I open the door and slip back into the bedroom.
Luke hasn't moved. I crawl back under the covers, pressing my cold feet against his warm calves.
He grunts, shifting in his sleep.
I drape an arm over his waist, nuzzling my face into the crook of his neck. I wait.
Three minutes later, his breathing changes. He shifts again, rolling onto his back. One eye cracks open. It’s dark, unfocused, and groggy.
“Mm?” he makes a noise that is half-question, half-growl.
“Morning, Chief,” I whisper, pitching my voice to be low and husky. “Did you sleep well?”
Luke blinks. He focuses on me. He takes in the (carefully curated) hair, the smooth skin, the way I’m looking at him.
“You’re awake,” he rasps. His morning voice is deep enough to vibrate the mattress. “What time is it?”
“Time for the Sunday shift,” I say.
I don't give him time to wake up fully. I swing my leg overhis hips, straddling him. The duvet pools around my waist, leaving my chest bare.
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 himowning 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 rhythmicsqueak-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?—”
