He closed his eyes again and inhaled her scent. She was sleeping soundly, one hand resting on his arm. Tilting his head, he touched his lips to her head, peeking at her beautiful body.
Other guys might say he was one lucky son of a bitch. . Damn, it still pissed him off that the workers had seen her. He liked to think of her as all his. If they only knew…what a sorry excuse of a man he was without her.
He glanced back down at her, reflexively stroking her tummy. Looking at the flannel-patterned sheets, Luke suddenly realized that they weren't at their house, but in the apartment above the diner. It was just as well, he thought--he'd be able to stay in bed longer before opening the diner.
And then he remembered. The sound of that weasel's voice. The scared look on Lorelai's face as she quickly pressed the Stop button on the machine. The culinary pissing contest with Jackson. His own quick retreat after Lorelai called him a--was it drag queen?
He briefly wondered what happened after he left. He was ashamed, ashamed that he'd left her to deal with their friends. But that Christopher always seemed to have a knack for ruining Lorelai and Rory's happiness, and more recently, his own. His thoughts quickly turned to the time Christopher broke Lorelai's spirit and heart by getting that other woman pregnant. Really, he should thank him; it didn't take a genius to figure out where Lorelai's weak spot was, and at least it opened her eyes. But, he berated himself, he'd really been an asshole. And what did she do? Kick him out of her bed? Kick him out of her life? No. She got some food, left her ridiculous dog, and found him. Sulking in his chair.
He'd left the light on behind the front counter for her, in case she came. He heard the faint jingle of the bells over the door, and her footsteps as she crossed the diner and went up the stairs. With each step, each flip of her flip-flops, he felt more and more undeserving of her.
"Come in." He tried to act like it was no big deal, that he had been expecting her. She was one cool customer, lecturing him and at the same time holding the dish in her hand, pretending like that was the reason she'd come to him.
Which reminded him…just where the hell did that food end up?
And how did he thank her? By making an uncalled for remark about the wedding date. And it just killed him to see the look on her face, and the way she squared her shoulders, yet he couldn't stop the words coming out of his mouth. God, he was making comments about Rory's dad and implying that Lorelai was dishonest, when really, all she'd done was try to spare him the very thoughts he was now having.
The apartment suddenly felt very cold. She was way too far away from him. He needed her way too much to indulge himself any further in his misery.
"C'mere," he'd said. He tried, really tried, to eke out a few other words; he wanted to bawl like a baby and beg her to forgive him for being such a jerk about Chris, no, Rory's dad. But she was babbling about Barbies and smelled so good and oh god, felt so good sitting there--in his lap, like she belonged there, that he could barely move. He hadn't felt that way since he was a kid and had screwed up and his dad towered over him and tousled his hair. She leaned down, put her hand on his chest, and kissed him. They kissed for quite a while, until he got tired of holding that damned beer bottle.
He walked into the kitchen and placed the bottle on the counter.
She was, once again, too far away.
"Lorelai," he'd said, beckoning her to him.
For someone who didn't work out and hated exercise, she could sure move fast. Before he knew it, she'd jumped him, pushing his back against the kitchen counter. And she was doing that thing he really liked up his back.
Then she started talking again.
He secretly loved her banter. It was everything he wished he could say, every way he wished he could be. But no way did he want to hear that weasel's name coming from lips that he soon hoped would be very busy doing very sexy things to him.
"I'm sorry about Chri..." she began, and he successfully shushed her by kissing her. Works every time.
He grabbed her hair with one hand and let his fingers drift through it. God, I hope she never cuts it short, he thought. Was there a sexier sight than her giving him a blowjob? He thought not.
Sometimes, at the diner, before they got together, he would watch her drink her coffee. Not because he was stalking her, but because he loved watching how she used her mouth. She'd take a huge gulp at first, then slowly, sip her coffee as the first jolt of caffeine set about guaranteeing her an early death. And then her cute little tongue would peek out…and move over her lips…and he'd have to stop looking, or risk embarrassing himself. Before they were together, he occasionally would wonder what it would feel like to have her tongue move over his body in that same way. Slowly, methodically, carefully, and most of all thoroughly, with nothing to distract her or cause her to burst forth in a torrent of babble. And all the while, she'd be looking at him with those gorgeous eyes.
During the night after their first meal at Sniffy's, he found out what that was like. And promptly became addicted to the way she'd trace her tongue over his…God, what was she doing? Massaging his scalp? Off came his cap, and her fingers were playing with his hair. He thought he'd kind of heard his cap land on the counter behind him.
She pulled his face down towards hers, and he hesitated; he didn't want to scrape her beautiful, smooth face with his stubble. He closed his eyes and noticed that her hand was trailing down, down down…Don't scare the shit out of her, he thought, by getting all cave man with her.
They were extremely tender and gentle with each other, as if each could not believe that the other was there after the visceral verbal vehemence of their fight. Before long, both were panting. He had to have skin. She moved her head, giving him access to her neck and whatever it is they call the front of the chest. Gratefully, he pressed small kisses wherever he could, a smile on his face. And what was she doing with her hand? By the time her hand made its way back up, they both were urgently moving their hips.
And then she said his name, except it sounded like a moan.
He gently tipped her chin up so Lorelai had to look at him. She was shaking, shaking! Because of him, Luke Danes. He had to think of Taylor, Andrew, Kirk AND Miss Patty having a moment in the gazebo to keep from losing it all together.
Who decided to move towards the bed, or when, did not matter. If he thought about it, he had no recollection. He only remembered that he moved her along with him, towards the bed.
He remembers her whispering, "I'm sorry, Luke."
And he remembers thinking, what for. But his response, this time? A whispered "Show me."
Although things had generally sucked since the proposal because of "the Rory situation," there was something different about Lorelai. He was just so damn glad that she'd proposed; though truth be told, after almost losing it all with Nicole, he'd have waited forever for Lorelai. The minute he'd slipped that crazy woman's horoscope into his wallet, it was over for every other woman on the planet. For years, try though he might, he couldn't help but measure every romantic interest against the one woman he couldn't have. Rachel, Nicole--none had a chance. Even though he'd seen her at her worst--which was pretty bad, he thought, remembering Mimi; he'd also seen her at her best.
When they reached the bed, Luke turned and sat at the edge of the foot of the bed, kicking off his shoes. Lorelai sank to the floor, pulled off his socks, then stood and leaned over him to loosen his belt. Pulling it through the loops, she then reached behind him and piled the pillows, and kissed him. As they kissed, he lost his balance and sank down against the pillows.
At that moment, he knew what the definition of lucky bastard was. Him. Lorelai was a woman possessed, tearing off whatever clothes she could.
Only the most interfering of garments were removed, he noticed as he reclined on the pillows. He closed his eyes and reveled in the feelings her tongue and hands were brining forth in him. And then, knees planted firmly on either side of his hips, she lowered herself onto him, and he died and went to heaven…and oh shit, they weren't using anything and he had to stop her.
He started to tell her why, but she just looked at him with those gorgeous eyes and countered with, "Kids would be nice." And he remembered the night they decided to get married, and how he was the one babbling on, and all about the Twickham house and the kids, and how she'd all but agreed to have his babies when she'd said that kids would be nice. So now, he looked her in the eyes and did not stop her--how could he?--as she sank onto him again. Were those tears in her eyes? Don't cry, Lorelai, he thought.
Languorously, she moved in figure eights; slowly, he reached up and held her hands with his hands entwined with his to support her. Her movement was steady and rhythmic. Her body moved effortlessly over his, rising and falling, circling one way then the other.
But it was too slow for him and he wanted to hear her scream his name, wake the neighbors, and set off car alarms in four counties. She seemed confused as she asked "Luke?" as he flipped her over on all fours.
"Actions. More. Than words," he managed to utter against her back.
With that, he rubbed his cheek up and down her back, and over her buttocks.
"Luke...please..." Wait, was she begging him?
Lifting his head, Luke obliged, firmly holding onto her hips. Slipping back inside, he lifted her slightly to him and began moving in and out of her. Lorelai's reaction was immediate; she held onto the pillows in front of her, clutching them to herself, biting into them lest she wake Luke's neighbors. She moaned his name as he stiffened and clasped her even tighter against himself. He finally gasped out her name once, then twice, before collapsing onto his side and taking her with him.
For a while, they lay on the bed in each other's arms, legs entwined, each softly kissing whatever lips could reach. Luke's hand made its way to her tummy, stroking it softly.
"Luke?"
"Hmmm?"
"I meant it. About the kids."
"Sure you don't want to...mull...it over?" Luke replied.
"Sure. You can give away that Costco crate of Trojans to Kirk...you won't be needing them for a long time."
He smiled against the nape of her neck.
Then post-coital exhaustion took its toll.
Looking over at the alarm clock, Luke realized it wasn't time to wake up yet. He glanced down at Lorelai, nestled against him. She looked pretty damned satisfied, if he said so himself. He briefly nuzzled her hair and thought about what it meant that he, Luke Danes, was lying here with this beautiful woman, whose long hair was splayed across his torso, whose long legs were flung over his, whose feet were seeking warmth against his?
This woman who'd pretended to love that ugly bedroom set just because it was his.
What the hell had he been thinking when he had Tom's crew move that old bedroom set into the new bedroom? His grandmother's bedroom set definitely would have to go. After all, it would soon be way too small for them, he thought as he patted her abdomen, as he started planning the cradle he'd surely carve for their kid…