Chapter Twelve
~ Quiad ~
The shop was silent when we got back, the world gone blue at the edges and the only light what the moon leaked through the grimy loft windows.
I walked Levi up the stairs, my hand at the small of his back—not because he needed steadying, but because I needed the contact, something to convince myself he was real and not just another thing the world had left me for dead.
Inside, I locked the door behind us, turning the deadbolt with a force that was probably unnecessary. I didn’t bother with lights. There was nothing up here anyone needed to see—just my bed, the big ugly dresser, the kitchen counter loaded down with more bills and blueprints than groceries.
I turned to face Levi and found him backlit by the window, shoulders hunched and eyes fixed on the floor. The moon painted his face in slices, the blue and the gray. He looked tired, but not fragile. Not anymore.
I crossed the room in two steps, wrapped my arms around his waist, and pulled him in hard enough that our hips clapped together. He sucked in a breath, mouth opening, and I kissed him before he could even close it.
There was nothing slow about it—my tongue pushed past his lips, my hands fanned flat on his back, locking him in. He kissed back, harder, like he’d been holding it in all night.
When we broke apart, we were both gasping. He tried to speak, but I caught his jaw in my palm and tilted his head up to meet me.
“Don’t,” I said. “Just let me.”
He swallowed, Adam’s apple working. “Okay,” he breathed, and it was more of a prayer than a word.
I shoved his hoodie off his shoulders, fingers snagging on the collar. The static snapped, little sparks lighting in my head with every inch of skin I uncovered.
His t-shirt followed, crumpled to the floor, and I got my first look at the tattoo since the scab had healed—a dark band circling his wrist, my name there, permanent and clean.
He shivered, but not from the cold.
I ran my thumb over the ink, then up his forearm, feeling the tension knotted under the skin. He reached for me, but I caught his hands and pinned them behind his back, just for a second, letting him feel the power of it.
“Missed you,” I said, voice rough as sandpaper.
He smiled, the old mischief flickering back for a second. “I’ve been with you all night.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I said it into his hair, my mouth pressed to the crown of his head. He smelled like lemon soap and the faint, metallic edge of adrenaline.
I kissed him again, slow at first, then harder, letting the need catch fire. My hands roamed down his spine, over the sharp rise of his shoulder blades, down to the waistband of his jeans. I slid my fingers under the denim, palms cupping his ass, and he made a noise that was half-laugh, half-moan.
He tried to tug at my shirt, but his hands fumbled, shaking, so I peeled it off myself. My own skin was hot, slick with a thin sheen of sweat from the walk, from the way my body had been wired since dinner, every muscle waiting for this moment.
I pressed him back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. He fell, landing on his ass, and looked up at me with those wide blue eyes, pupils blown wide in the dark.
“Take off your pants,” I said.
He grinned and shimmied them down, then lay back, one arm thrown over his face in mock-shame. “I look ridiculous.”
I stood over him, unbuckling my own jeans, and let him watch as I shucked them and my briefs in one go. My cock was already half-hard, standing out against my thigh. The cool air of the room made it twitch, and Levi’s eyes locked onto it, greedy.
“You look perfect,” I said, and meant it.
He kicked free of his socks, then scooted back on the bed, spreading his arms out and waiting.
I crawled over him, my weight pressing him into the mattress, pinning him in place.
I kissed a line down his neck, tasting the salt and the faintest hint of the pecan pie Ma had forced on us at dinner.
I sucked a bruise onto his collarbone, and he arched up, fingers digging into my shoulder blades.
“Quiad,” he whispered.
I answered by sliding my hand between his thighs, palming his cock, which was hot and damp at the tip. He gasped and bucked up, pushing into my grip.
I jerked him slow, the way I knew he liked, thumb circling the crown just enough to make his eyes roll back. My other hand went to his mouth, tracing his lower lip, and he sucked my thumb in, eyes never leaving mine.
There was nothing delicate about the way I wanted him. All the anger and fear from the week, all the helplessness, poured into every touch, every kiss. I wanted to mark him, to make sure nobody ever doubted who he belonged to.
He twisted under me, breaking the kiss, and bit my jaw hard enough to leave a mark. “Fuck me,” he said, voice breaking. “Please.”
I groaned, head spinning. The air in the loft was thick with sweat and the scent of cedar from the shop below. My hand shook as I fumbled for the lube on the nightstand, slicking my fingers and working one between his cheeks. He hissed, then melted, legs spreading wider, body eager.
I lined myself up, the head of my cock pressing against his entrance. I paused, forcing myself to breathe. “You want this?” I asked, the question more for me than him.
He nodded, wild-eyed. “Need it. Need you. Please, Quiad.”
That did it. Every last bit of control snapped.
I pushed inside, just the tip at first, then a little more. He was tight, always so fucking tight, and the heat nearly broke me. I took my time, inching in, letting him adjust, feeling the tremor in his legs and the way his hands gripped the sheets.
He moaned, loud, no hesitation. “More,” he gasped.
I bottomed out, hips flush against his ass, and held there, just breathing.
He looked up at me, eyes wet and wild. “Don’t stop. Not ever.”
I started to move, slow at first, then building, each thrust deep and purposeful. The bed creaked under us, the headboard knocking a rhythm against the wall. I watched the way his cock bobbed with every push, leaking onto his stomach, the sight of it spurring me on.
He reached down, trying to jerk himself, but I batted his hand away. “That’s mine,” I growled, and took over, matching my strokes to the pace of my hips.
He came first, back arching, cum striping his stomach in messy lines. I fucked him through it, not slowing, chasing my own release. He moaned, louder, the sound almost desperate, and I felt myself go, hot and electric, spilling into him in waves.
When it was over, I collapsed on top of him, both of us panting, sweat slicking our bodies together. For a long minute, neither of us spoke. I just lay there, my weight pinning him, feeling his heartbeat racing against my own.
He ran his fingers through my hair, gentle, then laughed, soft and happy. “You’re insane,” he said.
“Only for you,” I replied.
We stayed tangled like that, the moonlight painting us in silver and the world outside the windows holding its breath. And for the first time in a week, I felt like nothing and no one could ever take him away from me.
We lay there for a while, breathing each other in, the air thick and heavy as syrup.
Levi squirmed under me, a slow, lazy stretch that made every muscle in his back roll and flex.
I traced the line of his spine with two fingers, feeling the ridges, the warmth of him, the way he shivered at the touch.
He rolled his head to the side, hair sticking up like a field of wheat after a storm, and looked at me with a smug little grin.
“Again?” he said, voice soft, almost shy, but the challenge was there.
“Yeah,” I said, and slid my hand down his back, spreading his ass cheeks, running my thumb along the crack. He arched, pushing up into my hand, shameless and greedy.
I’d never seen him like this, so open, so fucking hungry. The moonlight cut through the window in sharp lines, and I saw the shadow of my hand span across his lower back, big enough to cover half of him.
“Up,” I said, nudging his thigh. He got on all fours, elbows down, cheek pressed to the pillow, ass up and waiting. The sight of it—the curve of his back, the little dip at the base of his spine, the tight clench of muscle—made my cock twitch back to life.
I gripped his hips, kneading the flesh, and bent down to mouth at the small of his back. He shivered, giggled, then gasped when I bit down, marking him with teeth. The skin tasted of salt and the faintest hint of pecan pie.
I licked a trail down, my tongue flat and wide, until I reached his hole. He moaned, low and guttural, when I circled it with the tip of my tongue, teasing the edge, then pressing in just a little. He writhed, hands fisting the sheets, hips pushing back into my face.
“Fuck, Quiad,” he panted. “Just—God, just do it, please.”
But I didn’t, not yet. I wanted to see how far I could take him, how much he’d beg before he broke.
I spat in my hand, slicked up two fingers, and worked them in, slow and careful. He was tight, but he opened up for me, greedy, sucking my fingers in to the knuckle. I curled them, massaging the inside wall, and he jerked, a high whine in his throat.
“That’s it,” I murmured, voice so low I barely heard it myself. “Take it. Take me.”
He whimpered, grinding back on my hand, trying to fuck himself on my fingers.
I pumped them in and out, twisting, scissoring, feeling him stretch, feeling the heat and the pulse of blood in the delicate flesh.
I leaned in, kissed his lower back, and nipped him again, a mark for every time someone had tried to take him away from me.
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a garbled string of yes, please, more. I smiled into the skin of his ass, then pulled my fingers out, making him whine at the loss.