Luke pushes me down onto my back. He doesn't rush. He stands at the edge of the bed and strips off his shirt, revealing the broad chest and the defining scars of a man whoworks with his hands. He unbuckles his belt, the sound of the leather snapping echoing in the small room.
I watch him, my mouth dry. He looks like a statue come to life, but warmer. Better.
He crawls over me, settling his weight between my legs. He feels heavy, and for the first time all day—maybe all year—I feel safe. I don't have to hold anyone up. I am being held down.
“Luke,” I breathe.
He captures my lips again, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting me. His hands are everywhere—rough callouses catching on my smooth skin, gripping my waist, sliding down to cup my ass through the suit trousers.
He pulls back, breathing hard.
“Lift up,” he orders.
I obey. I lift my hips, and he shimmies my trousers and boxer briefs down in one motion. He kicks them away.
Now I’m exposed. Naked under the gaze of the Chief Resident.
I instinctively try to cover myself with a joke. “I hope the lighting is flattering. I haven't been to the gym in?—”
“Preston,” Luke warns. He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. “Shut. Up.”
He leans down and kisses my chest, right over my heart. Then he moves lower. He kisses my stomach. He kisses the sensitive skin of my hip bone.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. “And you’re mine.”
He moves lower still.
When his mouth closes around me, my back arches off the mattress. A cry tears out of my throat, loud and uninhibited.
“Luke—God.”
He doesn't stop. He uses his tongue, his heat, his rhythm to unravel me completely. He takes me apart with the same precisionhe uses in the Trauma Bay, finding every nerve ending, every pressure point.
I’m writhing, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, my head thrown back. The world narrows down to the wet heat of his mouth and the friction of his stubble against my thighs.
Just as I’m about to tip over the edge, he pulls back.
I whine, empty and aching. “Luke, please.”
He crawls back up my body. He reaches for the nightstand, grabbing the lube. He makes quick work of preparing us, his eyes never leaving mine.
He slicks his fingers, opening me up with a slow, deliberate patience that makes me shiver.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I look at him. His face is flushed, his hair messy, his eyes burning.
“I’m right here,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
He lines himself up and pushes inside.
It’s a slow, filling pressure. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. He stretches me, fills me, anchors me to the bed.
He holds still for a moment, letting us adjust. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“You okay?” he grates out.
“More,” I beg. “Please, Luke. Move.”
