“Bedroom?” he asks, voice wrecked.
“Living room’s closer.”
His grin turns wicked. “Even better.”
I turn with him in my arms facing the living room and let him slide down my body until his feet touch the floor, but he doesn’t step away. Instead, he drops to his knees right there—smooth, graceful, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. His hands work my belt open with practiced ease, button, zipper, tugging jeans and boxers down in one slow drag. I’m already hard, aching, the cool air a sharp contrast to the heat of his gaze when he looks up at me.
“Fuck,” he breathes, reverent. “Look at you.”
His fingers wrap around the base—firm, possessive—stroking once, slow, thumb circling the head to spread thebead of pre-cum. I card my fingers through his hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Luke—”
“Shh.” He looks up at me through his lashes, eyes dark and hungry. “Let me show you how much I like the idea.”
My breath catches.
Then his mouth closes over me—hot, wet, perfect—and I forget how to speak.
He takes me slow at first—long, deliberate pulls, tongue swirling around the head on every upstroke, humming low in his throat so the vibration shoots straight down my spine. His free hand slides up under my shirt, fingers splaying across my stomach, possessive and grounding.
“Fuck—hermoso?—”
He pulls off just long enough to murmur, “Love when you call me that.” Then he dives back in, deeper this time, throat relaxing to take me all the way to the back. One hand cups my balls, rolling gently; the other grips my thigh for leverage.
I’m shaking already, hips rocking shallowly because I can’t help it. He lets me—encourages it—eyes flicking up to watch my face like he’s memorizing every reaction.
“So good,” I rasp. “So fucking good for me.”
He moans around me, the sound vibrating down my spine. His nails drag softly across my abs, sending a shiver of pleasure through me.
I’m close—too close—too fast. “Luke—I’m gonna?—”
He pulls off with a wet pop, hand stroking fast and slick. “Come for me. I want to taste you.”
That’s all it takes. I shatter with a choked groan, spilling over his fist and across his tongue. He takes it all—swallowing, licking, milking every last pulse until I’m trembling, knees weak.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, shiny. He licks them clean, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on mine.
I haul him up by the front of his hoodie, crash our mouths together. He tastes like me, like us, and it’s perfect. I spin us, back him against the wall, hands already shoving his sweatpants down.
“My turn,” I growl against his throat.
He laughs—breathless, delighted. “We could go to the bedroom.”
“Later,” I say, dropping to my knees.
And then it’s my turn to show him exactly how much I want this—want him—want forever.
We don’t make it to the bedroom for a long, long time.
The apartment isquiet in that new, lived-in way—boxes mostly gone, Luke’s books on the shelves next to mine, his favorite mug already in the drying rack, and a pair of his sneakers kicked haphazardly by the door. It still catches me off guard sometimes: how quickly a space can shift fromminetoours.
I’m at the stove, stirring the sauce, the rich smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the kitchen. Luke’s on the living room floor, surrounded by the last of his unpacking chaos, cross-legged and humming under his breath as he sorts paperbacks. Every few seconds, I glance over—his hair falling into his eyes, the way he bites his lip when he’s concentrating—and something in my chest expands, warm and almost painful.
He catches me looking. That slow, knowing grin spreads across his face.
“You okay over there?” he asks, voice light but laced with something softer.
