Chapter 38 Luke #2
I study him for a long second. He looks vulnerable in a way he rarely lets anyone see—shoulders tense, eyes searching mine like he’s bracing for the wrong answer.
I shift closer, knee pressing against his thigh.
“I’m not ‘seeing where it goes,’” I say quietly.
“I’m twenty-three years old. I’ve spent the last year figuring out who I am without you, and I like that guy.
A lot. But I like the version of me that’s with you even more.
The one who gets to be a brat and a mess and still feel safe. The one who gets to come home to you.”
His throat works. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I reach out, trace the line of his jaw with my thumb.
“I want the label of boyfriend. I want the future. I want lazy Sundays and fights over who controls the remote and holidays where I drag you to my very religious families get-togethers, and we can both hate it together while they think they can change a damn thing about our love. I want all the stupid, domestic shit we never got to have before. And I want it with you.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I lean in, kiss him once—soft, quick—then pull back. “Your turn.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I want forever. I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep holding you every night. I want to build something real—no secrets, no shame, no running. I want to be the man who deserves you, and I want to spend the rest of my life proving I can be.”
My chest aches in the best way.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Then we’re doing this. Boyfriends. Partners. Whatever you want to call it. But we talk. We don’t disappear. We don’t hide. Deal?”
“Deal.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, thumb stroking my pulse. “I love you, Luke.”
“I love you too.” I grin against his mouth. “Now shut up and kiss me like you mean it.”
He does—harder this time, hungrier. I climb into his lap without breaking the kiss, straddling him, hands fisting in his shirt. His palms slide under my Henley, warm against my back, then lower, cupping my ass through my jeans.
When I grind down, he groans, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise in the best way.
“Bedroom,” he rasps, voice already fraying.
I pull back just enough to smirk down at him. “Bossy.”
“Brat.”
I slide off his lap, stand between his spread knees, and hold out my hand. He takes it, lets me tug him up—but instead of leading him anywhere, I push him right back down onto the couch, hard enough that the cushions bounce.
“Sit,” I say, voice sweet and taunting.
He obeys instantly—eyes dark, pupils blown, chest rising and falling too fast. Hungry. Feral already.
I step back one pace, just out of reach, and start the show.
Henley first—slow peel over my head, letting the fabric drag across my skin before it drops to the floor. Then the jeans: button, zipper, shimmying the denim down my hips, inch by inch. When they pool at my ankles, I step out, kicking them aside with a casual flick.
I’m left in nothing but the red lace thong I chose specifically to ruin him.
Silas goes completely still.
His gaze drops and locks—thin red straps cutting across my hips, delicate lace barely containing me, the front already damp and straining. His breath catches—loud, ragged, almost a growl.
“Fuck,” he whispers, the word cracking in half.
I turn slowly, giving him the back view—the lace disappearing between my cheeks, the thin straps framing everything perfectly.
“Like what you see, Daddy?” I ask, voice sugar-sweet and deliberately cruel.
He makes a low, animal sound in his throat—half growl, half plea.
“Get over here,” he says, voice gone to gravel.
I saunter closer, stopping just out of reach.
“Say please.”
His hands flex on his thighs as though he’s physically fighting the urge to grab me.
“Please,” he grits out, the word sounding like it costs him.
I step between his knees. He reaches for me immediately—fingers tracing the lace edges with something close to reverence, then turning possessive. He hooks one finger under a strap, tugs gently, testing.
“These are new.”
“Special occasion,” I say, smirking down at him. “Figured you’d like them since you loved the last pair I wore.”
“I fucking love them.” His voice cracks on the last word. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Only a little.”
He yanks me down into his lap with a growl, mouth crashing to mine.
The kiss is feral—teeth and tongue and raw desperation.
His hands roam the lace, palming my ass, thumbs slipping under the straps to grip bare skin.
He groans into my mouth when he feels how hard I am, how the lace is soaked at the front.
“Gonna ruin these,” he mutters against my lips, already rocking up into me.
“Promise?”
He flips our positions—fast but careful—until I’m sprawled on my back across the couch, legs spread around his hips. The coffee table gets shoved aside with one careless push; takeout containers clatter but neither of us cares.
His mouth moves down my throat, my chest, lower—kissing, biting, licking a hot path until he reaches the lace. He noses along the waistband, inhales deep like he’s trying to memorize me.
“Smell so good,” he rasps. “You look so fucking pretty in red, mi amor.”
Then he hooks his fingers in the straps and drags them down—slow, torturing—until I’m bare under him. The lace catches on my cock for a second before snapping free; he groans as if the sight physically hurts him.
And then he really loses it.
Mouth on me—hot, wet, greedy—taking me deep with a moan that vibrates through my entire body.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider, holding me open while he worships.
Spanish starts spilling out between sucks and licks—hermoso…
tan perfecto… mío… te amo tanto…—mixed with broken English praise.
“So good for me… taking Daddy’s mouth so well… my pretty boy in red… fuck, you taste like heaven…”
I’m already trembling, hips bucking, hands fisted in his hair. “Daddy—please—need you inside—”
He pulls off with a wet pop, eyes wild. “Here. Right here.”
He shoves his own jeans down just enough, slicks himself with spit and pre-cum—desperate, impatient—then lines up. One slow, deep thrust, and he’s inside me, stretching me perfectly, filling me until I can’t breathe.
We both freeze for a second—foreheads pressed together, panting.
“Boyfriends,” he rasps, starting to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips. “Partners. Forever. Deal?”
I wrap my legs around him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Deal.”
The rhythm builds—harder, faster, couch creaking under us. His hand wraps around me, stroking in time with his thrusts, whispering filthy praise the whole time.
“Come for me, hermoso… let Daddy feel you… so beautiful when you fall apart… mío… mío…”
I shatter with a choked cry—clenching around him, spilling over his fist and my stomach. He follows right after—burying deep, groaning my name like a prayer, pulsing inside me.
We collapse in a sweaty, wrecked heap—legs tangled, hearts slamming, takeout containers still scattered across the coffee table like casualties of war.
The room smells like sex and cumin and melted sugar.
My head is pillowed on Silas’s chest, his heartbeat thundering under my ear while we both try to remember how lungs work.
After a long minute, he exhales a shaky laugh. “Jesus, Luke.”
“Yeah,” I manage, voice wrecked. “Jesus.”
He shifts slightly, arm tightening around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. His fingers trace idle, possessive circles over the small of my back while we catch our breath.
Eventually, he cranes his neck toward the table. “Shit. The ice cream.”
I follow his gaze. The two little cups of fried ice cream are sitting in a sad puddle of melted vanilla, cinnamon-sugar crust floating like wreckage. One spoon is still stuck upright in the middle like a tiny white flag of surrender.
I snort. “RIP.”
Silas makes a low, thoughtful sound. His hand slides lower, cupping my ass with lazy ownership. “Waste not, want not.”
I lift my head, already grinning. “You’re not serious.”
His eyes darken again—slow, deliberate. That feral edge creeps back in, the one that makes my stomach flip even though we just finished. “Dead serious.”
Before I can answer, he rolls us so I’m flat on my back again, pinned under him on the couch cushions. He reaches over, scoops a finger through the melted mess of one cup—warm, sticky vanilla cream laced with cinnamon—and brings it to my lips.
“Open.”
I part my lips without hesitation. He slides his finger inside; I suck it clean, tongue curling around the digit, tasting sugar and him. His pupils blow wide.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice gone gravel again. “Now let me clean you up properly.”
He dips his finger back into the melted ice cream—twice this time—and trails it slowly down the center of my chest. The first cool drip hits my sternum, then lower, painting a sticky line over my stomach where I’m still marked from earlier. Goosebumps chase the path.
“Silas—”
“Shh.” He leans down, mouth following the trail he just made.
Hot tongue lapping at the sweet mess, slow deliberate strokes that make me arch despite how oversensitive I am.
He groans against my skin like I taste better than any dessert.
“Not letting this go to waste. You’re too fucking pretty covered in it. ”
He works his way lower—licking, sucking, nipping—until he reaches the sticky smear across my lower belly. His tongue swirls, collects every drop, then drags up again to my nipple, circling it until I’m whimpering and half-hard again.
“Fuck, Daddy,” I gasp, fingers threading through his hair.
He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes—lips shiny, pupils blown. “Tastes better on you than it ever did in the cup.”
I laugh, breathless. “You’re feral.”
“Only for you.” He dips back down, lapping one final stripe from hipbone to navel, then kisses the spot like it’s sacred. “Mine.”
“Yours,” I agree, voice soft now, wrecked in a different way.
He crawls back up my body, settling between my thighs again—not pushing for more, just holding me close. His mouth finds mine—slow, deep, tasting like vanilla and cinnamon and us.
When we finally break apart, he rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“Boyfriends,” he whispers, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Partners. A whole life together. You still in?”
I smile into the scant space between us, still trembling a little from everything—orgasm, sugar, him, the quiet certainty settling in my bones. I love that he’s checking in again, and I catch my lower lip between my teeth before I reply.
“All the way in,” I murmur. “Forever doesn’t feel scary anymore. It just feels…right. Like the only thing that makes sense.”
His eyes go soft, almost reverent. He kisses me again—gentle this time, lingering—and pulls me tighter against his chest.
“Good,” he breathes against my hair. “Because I’m never letting this go.”
I nuzzle into his neck, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Careful, Daddy. Keep talking like that and I might start expecting breakfast in bed every morning. And foot rubs. And you doing the dishes while I supervise from the couch. I’m an expert supervisor.”
He huffs a laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “Brat.”
“Yours,” I remind him, nipping lightly at his collarbone.
His hand slides up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. “Damn right.”
I tilt my head back into the cushion so I can see his face—flushed, satisfied, stupidly fond. “You gonna carry me to bed, or do I have to walk on these wobbly legs you ruined?”
He grins—slow, wicked, the kind that still makes my stomach flip after all this time. “Carry you. Always.”
Before I can sass back, he scoops me up in one smooth motion—bridal style, as if I weigh nothing—and stands. I yelp, then dissolve into laughter, arms looping around his neck.
“Show-off.”
“Only for my boy,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead as he heads toward the bedroom.
I rest my head on his shoulder, still smiling like an idiot. The apartment is quiet except for our breathing and the faint hum of the fridge.
This night feels like the sweetest, easiest promise we could ever keep.