Sugar Pt. 3 (Luke)
“I wrote the lyrics in Chicago. I was with my dad, and we were listening to the old music where they’d always say ‘sugar’ and ‘honey’ - stuff like that. I was like, ‘Why doesn’t anyone do that anymore?’ - Pete Wentz
“Smells delightful, sugar.”
The soulful scent of fresh herbs wafts through your kitchen, slices of potatoes marinating in a sizzling pan. Warm pieces of bread are sandwiched in their slots on the counter, the slow timer ticking its soft metronome. The early morning earthly smell of coffee follow its course through a dilapidated kitchen window , its weary hinges rusty with age. You smile when you realise its none of these scents he’s referring to, his nose buried deep in the skin of your exposed neck.
“Luke…” You warn, feeling his mouth leave wet kisses in a string to your collarbone, the soft press of his hands lifting up his knee-length shirt you’d grown so accustomed to wearing in bed.
Luke merely hums in response, licking his way back up to your waiting mouth, your head tilted at an odd angle to meet his eager lips.
“Luke…” You warn again as his tongue pushes past and bumps sloppily with your own, his sporadic moans as sweet and filling as spoonfuls of honey. His hands inch higher this time, nimble fingers prancing excitedly along the lace of your underwear, your thighs pricked with bumps from the cold feel of his palms. “Isabelle is bound to walk in.”
“Nonsense.” He purrs, slipping a finger inside and running it teasingly over the length of your folds. His voice is nothing but rushes of air, silent whispers of lust against your skin. “No offence sweetheart, but based from what I’m feeling, I don’t think you seem to care.”