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. Heimmediately 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.”
