Chapter 24

24

QUILLON

I leaned against the kitchen counter as York paced the length of the living room like a caged animal. He had that look again, the one where his genius mind tangled with an unseen adversary, his focus as sharp as a blade's edge. Something had been bothering him all day.

"What's going on, nerdy?" I asked. "What's got you all wound up?"

He halted mid-pace. Had he heard me? As he turned around, the frustration was evident not just in the tight set of his jaw but also in the way his hands sought refuge in his pants pockets.

"It's this damned fine-tuning I've been working at for the last weeks," York said, his rich baritone laced with exasperation. "The mathematical model I've been developing is refusing to yield, and I can't figure out where the problem is."

His eyes, usually so warm and inviting, were now clouded. The brown irises that, under the right light, reminded me of aged whiskey seemed duller, robbed of their usual spark. He looked tired. Was it more than the stress of whatever mathematical problem was plaguing him? It wouldn't surprise me.

"Sounds like you're hitting a wall." I pushed off from the counter and closed the distance between us.

"More like slamming headfirst into it." A shadow of a smile played on his lips. "Every time I think I'm on the verge of a breakthrough, the numbers morph into a seemingly impenetrable fortress. If I could just…figure it out."

I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The muscles beneath were tense, coiled tight. "Knowing you, I'm sure you'll crack it." I gave a gentle squeeze. "But maybe you need to step away for a bit. Clear your head."

York let out a breath, and the tension in his shoulder eased fractionally. Gratitude flickered across his features, the storm in his gaze breaking for a moment, revealing the vulnerability he so rarely showed. "You're right. Often, the solution comes when I stop looking for it."

"I know. And I have just the thing to take your mind off it and help you relax." I led him toward the dining room, where I'd set up my surprise. Lost in his world as usual, he hadn't noticed I'd been cooking for the last few hours, but I didn't mind. He'd see now, and I knew he'd appreciate it.

The candles flickered amid the twilight glow, casting warm light onto the rich hues of the Indonesian spread I had laid out on the table. Rendang, babi pangang, and gado gado simmered beside dishes of fragrant nasi goreng and bami goreng. Intan had given me all the recipes, and I had made everything as she had described. I'd even included atjar ketimoen, the delicious fresh pickled cucumber with Indonesian spices, that I had made two days prior. My stomach had been growling for a good hour now.

"Quill, this is…" As York took in the sight, the earlier shadows in his eyes gave way to a shine of appreciation. "This looks amazing."

"Thank you, nerdy. I wanted to do something special for you. Please sit." I pulled out a chair for him, waited until he sat, and took my seat.

We both filled our plates, and I watched as York sampled a forkful of the beef rendang, his eyes closing in delight.

"Wow, this is incredible," he murmured, the tension visibly melting with each bite. Seeing him relax, even if only for the duration of a meal, felt like a small victory.

As always, conversation flowed as we discussed the most random topics. "Did you know that the colossal squid has the largest eyes in the animal kingdom?" York's voice held a mix of wonder and factuality that made me smile. "I watched this fascinating documentary on the complexities and marvels of deep-sea creatures."

"Can't say I did, but I did know octopuses are smart."

York nodded. "They're true escape artists and have been known to learn how to open doors."

That led to a discussion on Finding Nemo , which led to Star Wars , and then we agreed on the missed opportunity of developing the characters of Poe Dameron and Finn and the simmering bromance between those two. "It's not really queerbaiting," I said. "But it sure came close."

"It did, and I would've loved to see that," York said.

We were both full and pushed our plates back, staring at each other with this wonderfully casual intimacy.

"Thank you, Quill," York said softly. "For this, for…well, everything."

"Always." I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. His fingers fluttered in mine, a silent language of gratitude and the ever-present sexual tension, the lingering heat that always seemed to simmer beneath the surface.

Together, we cleared the dishes, our movements synchronized in a domestic dance that had become natural. I rinsed while he loaded the dishwasher with precision, ensuring everything would fit. It was in these small moments that true intimacy lay—not in the passionate embraces or whispered confessions but in the shared spaces of everyday life.

I wiped the counter as he turned on the dishwasher, and then we placed the glass containers with leftovers into the fridge.

"The last one." York handed me the last container. Our fingers brushed, and a jolt of electricity coursed through me.

I put it in the fridge and closed the door. York's eyes met mine, a silent plea written in their depths. In two steps, he'd closed the gap between us and encircled me in a hug that was both unexpected and desperately needed. His body tensed against mine, then softened, melting into an embrace that spoke more than words ever could. He was such a hugger, and I loved it. He seemed to get something from touch that was so much more than mere affection, like it satisfied some deep emotional need in him.

"Quillon," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck.

"Hey," I whispered back, tightening my hold. For a moment, we simply stood there, finding solace in each other's presence. But the comfort of the hug soon gave way to an urgency, a need for something deeper, more primal. York's lips found mine, and what started as a gentle, warm kiss quickly ignited into a roaring fire.

Our mouths moved together with fervor, as if someone had poured gasoline onto the embers, turning it into a blaze. York glided his hands over my back and pulled me closer while I tangled mine in his dark hair, scratching his scalp in the way he loved so much.

"Bedroom," he gasped between kisses, and I nodded.

We stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom, our lips never parting. The journey was a blur of sensations—the feel of his body heat radiating against mine, the taste of him on my tongue, the sound of our breathing, heavy and intertwined.

Once inside the bedroom, we broke apart only long enough to shed our clothes, each piece discarded carelessly. He pushed me backward onto the bed, and I went willingly, pulling him on top of me. Our mouths fused again as our cocks found each other, and we rubbed unashamedly against each other, the friction sending sparks through my whole body. The connection between us crackled like electricity as we came together, skin against skin, heartbeat syncing with heartbeat.

York kissed me passionately, almost aggressively, nipping at my bottom lip and chasing my tongue until I allowed him to catch me. He acted as if a tendril of his previous frustration was still inside him, looking for an outlet, and I was here for it.

While he kissed me, he explored the contours of my body with a mixture of tenderness and reverence. He roamed my chest and the planes of my stomach, then slipped his hands underneath me and squeezed my ass. His touch had always been gentle, almost cautious, as if he were afraid to unleash the full extent of his strength. But now, a different energy emanated from him, one that rippled through the air and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Each caress built the anticipation, heightening the desire until it became unbearable.

"Quill," York said, his brown eyes dark with longing. His hands stilled on my skin, and his gaze shifted into a firm resolve. "Can I top you?"

My breath hitched, surprise mingling with a sudden, sharp spike of excitement. The idea of York taking control, of reversing our usual roles, sent a thrill racing down my spine, even more because of those little slivers of dominance he'd shown over the last few minutes. I'd be in for a ride, and god, I wanted that. "I'd love that."

"Do I need to be gentle?"

I loved that he asked. My mind created a mental picture of him pounding me, and I swallowed. "No. I'd love a hard dicking. It's been a while. But go slow at first. You'll feel when you can let go."

A new current seemed to charge the room, thickening the air with anticipation. York traced down my chest, then lower, and I shuddered under the precision of his fingers.

"Tell me if I do anything you don't like," he murmured against my ear, his breath hot.

"Trust me, I will." But the thought was absurd. I couldn't imagine disliking anything he would do.

True to his nature, he went straight for the goal and grabbed the lube from the nightstand. His preparations were meticulous, showing his complete dedication, which was as sexy as it was adorable. He applied lube with a focus that was both clinical and sensual, his fingers probing gently as he ensured I was ready for him. My body cooperated, eager as it was to feel him inside me. The tenderness of his intimate touch belied the passion simmering beneath his composed exterior.

"Okay?" he asked when he'd managed to get three fingers in.

"More than okay," I said, my voice ragged. The sensation was intense, bordering on overwhelming but grounded in the steadfast assurance that York was attuned to my every reaction. "I'm ready for you."

He nodded. The sight of him so self-assured, so attentive and caring, amplified my desire. I loved seeing this side of him: satisfaction mingled with confidence.

With precise care, he aligned himself with me, his gaze never leaving mine. The initial push burned, an exquisite pressure that blossomed into an all-consuming heat. A groan escaped me, unbidden, but York stilled, his features etched with concern.

"Is this?—"

"Perfect." I didn't want him to mistake my vocal appreciation for discomfort. "Don't stop."

Reassured, he continued, his movements synchronized with my breaths, his rhythm steady and sure. The intensity in his gaze—a fusion of concentration and passion—anchored me. The role reversal felt so natural, as if we'd both been waiting for this moment, for both of us to be ready for this.

"Quill," he moaned, and it was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. "Fuck, this feels amazing. You feel… You're so tight and hot. I need to…"

"Go. I need you."

He bent over and snapped his hips, his thrusts gaining momentum, each one driving deeper than the last until I was lost in the sensation, in the profound intimacy of the moment. His name became a mantra on my lips, each utterance punctuated by the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room alongside our ragged breaths.

What was that saying? Still waters run deep. Did that ever apply to York Coombe. Behind that introverted, nerdy exterior hid one hell of a sexy beast. The man fucked like a god. Seriously, it was the single best fuck I'd ever had, and not merely because I loved him and felt close to him on more than a physical level.

He pressed me into the mattress, pinning my head down with his left hand as he speared into me, stretching me to the fullest. And he jackhammered into me, not slowing down, not being careful, not asking if I was okay. He went all out, full out, and all I could do was hang on.

Fisting the sheets with both hands, I let out a constant stream of moans and grunts as his cock split me wide open, sinking deeper inside me than I had thought possible. Every time, he hit all the right spots, hence the endless sounds. I found it impossible to stay still when being fucked so expertly. The man was a natural.

I wouldn't be surprised if I was drooling. Not that I cared. Nothing else mattered except him and me. His hands on me. His body against mine. His cock inside me.

"Look at me," he commanded, and how could I not? His eyes were alight with power and pleasure, and all traces of the introverted thinker who agonized over unsolvable equations had dissipated, leaving only York, raw and open, claiming me as I had claimed him countless times before.

My body hurtled toward its release, even without touching my cock. I didn't need to, not when he kept hammering me like this. Jesus, everything was on fire. My ass. My balls. My cock. Even my fingertips tingled as if I'd been shocked by an electric current.

"I can't…" York grunted. "I'm too…"

"Let go. Let me see you take your pleasure."

He threw his head back and roared. My quiet, introverted nerdy made the most animalistic sound I'd ever heard a man make as his body shook and shivered. My eyes were glued to his face, to the whirlwind of emotions flickering there. Passion bordering on desperation, determination, and then pure bliss. His cock spurted out its load, and I moaned at the sensation of his hot cum inside me. It felt so, so good. Another thing that connected us body, mind, and soul.

He collapsed on top of me, muttering an excuse, but I smiled as I held him. I had every intention of chasing my release once he was recovered, but even if I didn't find it, this would still be about as perfect as sex could get. "I love you, nerdy," I whispered. "And you fuck like a god. You can top me anytime."