the first time all day—maybe all year—I feel safe. I don't have to hold anyone up. I am being held down.
“Luke,” I breathe.
He captures my lips again, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting me. His hands are everywhere—rough callouses catching on my smooth skin, gripping my waist, sliding down to cup my ass through the suit trousers.
He pulls back, breathing hard.
“Lift up,” he orders.
I obey. I lift my hips, and he shimmies my trousers and boxer briefs down in one motion. He kicks them away.
Now I’m exposed. Naked under the gaze of the Chief Resident.
I instinctively try to cover myself with a joke. “I hope the lighting is flattering. I haven't been to the gym in—”
“Preston,” Luke warns. He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. “Shut. Up.”
He leans down and kisses my chest, right over my heart. Then he moves lower. He kisses my stomach. He kisses the sensitive skin of my hip bone.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. “And you’re mine.”
He moves lower still.
When his mouth closes around me, my back arches off the mattress. A cry tears out of my throat, loud and uninhibited.
“Luke—God.”
He doesn't stop. He uses his tongue, his heat, his rhythm to unravel me completely. He takes me apart with the same precision he uses in the Trauma Bay, finding every nerve ending, every pressure point.
I’m writhing, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, my head thrown back. The world narrows down to the wet heat of his mouth and the friction of his stubble against my thighs.
Just as I’m about to tip over the edge, he pulls back.
I whine, empty and aching. “Luke, please.”
He crawls back up my body. He reaches for the nightstand, grabbing the lube. He makes quick work of preparing us, his eyes never leaving mine.
He slicks his fingers, opening me up with a slow, deliberate patience that makes me shiver.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I look at him. His face is flushed, his hair messy, his eyes burning.
“I’m right here,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
He lines himself up and pushes inside.
It’s a slow, filling pressure. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. He stretches me, fills me, anchors me to the bed.
He holds still for a moment, letting us adjust. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“You okay?” he grates out.
“More,” I beg. “Please, Luke. Move.”
He moves.
It starts slow, a steady rhythm that rocks the headboard against the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump.
But then the heat takes over. The rhythm breaks. It becomes messy and frantic. Luke drives into me, hard and fast, and I’m meeting him thrust for thrust.
I’m making noises I didn't know I could make—whimpers, moans, my own name falling from my lips.
“That’s it,” Luke growls, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “Take it. Take all of it.”
He hits that spot inside me—that sweet, electric nerve—and I come undone.
I shatter. White light bursts behind my eyelids. I’m shaking, clinging to him like a lifeline, crying out as the pleasure rolls through me in waves.
Luke groans, his muscles seizing under my hands. He drives into me one last, hard time, and spills himself inside me with a guttural shout.
He collapses on top of me.
We lie there for a long time, tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin. The only sound is our ragged breathing and the distant siren of an ambulance.
Luke rolls to the side but keeps an arm draped heavy across my chest. He presses a kiss to my damp temple.
“You talk too much,” he whispers, but there’s no heat in it. Only affection.
I turn my head to look at him. I feel thoroughly wrecked and completely reconstructed.
“I didn't say a word for the last ten minutes,” I point out weakly.
“Yeah,” Luke smirks, his eyes half-closed. “I found the mute button.”
He runs his hand down my arm, interlacing our fingers.
“You okay?” he asks, serious now.
I squeeze his hand. I think about the label maker. I think about the Gala. I think about running.
“I’m not going anywhere, Luke,” I whisper. “Just so you know. I’m staying. I’m right here.”
Luke brings my hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles.
“I know,” he says. “Go to sleep, Preston. We have rounds in the morning.”
“I don't have rounds,” I mumble, closing my eyes, snuggling into his chest. “I have brunch.”
“You have rounds,” Luke corrects, pulling the duvet up over us. “Because you’re bringing me coffee.”
I smile against his skin.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s ‘Yes, Doctor.’”
“Don't push your luck, Silva.”
But I stay right there, wrapped in his arms, anchored in Queens, finally, perfectly home.