I want to fucking eat you all up, Miss Patterson. You’re too damn delicious. I can’t leave you alone.” Luke’s hands find their way underneath my t-shirt, slightly cold from playing guitar outside. When I came home after class, he was sitting on the stoop of the building, the collar of his gray wool jacket popped up against the chilly wind, his cheeks colored red, and he had a small picnic basket on the ground between his feet. His gig bag was leaning up against the railings next to him, his guitar obviously inside. When he saw me, he grinned, got to his feet and told me he was taking me for lunch at Bushwick Inlet Park.  It was beautiful, the food was amazing, and Luke’s private little show had me desperate to relieve him of his clothes. He has that affect on me; I want him so badly all the time—as soon as he opens his mouth and starts to sing, it’s basically game over. He wasn’t complaining when I suggested we pack up the rest of the amazing spread he put together and take it back to the apartment so we could finish it in bed.
