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 snapforward.
“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.”
