That's when it had really gotten far too hot for the coffee. Something in his gaze made her blood boil, singeing her skin as it pulsed through her veins. She felt flushed and uncomfortable as he watched her drop the spoon into the glass and close her lips around the straw. He didn't say anything, didn't make a sound as he started wiping the counter right in front of her, his strong hands moving in slow circles, hypnotizing, mesmerizing.

"How'd the fishing go?"

He asks it lightly, not looking at her as she lifts her head so that she can see him through her dark bangs. "Fine."

"No unplanned forays into the water?"

"All fish were caught with either a rod and reel or a very big net. Not a single one was captured by my bare hands as I stood waist deep in the freezing water." She gives him a small smile, studying the slight frown that furrows his brow. "And, for your information, I managed to stay in the boat just fine."

"Nice to know."

She shivers and not only from the ice cream as it slides down her parched throat. Despite the heat of the room, the unseasonable hot weather that seemed to have struck the town for no good reason, his voice is slightly chilled. "What about you?"

"I didn't go fishing."

"I heard you went out to dinner." She tries to keep her voice neutral, since anything else would require examining why she sounds anything but neutral when it comes to the thought of him dating someone. "How'd that go?"

"Dinner was nice."

"I heard you complimented the chef."

"Sookie's great in the kitchen. So long as it's not mine." He glances at her as she bends her head, taking another long sip from her shake. Her lips purse around the thin red straw, paler than the transparent color but tinged with cold. "The food was good."

"And the ambiance?"

"You run a nice inn, Lorelai."

"Did your…date? Did she enjoy herself?"

"She seemed to." He moves, feeling her eyes on him as he walks around and sits on the stool beside her. He faces her, one arm draped on the edge of the counter. "What about you guys? What did you do after the fishing?"

"Well, I told him right up front that gutting and cleaning were not on my list of date activities."

"He actually needed you to tell him that information?" His eyebrow rises questioningly and his smile touches his lips, making her wish she could do the same. "I have to wonder if this guy's right for you."

"He actually took me to a spa."

"And now the wondering is gone."

"I caught a fish though. She's in my bathtub." She frowns slightly and taps her straw against the bottom of her glass. "I think."

"You think she's in your bathtub?"

"I think she's a she. I'm not quite sure how to tell with fish."

"Well, it's not a skill you find you need a lot in your life. You know, knowing if fish are male or female." He swallows and rubs the back of his neck. "Did the lessons help?"

"The lessons? Oh. Yeah. Fishing lessons. Not lessons on how to tell if fish are…" She nods and turns back to her shake. "Yeah. They did. Thanks."

"My pleasure."

"I mean, I know you probably didn't feel like spending your free time showing me how to do something that I'll probably never do again, given that he knows that fishing is my thing the way that talking for hours is yours and like flunking is Rory's habit and so I apologize for taking up time that could have been spent with your new…what's her name?"

"Your fish?"

"Your date."

"Nicole."

"Oh." She nods and takes a long sip, waiting for the cold to burn her brain and shut her up. "That's a nice name. French."

"Nicole?"

"Her name."

"Ah." He watches her drain the last dregs of her shake from her glass before standing up, taking it from in front of her and carrying it around the counter. "You want another?"

"Oh no. One's my limit."

"That's your second."

"One more is my limit." She rubs her hands, damp from the glass, on her jeans. "I'm gonna," she nods toward the door. "You know."

"Leave?"

"Yeah. It's late. You're closing. You've probably got things to do."

"Just bed."

"Bed." She nods again and swallows, wondering, not for the first time, why it is often so hard to leave here, leave him. It isn't like the diner will be gone in the morning, or like she won't be there in the morning, because being there was what she did and what he did and… "What?"

He shakes his head. "I asked if you were okay. You looked odd."

"Odd in a bad way? I mean, like in the way Kirk is odd or in the way that really cool people are odd."

"Are really cool people generally odd?" He takes a step toward her, his hand tight as it curls around the edge of the counter. His eyes are burning, hot on hers and he watches her shiver involuntarily. "I don't know that I know any really cool people."

"I like to think I'm really cool." She takes a step, surprised that it moves her closer to him and not to the door. "And I'm pretty sure you think I'm odd."

"I just said you looked odd." The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. "And I don't mean it in a constant way. More like an occasional thing, not a regular one."

"So you don't think I'm odd?"

"I didn't say that." His smile widens and he is a step closer. He raises his hand intending to gesture, as surprised as she when his hand touches her hair, rubbing the thick, silky strand between his fingers and thumb. "So, are you going to keep the fish in the bathtub forever?"

"No." She shakes her head, careful not to disengage her hair from his fingers. "I think Rory and I are cramping her style. Besides, how's she going to get a date in my bathtub?"

"You could go fishing again."

"Can I be honest with you, Luke?" She doesn't recognize her voice as she says his name, as for the first time outside of her bedroom, outside of her fantasies; she says it like she would say a lover's name. Soft and seductive, promising and wanting.

He swallows hard and licks his lips, nodding. "Yeah."

"I don't much like fishing."

He nods again, leaning into her. His lips brush over hers, barely touching them. Lorelai gasps, her lips parting, inhaling him as they stand there, not touching, so close that the heat between them seems alive. Luke licks his suddenly parched lips, the tip of his tongue dampening hers. Electricity seems to crackle in the room around them as they hang suspended for a moment, the sudden flurry of moment against the brightly lit diner as they melt into one another.

Luke's tongue slides over hers, moving into her mouth, exploring it. She tastes like chocolate and coffee, hot and cold all at once as he traces the roof of her mouth, teases her tongue, needing to burn the taste of her into his memory. Lorelai moans quietly, her hands clutching at his flannel shirt just above his elbows, nails scraping against his skin as she clenches her fists then relaxes them, rising up on her toes in an effort to deepen the kiss.

He tries not to think about it, about what's happening, what they're doing. People always tell you that when you thought about what you were doing, you suddenly wouldn't be doing it. Like you can't look down and you can't think of the word elephant and you can't be kissing Lorelai because that's just not something that you do because you're Luke. And kissing her…

Kissing her is amazing. Her mouth opens farther, allowing his tongue deeper inside, the warm, rough feel of it smoothing over hers. Lips and teeth touching and swimming in soft moans with minds of their own, intent on making themselves heard in the sudden quiet that surrounds them.

Her hands move up his arms to his shoulders and his slide around behind her, fitting perfectly in the small of her back as he inches her closer. Her nails dig in again, scratching and scraping lightly, finding the collar of his shirt and the skin beneath it, the short hairs that decorate the nape of his neck and send shivers down his spine.

The kiss ends, breaks suddenly, replaced by another, this one deeper. Harder and softer all at once. He doesn't know why he's kissing her or how he got there, but it feels right. She feels right, body pressed to his. He can feel the hardness of her nipples as they graze his chest and he wonders briefly what they would feel like against his skin.

She moans again as his body reacts to the thought, his thigh between her legs, the hard pressure of his response to her body obvious as she rocks into him. He breaks the kiss, intentionally this time, drawing air into his tight lungs. He looks down at her and sees her for the first time as he's dreamt about her, imagined her.

Her hair's slightly messy from where his hands have tangled in it, and he wonders when he did that, how he missed the silkiness against his palms, how he forgot the feel of it cascading between his fingers. She moves against him in a full-body shiver and he remembers how he forgot. Her lips are swollen from his kisses, the skin around them rosy from the stubble that decorates his face. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, are smoky with desire.

"What are we doing?" She whispers the words, afraid of them, but afraid not to say them. There's an urge, a strong desire for him to kiss her and shut her up and carry her up the stairs to his bedroom and make love to her all night long. It's almost overwhelming, but there's a part of her that's afraid that doing any of that, doing what they've already done will change, irrevocably, what he is to her, and she needs what he is to her. So much.

"Kissing," he deadpans, his eyes searching hers. She holds his gaze and all thought is lost, everything surrendered to the heat she sees there, feels in him. "Each other, as far as I can tell."

She laughs and he sighs, knowing that as long as he can make her laugh it's all going to work out somehow, even if it's different than the how it is now. She reaches up and touches his bottom lip then stands on tiptoe to capture it between her teeth. She licks and sucks at the flesh before releasing it, sinking back down onto the floor. "I'm scared."

"It's only me."

"That's what scares me." Tears are standing in her eyes and he wipes them away before they can fall. "What do we do now?"

He nods toward the doorway, the privacy of his room. Jess is gone somewhere, and he doesn't care at the moment. The lights are still on in the diner and anyone walking by could see them, probably has seen them, but he doesn't care right now. Later he'll care. Later she'll care. But he knows, senses, that maybe this is his one shot and if he doesn't take it, it won't come again. Things have already been changed. Might as well make it worthwhile.

"Do you trust me, Lorelai?"

"With my life," she breathes.

He doesn't say anything else, can't around the lump lodged in his throat. Emotions aren't something he's good at, but she brings them out in him and he surrenders to them. Doesn't know how not to when it's because of her. He laces his fingers through hers and leads her through the diner, skirting around the counter and hitting the lights just before he opens the door to the upstairs.

He can hear the slightly milky sound of her tears and he closes his eyes for a second before stopping on the landing and opening the door to his home. He stops and turns, looks at her in the dim light that burns above the stove. "Don't cry."

"I think I'm happy."

"I hope you'll know by the time we're finished."

"I know I'm scared."

He holds up his hand, let her see the tremor that ran through it. She smiles through her tears and reaches out and catches his hand, bringing it to her lips. She kisses each fingertip then his palm then pushes the flannel out of the way to kiss the rapid pulse at his wrist. Her tongue traces the vein a short way then she pulls back, guiding his hand to her cheek and turning her head to kiss it again.

"Lorelai?"

She opens her eyes and looks at him, smiling that smile that he's ached to see aimed his direction for years, too many years. "Luke," she nods, biting her lower lip and smiling all at once. He groans softly, the sound barely a low rumble in his chest as he drops his hand to her shoulder and guides her against him.

Her fingers play over his chest, pushing the flannel over his broad shoulders toward the ground. He shrugs out of it, bringing his hands back to her, to exploring. He touches her arms and hips, trailing fingers up her sides until he brushes the underside of her breasts. She gasps softly, trembling, then tugs at his t-shirt, pulling it free of his jeans and pushing it up his chest.

Rough hair warms her palms as he releases her and grabs the shirt, lifting it over his head and tossing it away, the dull thunk of his baseball cap hitting the floor lost in the building heat of the room. Her hands explore him, palms flat over his chest, trapping the hard nubs of his nipples beneath them before sliding lower, smoothing over his abdomen and the darker hair that swirled beneath the waistband of his jeans.

He shakes his head, causing the swimming sensation to worsen. His fingers are clumsy as they attempt to free the small delicate buttons of her blouse from their homes, working them methodically, darting an occasional glance at them when she releases him from soul-searing kisses.

He gives up with a frustrated moan, pulling away from her addictive mouth and sliding the shirt over her head, his hands gliding over her creamy flesh, pushing the fabric up secondary to the lush feel of her. Her dark hair waterfalls down her back as it slips free of the shirt, pooling blackly against her creamy skin, the darkness blending lusciously with the deep purple of her bra.

He smoothes his hands over the lingerie, feeling the soft lace as it tickles his palm, easing the straps down her arms. He wants to touch and see and taste all of her, but the need to go slow, to prolong every moment is paramount. It falls from her skin like silk, slipping over the swell of her breasts as he managed to unhook the front clasp in one easy movement.

The reaction is too much to contain as he looks at her, unable to control his low gasp, the hot, hungry need that overwhelms him. "My God," he whispers, his fingers caressing her skin, touching her everywhere.

"God, huh?" She manages the words, the husky tone letting him know that she is just as deeply affected as he. Her hand curls around the back of his head and she guides him down to the warm air that encases the creamy flesh. "Worship here."

He does as she asks, his mouth closing over the hard tip, heat engulfing her. Her whimper fills him, fills the room, as her fingers entangle in his hair and hold him close. He treats the flesh gently, rolling it over his tongue, sucking lightly. Her body tenses and trembles in his hands, his fingers firm against her thighs, sliding over the gauzy fabric of her skirt.

Her breath is coming fast, high, whispered pants of desire, his name falling helplessly from her lips as her nails scrape his scalp, her hips rolling forward toward his. He pulls away slowly, hating to release her for even a moment, turning his attention to her other breast, treating it to the same delicate torture.

Lorelai shivers above him and he murmurs her name against her skin. Her chest shakes with reaction as his fingers find the zipper to her skirt and slide it down. Lace and satin and other softness falls away and he touches her hips. He leaves her breast and steps back, staring down at her, at the slight wisp of her purple underwear standing out sharply against her skin. Without thinking, he sinks to his knees and holds her hips, bringing his lips against her stomach.

Lorelai's eyes close and she reaches out for something to grasp, clutching air. He traces the slight discoloration of her skin with his tongue, nibbling the taut flesh around her navel. Blushing, she stares down at him as he looks up at her. "You're beautiful."

His fingers hook in her waistband and ease her panties to the floor. His head swims with the scent of her, the sweet musk of arousal. He kisses the tangle of hair at the apex of her thighs, allowing his tongue to slip in the slight indentation of flesh, teasing. It's heady, stealing his breath and thoughts, just the slight taste of her on his tongue.

She utters a soft protest and he looks up at her, afraid for a moment that he's done something wrong. She reaches for him and he gets to his feet, unwilling to deny her anything. He steals glances at her naked body that turn into stares, not wanting, not able to look away. She blushes and he revels in it. Not because he's embarrassing her, because he knows he isn't, but because the fire inside him is a mutual thing, she's feeling the burn just as hotly as he is.

Her fingers find his belt and unfasten it, pushing the worn leather out of the way to unbutton his jeans. Denim whispers against skin as she pushes his jeans over his hips, her fingers catching in the cotton of his boxer-briefs and guiding them down as well. He kicks his shoes free as she closes her eyes, moving down his body without looking. He steps out of the tangle of clothes, just one step, closer but not too close. She stands and takes a deep breath, opening her eyes as she exhales.

Her face is serene as she lets her eyes move down his body. She pauses in her estimation of him, though not always in the places he expects. She stops at the tattoo, everyone does, and he can see the questions in her eyes and knows she wants to ask them, wants to tease him unmercifully. She stops at the scar on his hip and the questions are laced with concern as she reaches out, her hand hovering over the mark.

"You can touch me." It doesn't sound like his voice as it slips past his lips, husky and wanting, hard and hot all at once.

"I can." It's half-statement, half-question, but she does what he wants and presses her fingers lightly against his hip. She traces the thin line, watching her fingers move. He aches, his body responding to her touch, erection moving, thrusting, wanting to feel her. She's naked and close and he never thought he'd be there, much less that she'd be torturing him like this.

No, he expected there'd be torturing.

"Lorelai…"

She shakes her head and places her other hand on his opposite hip. She holds him loosely before sliding her hands up over his stomach and chest then back down. Her eyes flutter closed, her lashes dancing on her cheeks. He wants to kiss her, wants more than that, but he lets her feel him, lets her palms wreak havoc on his nervous system as she guides them back down to his hips. Her hold is firmer and she plants a teasing kiss on one hard nipple. Her tongue flickers over the firm skin and he shivers, wondering how she knows where to touch him, wondering even more if it matters where, so long as it's her.

She looks up at him and he sees it in her eyes. She wants him. Needs him. She's as scared and as hungry as he is, but she's not sure, even completely naked before him, if she should take this last step. He wants to say the right thing, but words aren't his specialty. His specialties run in burgers and fries and other things that he makes just for her, because for too long she's been the only thing that governed him.

Even Nicole. His first date with her had been laced with Lorelai, like minute traces of poison drizzled in to sabotage any chance for anything that wasn't with her. She reaches up and touches his lips, her eyes serious. She shakes her head and he can almost see the shiver of fear that dimples her skin. "Don't think," she begs him softly, tears suddenly welling in the clear blue. "Please?"

"I can't think." He touches her shoulder, his fingers slipping down to her breast, cupping it, caressing it. "Not about anything but you."

She smiles and the tears abate, but there's still something behind her eyes. "You realize we're standing here in the middle of your apartment, completely naked, and we're talking."

"It seems kind of…"

"Shut up and kiss me."

He does, lifting her out of the muddle of her skirt, her high heels still on her feet. She wraps her legs around him lightly, their bodies fitting together, her arms around his shoulders. She's grinning and the air is lighter, the bed against his knees. He wonders where the urgency is, why he doesn't want to simply throw her down and take her. It's been a long time since Rachel left him, he should need her beyond comprehension. Does need her that much. But knows, maybe, that this may be his only time, his only chance.

Her eyes are watching his and she touches his lips, tracing them with infinite care. "I love you, Lucas Danes," she whispers. They both know it may not mean what they both want it to mean, deep down inside, but it's enough. He lowers her to the bed gently, following her as she moves further up the mattress. His knees hit the end of the bed and he's between her spread legs and he wants to taste her.

She's ivory skinned and it smells like vanilla. The darkness of the hair between her thighs draws him and he inches up her body, kissing the inside of her thigh as he edges closer. She touches him, reaches for him and he wants to ignore her, avoid her, wants to do what he wants, wants to taste her and please her, wants to make her writhe with hunger and need until she realizes that he's the only one that can make her feel that way.

But sex is just sex and it's not what he wants from her, not in the long run, not solely. So he lets her guide him up, kissing her breasts fleetingly before finding her lips again, holding her as she strokes his back, resisting the urge to be inside her for as long as he can.

He licks the hollow of her neck, nibbling the firm skin there and he wonders how he'll ever taste anything again. He's inundated with her and she'll be with him, inside him, forever now and he wonders if it's enough. She murmurs his name, bringing his face back up to hers and kissing him, sucking on his tongue, guiding it into her mouth then releasing it, repeating the gesture until he moans into the kiss, reaching down to guide his cock inside her.

He's read enough to know what this moment should be, the choirs of angels and the bells ringing and the overall realization that she's the one, but he realized that a long time ago and really all it feels like it heat. Overwhelming, heart-stopping heat that sheaths him. He wants to moan, but can't find the strength or the words or the reason. Instead he just pushes into her, rolling into a steady rhythm as her legs slide around his. They move together, their lovemaking falling into the routine of their conversations. Give and take, lunge and parry. They finish each other's sentences; they collide hungrily with every stroke.

Her skin glistens with perspiration and she's moaning softly, whimpering and begging. He closes his eyes and focuses on her words, needing to hear her ask him not to stop, never to stop. He hasn't done this for a long time, but he's good at it, strong and willful, good at prolonging his own torture, needing to prolong hers.

She never stops moving, never stops talking, whispering words of encouragement and need, his name falling like honey from her lips. He soaks up every word, will replay them in his head over and over again for the rest of his life. No matter what happens from today forward, this time comes only once and he burns it into his brain. Her smell and taste and feel, forever etched in his mind, adding to the image of her that lives there all the time.

He feels her body tighten and increases his pace, wanting to push her completely over the edge. It's selfish, he knows, but he needs to feel her lose control for him, because of him. Needs to feel the sweet rush of her orgasm as it coats him, surrounds him, sets his blood boiling. He whispers her name, panting it really, almost too far gone himself to think rationally.

She stops moving beneath him, her body arched off the bed and into his, her mouth open on a quiet gasp. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe, failing miserably for a few seconds that end with a heated flood surging around his thrusting cock. He wants to ride out the wave of her climax, but he knows, for all his strength, when it comes to her, he's helpless, hopeless. Hopeful. He closes his eyes, his muscles tensing like corded steel as he finds her lips and kisses the breath out of her, taking it for his own as his own orgasm crashes into her, thrusting hard and deep and fast until they're both out of breath, collapsed on the bed, on each other, time standing still before racing forward, much like their hearts.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but waking is more of a nightmare, his arm reaching out for the empty space that used to contain her. He's suddenly hit with the realization that, now that she's actually been there, the empty space will hurt more than it ever did before. He sits up, part of his mind wondering if she draped the sheet over him before she left of it he managed to find it in his sleep.

"Hey."

He searches her out in the dark room, smiling when he sees her in the shadow of the window, the stars the town is named for shining down on her, just enough to offer him a ghostly silhouette. He scratches his jaw, wincing at the rough hairs there, wondering if excusing himself to shave would be too much of a giveaway that he wanted to bury his tongue between her thighs. "Hey there."

"Sleep well?"

"What time is it?"

"Three in the morning. Jess got home about an hour ago."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Not long," she lies, knowing by her own admission that she's been up at least an hour. "I needed coffee."

He chuckles and shakes his head, lecture implied but not given. She stands and takes his breath away. She's wearing his flannel shirt, unbuttoned like he wears it, but completely different in the way it molds to the swells and curves of her flesh, and his baseball cap, her hair wild beneath the backwards bill. "It looks better on you."

"Yeah, but you'd look ridiculous in my skirt, so I think we're going to have to bypass them as Halloween costumes." She catches the cap in her fingers and lets it fall to the floor. Hunger pools in his stomach but the growl issues from his lips. She smiles and crawls up the bed, his shirt almost at her knees, her breasts occasionally peeking out from behind the soft fabric.

"You look good in my clothes."

"So do you."

He catches the shirt with his fingers and eases it down over her shoulders as she straddles him, the sheet somehow moved from in between them. She closes her eyes as she slides down his shaft, letting him fill her as he lets the shirt fall onto his thighs. "You look better out of them."

She grabs his shoulders and begins moving, her hips rolling into his slow and steady. "So do you."

He likes her in control, it fits them better, since when it comes to her, he always feels like he's careening from something. She stares into his eyes as she moves above him, her body tight and muscular, despite what she eats and what she drinks and the fact that she does nothing resembling exercise. She constricts around him and he groans, her smile knowing. She keeps him in the moment with soft touches and gentle breaths that shiver over his sweaty skin. She keeps grabbing his hands, refusing to let him touch her, knowing that something inside him wants to grab her and bury her beneath him. She smiles and he's lost, falling farther than ever before.

"You keep this up, Luke Danes, and I'm going to have to strap you down to this bed."

He groans again and he can't help himself, the mental image her words invoke breaking the last of his control. He thrusts up into her and shudders the short distance back to the mattress, his skin on fire as she smiles again, raking her nails down his chest. He feels the aftershocks tremoring through him, still thrusting, still surrounded by her. She takes his hands in hers and guides them to her breasts, his fingers obeying her wordless commands.

Her breathing grows shallower and he feels the satisfaction that comes from knowing she's close to the edge. He knows her so well that, as completely foreign as it is, knowing her like this is no different. She lets her head fall back, her hair painting her back as she cries out quietly, her lips pressed together to keep Jess from hearing the plaintive sound. He lets her envelop him, slick and smooth and hot like melted chocolate. She grasps his wrists, holding his hands captive against her breasts, her chest heaving with every breath as she slowly begins to come back to earth.

She leaves in the morning just a few moments before his alarm goes off. He's feigning sleep and he imagines that she knows it, but he also knows that this isn't easy for her. She's never good at admitting mistakes and, if he knows her, she's going to disappear for a while. She needs the space to figure it all out. He knows her well enough to know that the thought shouldn't hurt, but it does, nonetheless.

He turns over and watches her slip out of his bedroom, her high heels clicking on the solid wood floor, her skirt and shirt in disarray, the whole mess hidden very neatly by the stolen flannel shirt she's got draped over her shoulders.

He sighs and falls back on the bed, closing his eyes. Reliving her again. For the first time.