thank gods you're not an active participant in whatever conversation the rest of the table is having. you're sure everyone thinks you're far too sleepy to engage in conversation with and you'll take it. because your respectful exclusion allows you to zone out—or, rather, zone in on luke.
he's sitting directly across from you, dressed down in ways you haven't seen since before you left camp in a crisp white shirt that you think has shrunk in the laundry at least twice (not that you're complaining one bit).
luke scoffs at something one of the others said and you look up just in time to see his features flex. his eyes roll, jaw tenses, his scar scrunches, his dark eyebrows push together. unfortunately, luke is even more attractive when he's annoyed.
luke corrects them, you don't care to listen to his words and gather the context of the situation. your eyes go back to luke's hands.
his thumb presses into the skin of the orange and instantly, the fruit squirts onto his hand. the droplets drizzle down his wrist, sliding down his arms, catching on the veins beneath his tanned skin. he continues to puncture and peel the fruit, mouthing off all the while. you continue nibbling on the end of your fork, shamelessly watching luke engage in an act that he doesn't even know is as sexual as it is.
he finishes peeling the fruit, and you think the show is over. until he pops a piece of it into his mouth, biting down the center. juice spills over his plump lips, dribbling down his chin. luke wipes at it with his thumb then sticks the flesh into his mouth.
it's so simple and so normal, but you're clenching your thighs together like a horny victorian woman who has never known pleasure. but maybe that's it—you have known pleasure. specifically, pleasure from luke.
the way luke leisurely peels and eats at his orange reminds you all too well of a night not long ago when luke waltzed into your shared suite, knelt between your legs, and proclaimed that that night would be the night that you two finally figured out how to make you squirt.
he rolled up his sleeve and pressed two fingers into your cunt, hovering over your mouth all the while, using the close proximity to check up on you and encourage you through hushed words.
and when you did eventually squirt (luke is nothing if he doesn't stick to his word), luke held up his fingers to the lamplight and watched with amazement as your fluids dripped down his arm.
now, sitting across from you at breakfast, luke calls your name.
you don't even pretend. "i haven't been listening."
luke doesn't chastise you. he turns back to the others and prompt them to explain to you what you've missed. he chews on his orange all the while, and when you glance back at him you see a familiar look in his eyes.
his eyebrows lift in a quick jerk, the corner of his lips pulling up.
of course he knows what you're thinking.
he wouldn't be luke castellan if he didn't.
