Chapter 17
AMELIA
Iwoke up to the sound of water.
Soft and steady, the hull cutting through the harbor in a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. For a confused second, I thought I was back on some transport ship in the Gulf, wedged between crates and correspondents, counting the hours until we hit land.
Then I rolled, my cheek brushed warm skin, and everything came rushing back.
Dominion Hall. Byron Dane alive. Charlie a brother. Secrets, half-truths, and that card on the linen tablecloth like a bomb.
And Levi.
His chest was under my palm, solid and warm, rising and falling in slow, even breaths. His arm was heavy around my waist, his hand resting low on my hip, fingers curled like he’d claimed the territory in his sleep and had no intention of giving it back.
The yacht rocked gently, sun slipping in around the edges of the blackout shades. The room smelled like him—clean soap, salt, something darker that had clung to my clothes since the first time I’d followed him into a tent.
I let myself lie there and just … watch him.
It felt almost intrusive, seeing his face like this. No walls, no mission, no father standing ten feet away. Just Levi. Lashes dark against his cheekbones, mouth relaxed, a faint furrow still between his brows like even his dreams weren’t entirely safe.
Two years of anger had told me I didn’t miss him anymore.
My body disagreed.
Every place we touched hummed, awareness curling low and hot. My leg was slotted between his. My T-shirt—the one he’d dragged over my head last night when we’d finally stopped talking and just held on—had ridden up, baring skin to the cool air and the heat of his palm.
I shifted, and his fingers flexed in his sleep, tightening on my hip.
“Careful,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “You’re poking the bear.”
I swallowed a smile. “You were awake.”
“Mostly.” He cracked one eye open, took me in, and whatever tension was in his features loosened. “Morning, Emerson.”
The way he said my last name always did something to me. Like he was saying mine in a language only we spoke.
“Morning,” I said softly.
We stayed like that for a beat—studying each other, accounting for what had shifted overnight. The boat rocked. Somewhere above us, I heard faint footsteps on deck, distant enough to feel unreal.
“Sleep at all?” he asked.
“A little.” I traced a small, absent-minded circle on his chest. His heart beat steady under my fingers. “You?”
“Eventually,” he said. “Had a pretty good anchor.” His thumb stroked over my hip, slow and idle, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
Heat bloomed under my skin.
It would’ve been easy to look away, to deflect with a joke, to pretend this was just proximity and adrenaline.
Instead, I held his gaze.
“Say it again,” I murmured.
His brow creased. “Say what?”
“That you love me.”
There. No backing down now.
Something raw flickered in his eyes. He didn’t look away. He didn’t hesitate.
“I love you,” he said simply. “I loved you two years ago. I loved you when you were yelling at me in the hotel lobby yesterday morning. I loved you last night when you told my father you were with me, and I damn sure love you right now.”
The words hit like incoming fire, but instead of blowing holes in me, they filled something in.
I exhaled slowly. “Good,” I said. “Because I love you, too.”
His hand tightened on my hip.
“I know,” he said, voice gone low. “You said so. In front of my father. Which is objectively cruel.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Cruel?”
“You dropped the L-word in a room where I couldn’t throw you against a wall, and you know what that does to a man in my condition.”
“Your condition,” I echoed, amused.
“Fragile,” he said gravely. “Emotionally compromised. High risk of doing something stupid for you.”
“That’s new?” I asked.
He smiled—soft, crooked, the one he never let anyone else see. “Fair point.”
His hand slid from my hip to the small of my back, dragging me closer until there wasn’t room for even air between us. The sheet tangled around our legs, the cotton dragging over skin. I could feel every inch of him, hot and solid and very far from fragile.
My pulse stuttered.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat, something between a groan and a laugh, and then his mouth was on mine.
The first kiss was unhurried. His lips were warm, his stubble scraping faintly against my skin, grounding me. He kissed me like we had all the time in the world and no time at all, contradictions layered like everything else between us.
I opened for him, and the kiss deepened.
Flashes of memory sparked. This was different. Still hungry, still threaded with urgency, but there was something else now. A steadiness. A claim.
His hand slid up my spine, under the hem of my T-shirt, fingers splaying against bare skin. I sucked in a breath at the contact, heat licking up my back.
“Still okay?” he murmured against my mouth.
I nodded, words not entirely accessible.
“Use your words, Emerson,” he said, that faint command in his tone sending a shiver through me.
“I’m okay,” I managed. “More than okay.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I’ve been trying very hard to behave.”
“Have you?” I arched a brow. “Because from where I’m lying, bringing me to your private yacht is a bold choice for a man planning on behaving.”
“Technically, it’s my father’s yacht,” he said, kissing the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the sensitive spot just below my ear.
His teeth grazed my skin, and my breath caught.
“Levi.”
“Yeah?”
“Less talking,” I said.
He laughed against my throat, the sound vibrating through me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The T-shirt went first.
He took his time with it, hands sliding under the fabric, palms mapping my waist, my ribs, the curve of my back like he was committing topography to memory.
When he finally tugged it up over my head and tossed it toward the chair, the air hit my skin, cool and sharp, and goosebumps chased his touch.
His gaze swept over me, and the look in his eyes made me feel like I’d stepped out of my own body for a second.
Not appraising. Not casual.
Reverent.
“You’re staring,” I said, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
“Correct,” he said. “Highly recommended activity.”
I would’ve made a snarky reply if he hadn’t leaned in and kissed down the line of my throat, his hand splaying flat over my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles that made my thoughts fizz.
Two years of distance collapsed into that touch. All the nights I’d lain awake, replaying fights and almosts, wondering if he missed my body as much as I hated missing his. All the times I’d tried to banish the feel of his hands from my muscle memory.
Apparently, my muscle memory had staged a quiet rebellion.
We’d had sex yesterday—hot, angry, necessary—but this was different.
This was after the truth, after the confessions, after saying I love you with our whole chests.
This was touching him knowing we weren’t stealing moments anymore.
Knowing we weren’t temporary or doomed or pretending this was just closure.
I slid my hands under his shirt in turn, feeling the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his back. He let me strip it off. It landed somewhere near the chair with mine, forgotten.
Skin to skin, everything else went quiet.
No mansion. No card. No father. Just him, the steady thud of his heart under my palm, the warm slide of his hands over my body, the taste of his mouth.
He rolled, bringing me under him, bracing his weight on his forearms so he didn’t crush me. The movement knocked a laugh out of me, more from surprise than anything.
He froze. “Too much?”
“Not enough,” I said.
He smiled against my lips, and then there wasn’t much talking.
The rest blurred into sensation—his mouth, his hands, the way he knew exactly where to touch, when to slow down and when to push. The way he listened with his whole body, adjusting to every sound I made like we were running a mission and the objective was my undoing.
I’d always admired his focus in the field.
It translated.
The world narrowed to the two of us, the creak of the bed, the muted slap of water against the hull. The yacht rocked under us, and for once, I didn’t feel off-balance. I felt … anchored. Like the center of gravity had finally shifted to where it was supposed to be.
Levi’s mouth left mine only to trail fire down my throat, teeth scraping until my head fell back against the pillow.
The low growl he gave when I arched into him vibrated through my skin.
His hand slid up my ribcage, slow, deliberate, thumb brushing the underside of my breast like he was memorizing the weight of it.
“Amelia.”
He said it like a prayer and a warning at once, rough and reverent. Not Emerson. Amelia.
Then his mouth followed his hand, tongue flicking over my nipple until it drew tight and aching. He sucked—hard—and the pull shot straight between my legs. My hips rolled up without permission, searching for friction, for him.
He knew. Of course, he did. Levi always knew.
His knee nudged my thighs apart, settling between them like he belonged there.
The cotton of his shorts and the thin silk of my panties were the only barriers left, and they felt criminal.
I clawed at the waistband, desperate, and he laughed—low, dark, the sound of a man who had no intention of rushing now that he had me.
“Easy,” he murmured against my breast. “I’ve got you.”
He did. God, he did.
He dragged his mouth lower, open-mouthed kisses over my stomach, tongue dipping into my navel just to make me squirm.
When he hooked his fingers into my panties and peeled them down my legs, the cool air hit me and I shivered.
Then his hands were back, spreading me open, and I forgot how to breathe.
He looked up the length of my body, eyes nearly black in the low light of the stateroom, and the raw hunger on his face stole what little air I had left. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, voice shredded. “Every inch of you.”
I laughed, breathless.