Chapter 14 Alejandro
FOURTEEN
Alejandro
I figured Levi was used to me breaking in by now.
He didn’t even flinch when he saw me—just lifted a brow as if this was normal.
Maybe it was. This was the tenth time I’d shown up uninvited at his place, not that I was counting.
Except I was. Every visit, every late-night drop-in, every time he didn’t tell me to get the hell out… it stuck.
I told myself it was convenient. Proximity. Habit. But the truth was uglier: I liked knowing he was okay with me being here. I liked that he wasn’t surprised anymore.
I kept count because it mattered. Because every time I showed up, and he didn’t tell me to get out, something in my chest eased. Because the part of me that still expected every door to be slammed in my face… didn’t know what to do with a man who kept opening his.
I shouldn’t have liked it. I shouldn’t have needed it. But I did.
Every visit was rough kissing, shoving at each other, getting off fast and hard, and then I was gone within minutes. No talking. No staying. No softness. And every damn time, he watched me leave as if he wasn’t sure if I’d ever come back.
Tonight felt different. Marisol and the twins were safe at home, I’d shut off every work phone, and when I showed up at Levi’s, the usual script didn’t fit anymore.
I didn’t just want the heat and the rush and the leaving—I wanted to stay.
To breathe for five minutes without the world clawing at me.
Fuck knows why. It felt like an itch under my ribs, a pull I didn’t have a name for, but it almost hurt.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Of course, he noticed.
He always noticed. Even when I wished he wouldn’t. Even when the smartest thing I could’ve done was turn and walk right back out of the damn door.
“I decided today that I shouldn’t come back here,” I murmured.
Levi’s gaze fixed on me instantly—cop mode, but not cold. “But?”
“Fuck knows.” I didn’t know what to say.
That single word made something twist in my gut.
I wasn’t here because I needed anything from him.
That was the part that rattled me—I didn’t need him to live my life or do my work.
He was extra to it all. He was… mine… and I still came.
He didn’t buy my answer, and the way he stepped closer and examined my face as if he could read every fracture had my pulse kicking hard.
“You decided not to come back, because you worry I might find out who the real Alejandro is?”
“No… yes…” I winced. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I added. “So don’t go asking me why I’m here.”
He didn’t back off. Of course, he didn’t. “So, you decided you weren’t coming back, and yet—you’re here,” he snapped, not bothering to hide the bite in it. His gaze cut straight through me. “Why the fuck even say that?” His lip curled, anger in every word. “Is this some soft-as-fuck exit speech?”
“Don’t.” I cut him off, sharper than I meant to.
His words hit too close—as if he thought I was running, lying, doing what I always did.
And maybe I was. But the sting of it, the way it dug under my ribs, wasn’t anger.
It was fear. Frustration. The kind of hurt I wasn’t supposed to feel, not with him. Especially not with him.
Levi’s jaw flexed. He didn’t push again. That almost made it worse.
“I’m not leaving. I wasn’t sure I wanted to come, but I’m staying, and I want… more.”
“‘More’?” His fingers brushed my elbow. Light. Careful. I could’ve stepped away. I didn’t. Stupid. When I faced him, he looked tired and stubborn and so damn real.
I grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric hard enough that my knuckles ached.
“I want to feel,” I said, the words ripped out of me before I could stop them. “I want you to fuck me, and I want to know what it’s like to feel. Not numb. Not going through the motions. Actually feel.”
He gripped my hand. “Alejandro—”
“Stop talking,” I said, and kissed him.
He made a rough sound, surprise and hunger tangled together, and then his hands were on my waist, pulling me in, his mouth opening beneath mine. No hesitation. No flinching. Only heat and want and something that felt a hell of a lot like relief.
Every other time, it had been sharp, frantic.
A way to shut each other up. This time was slower, deeper.
I took his bottom lip between my teeth until he gasped, then soothed the sting with my tongue.
He shuddered, and I guided him down the hall to his bedroom, pushed him until the backs of his knees hit the bed.
He went down with a soft grunt, dragging me with him, my knees bracketing his thighs.
For a heartbeat, we stared at each other, breathing hard.
My hands slid under his shirt, over warm skin and hard muscle. His heart hammered against my palm. Not afraid. Wired. Turned on. For me.
“This okay?” I asked, voice lower than I intended.
“Yeah,” he said, a little hoarse. “More than okay.”
“Good.”
I took my time. Pushed his shirt up, watched the way his stomach jumped when my fingers traced the line of old scars. Not the neat surgical kind. The messy, life-happened kind. He tried to shrug it off, but I wouldn’t let him. I pressed my mouth to each one as if I were cataloging them. Mine now.
“Alejandro,” he groaned, hand curling in the sheets.
“Relax, Detective,” I smirked, getting back my confidence, then sat back on his thighs and stripped my shirt off.
His eyes went hot and dark, dragging over me like a touch.
For a second, I wanted to turn away, hide the ink and the bullet marks and the story written in skin.
Then his hand came up, fingertips ghosting over my ribs with a care that stole my breath.
“You’re stunning,” Levi said.
“Nobody’s ever called me that.”
“They should have.”
He sounded pissed about it. It did things to me.
Clothes became a problem, so we solved it, piece by piece, with too many hands and not enough patience.
I made him laugh once when I got stuck in my own sleeve; the sound loosened something in my chest. By the time we were pressed skin to skin, my head was buzzing, not from panic that I was risking everything, but from how right it felt.
“You sure?” Levi asked when I reached for the drawer by his bed and found what we needed.
“Yeah.” My voice didn’t shake. That surprised me. “But we do it my way.”
His lips twitched. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“Unfortunately.”
He let me take the lead. Let me set the pace, slow and controlled, every move deliberate.
No rush. No grabbing. No forcing. I rode his cock, deciding how close, how deep, how much.
He followed my cues as if he’d been doing it his whole life, hands firm on my hips but not pushing, not taking more than I gave.
I’d spent years letting pain happen to me because at least that was a choice. This was different. This was me choosing something that felt good—letting him in. Slow. Careful. He watched me the whole time, eyes wide and pupils blown, jaw clenched as if he was holding himself back from moving.
“Breathe,” he rasped. “Alejandro. Breathe.”
“I am,” I managed, although it didn’t feel like it. Everything was too much—the stretch, the heat, his hands, his voice, the way his control was hanging by a thread because I’d asked him for it.
“Tell me if—”
“I’ll tell you.” I leaned down, put my mouth to his, swallowed the rest of the sentence. We stayed like that, forehead to forehead, until the shaking in my thighs eased and the edge blurred into something else. Something better.
Then I moved again.
I set the rhythm, slow at first, testing, my palms spread on his chest, feeling every shudder, every pant. He let me use him, let me ride out every flicker of fear and want until they tangled into something hot and endless.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Shut up,” I said again, but there was no bite in it.
There was only him, and the way I found myself trusting him with parts of me I didn’t even like touching. Every time I shifted, his hands steadied me. Every time a flash of memory tried to drag me under, his voice was there, grounding me, telling me I was here, now, with him, not there.
Not with the cartel. Not with Raven. Not watching my mom die. Not in that house. Not a kid standing frozen while someone screamed.
Here. Now. Heat and sweat and the creak of the bed and his name breaking out of me like a prayer when everything went white-hot, and I lost the capacity to think.
I came first, with my nails digging into his chest and my head thrown back, a rough shout torn from me, and I didn’t care. For a few seconds, there was nothing but overwhelming release, my body squeezing around him so hard he swore.
He followed me over, hips jerking, breath hot and broken in my ear. I felt him let go, felt the tension snap out of him, and held on. Kept moving just enough to ride it down with him, to make sure he knew I was still there, still with him.
After, there was a lot of breathing. The good kind this time.
I wasn’t used to talking after sex. With anyone. But with him… it didn’t feel like stepping on a mine. It felt like something I almost wanted. Almost.
I collapsed onto his chest, boneless. He made a soft oof but didn’t push me off. One hand drifted up and down my spine in a lazy stroking motion that should’ve annoyed me, but didn’t.
“Okay?” he murmured into my hair.
I thought about lying. Habit. Defense.
“Yeah,” I said instead, quietly. “I’m okay.”
It felt like a confession.
We cleaned up in the clumsy, half-asleep way of two people whose legs didn’t want to work anymore. He tried to fuss; I swatted his hands away and did it myself. Then he grabbed a T-shirt for me that smelled like him, and I pretended not to care as I pulled it on.
When he slid back into bed, I hesitated. I could go. No one was chaining me here. I could be dressed and out the door in under a minute if I wanted.
“Stay,” he said, as if he could read my mind. He lifted the covers in invitation, not demand.
“This is a terrible idea,” I told him.
“Probably,” he agreed. “Stay anyway.”
I rolled my eyes, but my body was already moving.
I lay on my side, back to him, as far from a cuddle as I could manage.
The mattress dipped when he settled behind me.
There was a moment where neither of us breathed, waiting to see what would happen.
I pulled out my cell to check on my family, checked security at the house, and saw that all three were home, but I went through all the cameras anyway, in case one of them thought to slip out and leave their trackers behind.
Nope. They were all sleeping. Safe.
Levi’s hand landed on my hip. Light. Not holding but resting there, warm and solid.
“You’re okay,” he said into the dark.
I listened to his breathing even out, slow and steady, and let the weight of his hand keep me from drifting too far.
I lay there, staring at the shadows on his wall, and made myself a promise.
I was going to fix this.
The cartel. The organs. The people who thought they could carve up humans and sell them like car parts. The ones who’d turned my family into meat and thought they could do the same to anyone who got in their way.
I didn’t know how yet. Didn’t know who would have to die. Probably a lot of people. Maybe me.
But if I could stop it—if I could tear it all down and salt the earth—I could stop waking every day feeling like I was still fourteen and covered in someone else’s blood.
I could stop being afraid for Marisol and the twins.
For the first time in a long time, I think I wanted a later.
My eyes burned. I blinked hard until it passed. Eventually, the warmth and the steady rise and fall of Levi’s chest at my back dragged me under.
I fell asleep in a cop’s bed with his hand on my hip and the ghosts a little further away than usual.
Terrible idea.
Best one I’d had in years.