I walk in like I own the place—because, technically, I own the most expensive appliance in it. I head straight for the kitchen counter, shrugging off my tuxedo jacket and draping it over the breakfast bar next to a stack of medical journals.
“I’m making coffee,” I announce, checking the Breville machine. “Do you want some? Or do you want me to figure out how to use the steam wand to make anightcap?”
“Preston,” Luke says.
“I think we’re out of the good beans,” I continue, opening the cabinet where I know he keeps the mugs. “I’ll have the courier drop some off tomorrow. And maybe some biscotti. Your pantry is depressing, Luke. It’s just protein bars and sadness.”
I turn around, holding a mug.
Luke hasn't moved from the door. He’s leaning against it, watching me. He isn't smiling. The playful vibe from the pizza place has vanished, replaced by something heavier. Something predatory.
“What?” I ask, setting the mug down. “Is there spinach in my teeth? I told you, leaf vegetables are a trap.”
Luke pushes off the door. He crosses the small living room in three long strides.
“You’re really making yourself at home,” he says softly.
“Well, I did pay for the coffee maker,” I tease, leaning back against the counter, though my heart rate just spiked. “And I have a toothbrush in the bathroom. I think that gives me squatters’ rights.”
Luke doesn't laugh. He steps into my personal space, crowding me against the counter. He places his hands on the Formica on either side of my hips, caging me in.
“Stop performing,” Luke says.
My smile falters. “I don't know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. You’re doing the ‘Preston York’ thing. The jokes. The deflections. You’re filling the silence because you’re nervous.”
He leans in, his nose brushing mine. He smells like soap and the faint, metallic scent of the city.
“Why are you nervous, Preston? You’ve been here before. We’ve done this before.”
“Not like this,” I whisper, the truth slipping out before Ican catch it. “Before, it was… casual. It was fun. Tonight felt real.”
Luke’s eyes search mine. They are dark, dilated, and terrifyingly focused.
“Tonightwasreal,” 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.
