Chapter Twelve #2
I reached for the nightstand, fumbling for another condom. My hands shook—not from nerves, but from the need coiling tight inside me, almost painful. I rolled it on, slicked myself, then lined up, one hand steadying his hip, the other guiding my cock to his entrance.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes huge, mouth open. The moon caught the sweat on his face, the dark ring of the tattoo on his wrist. He lifted his arm, showing it off, a badge of ownership.
“Yours,” he said, voice breaking. “All yours.”
I growled, couldn’t help it. I pressed the head of my cock to his hole, pushed in slow, inch by inch, letting him feel every bit. He was so fucking tight, I almost lost it before I even got halfway. He hissed, then moaned, rocking back to meet me, taking me deeper.
I bottomed out, my hips flush against his ass, and for a second, neither of us moved. Just breathing, just feeling.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
“Good?” I rasped, barely holding on.
He nodded, forehead mashed to the pillow. “Fuck me, please. Hard.”
That was all the permission I needed. I started to move, slow at first, then faster, pounding into him, driving him down into the mattress.
My hands gripped his waist, holding him still, claiming him with every thrust. The bed creaked, the headboard thumping against the wall in a steady, punishing rhythm.
He was loud, shameless, every moan and gasp bouncing off the rafters. I watched the way his back arched, the way the muscles tensed and flexed with every thrust. I reached under, wrapped a hand around his cock, and jerked him in time with my movements.
He screamed, the sound tearing out of him raw and unfiltered, and came in hot, messy spurts all over the sheets. I didn’t stop, fucked him through it, chasing my own release. My balls drew up, the pleasure white-hot, and I came, grunting, hips stuttering as I emptied myself inside him.
Afterward, I slumped over him, my chest slick with sweat, breath heaving in and out like a bellows. I kissed his shoulder, bit the skin there, then licked the mark I’d left.
He collapsed onto his side, pulling me with him, our bodies tangled, sticky, perfect. We lay in silence, the only sound our breathing and the distant creak of the old building settling in the night.
He lifted his arm, showed me the tattoo again, and smiled. “Still yours,” he said.
“Forever,” I replied.
I pulled him close, cradling his body against mine, and for the first time in my life, I knew exactly where I belonged.
Right here, in the dark, with him.
I don’t know how long we lay there, locked together, sweat cooling on our skin. The moon had shifted, painting the walls with new shapes, the old wood of the loft casting jagged stripes across the bed.
Levi’s breath was still uneven, little gasps escaping every time I moved even a fraction, my cock still buried deep inside him. I held him there, refusing to let the world sneak back in.
He reached for my hand, searching blind, and when he found it, he threaded our fingers together. The tattoo on his wrist pressed up against the backs of my knuckles, a burn mark where we’d fused ourselves together.
“Don’t ever leave me,” he said, barely a whisper.
“Never,” I promised, and meant it.
I pulled out slow, careful not to hurt him, then tugged him back into my lap, cradling him with my whole body.
He melted, head falling against my chest, his arms looping around my neck.
His skin was hot, slick with the mess of what we’d done, and I didn’t give a shit about the sheets or the sweat or anything else.
All that mattered was the weight of him, the solid proof he was still mine.
The apartment was silent except for the sound of our breathing and the tick of the old clock over the stove. Even the noise from the shop below had gone quiet for the night; it was just us and the moon, and the ghost of a future neither of us was scared of anymore.
I kissed the top of his head, smoothing the hair back. He closed his eyes, a little smile on his lips, and let me hold him. He fit perfectly in my arms, every line and angle locking into place with mine. I curled around him, one hand splayed across his chest, the other tangled in his hair.
He shivered, a little aftershock, and pulled the blanket over us. His fingers traced lazy circles on my forearm, never quite stopping at the tattoo.
“I used to dream about this,” he said. “Not just the sex. All of it. The bed, the dark, the feeling that nothing could touch me if you were holding on.”
I tightened my grip, the old violence in my heart replaced by something softer. “You’re safe,” I said, voice thick. “You’re always safe here.”
He smiled, drifting, and I felt the tension drain from him, the last ghosts of his old life bleeding away.
We didn’t talk much after that. Words weren’t needed. I just held him, keeping him anchored, the two of us tangled together while the moon kept watch.
Eventually, he fell asleep, his breathing slow and even. I lay awake a while longer, memorizing the feel of him, the sound of his heart, the way he twitched sometimes in his dreams but always settled when I pressed a kiss to his temple.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t waiting for the world to go bad. For the first time, I let myself believe that maybe this could last. That maybe, just maybe, we’d already won.
I let sleep take me, Levi curled up in my arms, the dark outside locked out by the strength of what we’d built together. And I knew, deep down, that nobody would ever take him from me again.