Chapter 11 Levi #2
“You’re the one with the badge,” he said.
“You want to arrest me for something, do it. You want to pin a murder you witnessed on me. I’d like to see how you manage that.
You want to throw me out, do it. You want something else—” He let the words hang between us, heavy and obvious. “That’s not all on me.”
I hated how much truth there was in that.
My hands bunched in his shirt. Warmth seeped through the thin cotton into my palms. I could feel his heart beating steadily as if none of this bothered him at all.
“Say what you want, Detective,” he murmured.
I didn’t say it.
I kissed him instead.
My mouth crashed into his, teeth knocking, lips scraping, and then I gentled it. Anger and want and confusion, all wrapped into one stupid decision, vanished in a moment and became something more.
He froze for a heartbeat, as if I’d surprised him, then his mouth opened beneath mine, and the world tilted.
He tasted of coffee and mint, and his hands came up slowly, as if he were giving me time to change my mind, then landed on my hips and pulled me in until there was no space left between us.
I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and kissed him deeper. I wanted control back. I wanted to be the one driving this, not dragged along behind it.
He let me bite his lower lip, angle his head where I wanted it, press him harder into the door until the frame groaned behind him.
A low sound rumbled in his chest. Not quite a moan. Not quite laughter. Something in between made my chest burn.
My hands slid down, over solid muscle, to his belt. I hesitated for half a second, then got my fingers under his dark hoodie and T-shirt, found bare skin. He was hot. Too hot. His stomach jumped under my palm.
“Detective,” he said, voice rough.
“Shut up,” I muttered against his lips.
His fingers dug into the back of my shirt. He didn’t try to take over, but he wasn’t passive either. He matched every push with a pull, every rough drag of my mouth with one of his own.
My brain fuzzed at the edges. For a while, there was nothing but the press of his body, the glide of his tongue, the burn of his stubble against my skin.
I could’ve stayed there forever.
That was the problem.
At some point, we moved. I wasn’t sure who started it. One second, he was pinned to the door, the next, we were stumbling deeper into the apartment, hands still on each other, feet tangling. We hit the back of the sofa. I shoved him down onto it and followed, knees bracketing his thighs.
“Fuck, Levi,” he murmured.
“Shut up,” I said again, but my voice came out hoarse.
I kissed him again, harder, chasing something I couldn’t even name. His touch roamed under my shirt, palms hot on my back. When he dragged his fingernails lightly over my spine, I groaned.
The kiss broke only long enough for him to gasp, and that sound went straight through me.
I hauled him up enough to get at his hoodie, dragging it off his shoulders while he helped in quick, rough movements.
We weren’t thinking, we weren’t talking—just tearing our way toward something inevitable and stupid and already too far gone.
He shifted under me, reached into his back pocket, and dropped a foil packet and a small bottle of lube onto the cushions beside us. Of course, he had them. Of course, he’d come prepared. The knowledge hit me low and hard.
“You came here planning this?” I breathed against his jaw.
“It’s all new to me, so I came here ready for whatever you decided,” he said.
“You mean you don’t make a habit of fucking with cops?”
“Or anyone,” he murmured.
That did something to me I couldn’t name. I shoved his pants down, rough with urgency, and he pushed up to help, his breath hot against my throat. My own clothes felt too tight, too slow; I got my jeans open with shaking hands, the need twisting tight in my gut.
He leaned over the back of the sofa, presenting his ass for me, legs parting without hesitation, staring over his shoulder, eyes fixed on me as if he was daring me to stop. I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I slicked my fingers and pressed one in, then two, fast but not careless. He took them as if he’d been waiting for it all damn day, letting out a low, broken sound that I awkwardly swallowed with my mouth when he half turned and I kissed him hard enough to bruise.
“Levi,” he said—but it wasn’t a warning. It was permission.
I tore the condom wrapper open with my teeth, rolled it on, and pushed one knee up, giving me my first—and probably only—look at him like this: open for me, flushed and ruined already, hole slick with lube and greedy, clenching as if it wanted more before I even gave it to him.
There was no slow build, no careful easing in.
I wanted it too much for that. I lined up, pressed forward, and he stiffened under me with a sharp, bitten-off gasp that nearly undid me.
“Fuck—” I groaned, holding there for a breath. “Bear down,” I ordered. He did, and I drove in, the heat of him gripping me.
“Move,” he demanded.
So, I did. Fast. Hard. Dirty. The sofa creaked under us, the room filled with the harsh slap of skin and our breathing—ragged, desperate, a rhythm made from bad decisions and worse timing.
I ignored doubt and fear. I rocked down harder.
The friction sent sparks up my spine. I wanted more.
I wanted all of it. I wanted enough to drown out the part of my brain screaming at me to stop.
He met every thrust as if he were trying to climb inside my skin, gripping the sofa, whispering god-knows-what in Spanish that made my blood heat and my cock ache.
I was gone in minutes, rutting into him with all the self-control of a man who hadn’t been touched in ages and had finally found someone who hit every raw nerve at once.
I gripped his cock—I wanted him to lose it first, ran my fist up and down his length, stopping and twisting at the top, and he came first, strangling my cock.
I lost whatever was left of my restraint, drove into him one last time, and let everything snap, heat flooding out of me in a wave that left my vision white for a second.
I collapsed over him, shoving him into the sofa, breath shaking, heart pounding against his back. He wrapped a hand around my wrist, not pulling me closer, just holding me there as if he didn’t want the moment to break yet.
And for a long, dangerous minute, neither did I.
“Levi,” he said, and I stilled, terrified about what he was going to say. “If we keep doing this, you’re going to forget you’re a cop, and I’m going to let you.”
That hit like a bucket of ice water.
The room snapped into focus—the low light, the half-closed blinds, the sound of traffic outside, the fact I was curved over a man I should’ve been arresting.
I pulled out, dealt with the condom, breathing hard, heart slamming against my ribs, and he turned and watched.
His chest was flushed, sweat cooling on his skin, his fist still slick where he’d finished, and his heavy-lidded gaze locked on me, and I knew he wasn’t done with me—not even close.
“Ask me questions now,” he said. “Before you decide you don’t care.”
My mouth was dry. My pulse thundered in my ears. There were a dozen questions I could’ve asked—who he worked for, what he’d done, why he’d really been at that warehouse.
Only one came out.
“Are you going to kill anyone else?” I asked.
He shoved me away, yanked up his pants, and silence dropped between us.
His expression changed. Not dramatically.
No flinch, no snarl, no big show of temper.
Just… nothing. The warmth in his eyes shut off like a light.
All that was left was the flat, cold man I’d seen with blood on his hands. He didn’t answer.
I pushed because apparently, I didn’t value my own life. “At the warehouse. The man in the chair. The one with his throat open. Where is his body? Who was he?”
Doc’s jaw tightened. “You sure you want that answer?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” My voice shook on the last word. I hoped he didn’t hear it.
He studied me for a long moment. Long enough that I became hyper-aware of him staring at me as I gripped his arm.
“Get off me, Detective,” he said finally. The shift back to titles was wrong, and it lodged under my skin more than it should’ve.
I let him go, and he stood in one smooth motion, adjusting his pants, tucking in his shirt, rolling his shoulders as though he was settling armor back into place.
“Fuck—” I started.
“Listen,” he said. Not loud. Final. “He was someone who worked for me. He broke the rules. I didn’t kill him, but I could have. I’ve killed before, so how does that make you feel knowing you fucked a killer?”
How did I feel? Compromised. Confused.
He’d said the dead man had sold Rourke, for parts, I assume.
A man who’d still been alive when he’d left Doc, so fuck, no wonder I felt like my brain was splitting in two.
I should’ve been laser-focused on labeling Doc a bad guy, on pinning him down as the monster he kept hinting he was, but instead it all niggled at me, twisting things until I couldn’t see straight.
“You can’t handle all of this with me,” he said and stepped closer, and for a second I thought he was going to grab me again, or kiss me, or both. Instead, he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb over my lower lip, just once, as though he were erasing the feel of his lips from it.
“Don’t tell me what I can handle,” I snapped.
“You couldn’t even handle not letting me in,” he said softly.
Then he stepped back, turned, and walked to the front door as though he’d lived here his whole life and knew the way out in the dark.
“Are you going to keep coming back?” I asked, hating how raw it sounded.
He didn’t look at me when he answered. “Depends,” he said. Hand on the doorknob. “On whether you keep letting me in.”
The door opened. Closed.
Silence rushed in to fill the space he’d left behind.
The room still smelled like him—clean soap and something darker—and it made my skin crawl as I stood there in the middle of my living room, heart still racing, mouth swollen, skin buzzing.
My pulse didn’t slow, not even when I told myself he was gone.
He was dangerous, and the part of me that didn’t want him to stay away scared me more than that ever could.