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Appendix B: Make-Up Sex Protocols — An exclusive scene too hot for Amazon
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Appendix B: Make-Up Sex Protocols
Six months later. Saturday morning. Their apartment in Bushwick.
The retainer agreement was still on the kitchen table when Luca pulled me into his lap, and the first clause of Appendix B was written with his mouth on my neck and my hands in his hair and the Saturday morning light turning everything golden.
“Section one,” I said, tipping my head back as his teeth grazed my pulse point. “Initiating reconciliation procedures.”
“Mmhm.” His hands were under my sweater, palms flat on my stomach, fingers tracing the muscles there with the focused attention he brought to everything — boxing combinations, session design, the systematic dismantling of my composure. “What does section one say?”
“It says — fuck — it says that either party may initiate reconciliation by removing the other party’s shirt.”
“That’s a good section.” He pulled my sweater over my head. I raised my arms to help, and the motion put my chest at his eye level, and he took the opportunity the way a good lawyer takes an opening — immediately, thoroughly, his mouth on my sternum, his tongue tracing the line between my pectorals. “What’s section two?”
“Section two covers — Jesus, Luca — covers the relocation clause. All reconciliation procedures must be conducted in an appropriate venue. Kitchen chairs are not appropriate venues.”
“Counter-argument.” He stood, taking me with him — my legs wrapping around his waist, his hands under my thighs, the lean strength of his boxer’s body holding my weight without effort. “Kitchen chairs build character.”
“The chair is creaking.”
“Then we relocate.”
He carried me to the bedroom. The bedroom that was ours — the bed with two pillows, the nightstand with the Neruda collection, the shelf in the closet that held the rope and the blindfold and the belt. He laid me down and stood over me, pulling his own shirt off, and the sight of him — the tattoo sleeve wrapping from wrist to shoulder, the lean muscle carved by boxing and yoga, the crescent moon behind his ear, the dark line of hair from his navel disappearing into his waistband — still hit me the way it had the first time he’d undressed in the hotel room. A detonation of want so complete it left no room for anything else.
“Section three,” I said, reaching for his jeans. “The disrobing protocol.”
“Is there a specific order?”
“Provider’s discretion.”
He smiled — the real smile, the one that made me want to burn things for him. “I like that clause.”
He undressed me with the deliberate patience of a man who had all the time in the world. Jeans unbuttoned and peeled down slowly, his knuckles dragging along my thighs. Boxers next — his thumbs hooking the waistband, pulling down at a pace that should have been illegal, his mouth following the exposed skin with open-mouthed kisses that left wet heat on my hip bone, the crease of my thigh, the sensitive skin just above where I was already hard and straining toward him.
He paused there. His breath warm against my cock, his mouth an inch away, close enough that I could feel the ghost of contact but not the reality of it.
“Luca.”
“Patience. We’re still on section three.”
“Fuck section three.”
“We’ll get there. That’s section seven.”
He finished undressing me, then undressed himself — standing at the foot of the bed, his hands unhurried on his own zipper, letting me watch. And I watched. Six months of this body and I was still greedy for the sight of it — the brown skin catching the morning light, the boxer’s torso tapering to narrow hips, the thick line of his cock standing hard against his stomach. His hands, the callused hands that had rebuilt me from the inside out, hanging loose at his sides.
Then he crossed to the closet. Opened the door. Took the rope from the shelf.
“Section four,” Luca said, coming back to the bed, the cotton rope draped over his hand. “Restraint provisions.”
“I don’t recall authorizing restraint provisions.”
“Consider it an amendment. Do you accept the amendment?”
“I tie your wrists. I take my time. I make you say things you’ll pretend you didn’t say later.” He knelt on the bed, the rope between us, his cock close enough to my face that I could smell him — warm skin and arousal and the particular musk that made my mouth water on reflex. “Color?”
“Green. So green.”
He tied me. The same single-column wrap, the same cotton rope from their first session — washed and oiled and kept in good condition like something sacred. My wrists above my head, looped through the headboard slats, the familiar snug pressure that told my body: You’re held. You’re safe. Let go.
“Section five,” he murmured, his mouth on my ear, his body settling over mine. “Oral provisions.”
He didn’t go straight for my cock. He went everywhere else first, because Luca understood that anticipation was its own form of torture and he wielded it without mercy. His mouth on my throat, sucking a mark into the skin below my jaw — hard enough to bruise, possessive enough to make my hips jerk. His teeth on my collarbone, scraping. His tongue tracing the line of my pectorals, circling one nipple with devastating slowness, then closing his mouth over it and sucking until I arched off the bed.
He switched to the other side. The same treatment — tongue circling, then the wet heat of his mouth, then the sharp edge of his teeth, and my wrists were pulling against the rope and my legs were wrapping around his waist and my cock was trapped between our stomachs, leaking against the hard plane of his abs.
He bypassed my cock entirely. Kissed the crease of my thigh. Ran his tongue along the inside of my leg, from groin to knee, and back up the other side. I was incoherent — cursing, begging, my hips rolling against nothing.
“Luca. Please.“
“There it is.” His mouth was suddenly right there — his breath hot against the underside of my cock, his lips brushing the base. “I love when you say please. Six months and it still does the same thing to me.”
“What does it do?”
“This.”
He took me into his mouth. Not gradually — all the way, in one slow, devastating slide that didn’t stop until his nose was pressed against my pelvis and his throat was tight around me and my vision went completely white. He held there, his tongue working against the underside, and the sound I made was something between a scream and a sob.
He pulled back slowly. His lips dragging along the full length of me, his tongue swirling around the head, collecting the pre-come that was leaking steadily. He looked up at me through dark lashes and said: “These provisions are very detailed.”
Then he went back down.
He edged me. Three times. Each time pulling off just before the crest, his hand replacing his mouth, keeping me at the trembling edge while I cursed and pulled at the rope and begged.
The first edge: he took me deep, fast, the suction relentless — and then pulled off entirely, his fist tight around the base, squeezing until the wave receded and I was gasping, the orgasm snatched away.
The second edge: slower. His tongue tracing every vein, his lips sealed around the head, sucking in pulses while his hand stroked the shaft. When I got close — when my thighs locked and my abs clenched — he pulled off again.
“Fuck — fuck — Luca, I swear to God —”
“God’s not drafting this appendix. I am.”
The third edge was the cruelest. He took me back in and hummed — the vibration traveling through my cock and into my spine — while his free hand cupped my balls and his throat opened around me and I was there, right there —
He pulled off. I nearly sobbed. My wrists were raw against the rope, every muscle taut as a bowstring.
“What’s section six?”
“Section six is where you tell me what you want.” He crawled up my body, his cock dragging against mine as he settled into position. “In detail. Using your words. The way I taught you.”
“I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me until neither of us can think, and then I want you to hold me, and then I want to burn the toast again tomorrow.”
“Amendment accepted.”
He reached for the nightstand. His slicked fingers pressed into me — one, then two — curling forward until he found the spot that made my whole body jolt. He pressed there, firm, rhythmic, watching my face. “You’re so ready for me. You’re always so ready.”
“Then stop making me wait.”
He pushed in slowly. Inch by devastating inch, his hands on my hips, his eyes on my face. The full length of him buried inside me — thick, hot, stretching me open in the way my body had learned to crave.
“Color?”
“Green. So far past green.”
“Section seven,” I gasped. “The escalation clause. Harder.“
He gave me harder. His hands shifted to the headboard above the rope, the angle allowing him to drive into me with force — deep, punishing thrusts that sent the headboard into the wall. His hips snapped forward, each stroke precise, finding the angle that made me see stars and holding it without mercy.
“Right there — fuck — don’t stop —”
“I know where it is. I’ve known since the third time I was inside you. You clench around me every time I hit it and the sound you make is the best sound I’ve ever heard.”
He thrust hard — angled, deep — and I made the sound. A high, tight, broken thing between a moan and a keen. He did it again. And again. Relentless.
“You feel incredible,” he said, his voice wrecked. “Every time. You feel like coming home.”
“I am home. You’re my home. This — fuck — this is my home.”
His hand found my cock between us — rough grip, stroke matched to his thrusts, his thumb swiping over the head on each pass, slicked with pre-come, relentless.
“Come with me,” he said. “Aaron. Come with me.”
I’ve got you. The words he’d said in Session One. The words I’d said back on his couch. The words that had become the load-bearing phrase of our entire relationship.
I came. The orgasm hit like a demolition — every wall falling at once, my back arching off the mattress, the rope pulling taut, his name in my mouth. Luca, Luca, Luca — spoken like a chant, like a prayer, like a man who had found the word for everything he’d ever wanted and couldn’t stop saying it.
He followed. Three more thrusts — deep, shuddering — and he came with his face buried in my neck, his whole body shaking against mine. His hand went to my chest — palm flat, over my heart — the gesture that had started in a hotel room and now lived in our bedroom like a piece of furniture.
He untied me. Kissed my wrists. Rubbed the circulation back the way he always did, his thumbs pressing into my palms, his mouth following his hands with soft, focused kisses.
“Section eight,” he murmured against my wrist. “Aftercare provisions.”
“Mandatory.”
“Obviously.” He pulled me into him — my head on his chest, his arm around my back, his hand in my hair. “Minimum duration?”
“Until further notice.”
He laughed. The sound vibrated through his chest and into mine, and I pressed closer, breathing him in — cedar and sweat and sex and the specific, irreplaceable scent of the person who’d taught me that wanting wasn’t weakness and asking wasn’t failure and being held was the bravest thing a man could let himself be.
“Section nine: recurrence.”
“Daily.”
“Ambitious.”
“I’m a high-achiever.”
“You’re ridiculous.” He kissed the top of my head. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Even when you critique my egg technique.”
“Your egg technique is a crime against breakfast.”
“Appendix C: Cooking Provisions. Party A shall be exempt from breakfast preparation on the grounds of—”
“No more appendices.” He rolled on top of me, pinning me with the warm, deliberate weight of his body, his eyes dark and amused and full of love. “No more clauses. No more sections. Just this.”
“Just this?”
“Just us. Just green. Just — always.”
I kissed him. In our bed, in our apartment, in the life we’d built from the wreckage of two old ones. No invoice. No safeword. No timer counting down.
Just green.
Always green.
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