Chapter XVI
XVI
Ana
As Levi walks to the bathroom, I take in the view. Muscular thighs, defined back, tight ass for me to ogle. The knot of desire in my core starts to tighten again.
“Don’t move,” I whisper to myself with a laugh. As if I could—he turned me boneless two minutes ago with just his fingers and his words. Sweet, supportive Levi has a dirty mouth, and I, apparently, have a praise kink.
He shuts the door behind him before sauntering over to the bed as though he has all the time in the world. As though his dick isn’t rock hard, and I’m not wet from the sight of it.
He stops short before crawling onto the mattress. “Just want to take a mental picture of you sprawled out on this bed before we make a mess of it,” he says with a smirk.
I push up on my hands, sticking out my chest and twisting my hips to give my best pin-up girl impression.
Letting someone look at me like this is new.
Though I’m plenty aware of my imperfections—my stretch marks and my cellulite—I can’t be bothered to care when Levi’s eyes fall to my tits and I watch his hand, holding the condom, twitch.
“Show’s over, get over here.” I rise to my knees and stretch to wrap an arm around his neck, pulling his mouth to mine.
There’s no more trepidation in this kiss, no more quiet sighs or waiting for a signal to take things further.
Almost instantly, his hands are on my waist, his tongue is in my mouth, and his cock is pressed against my stomach.
I run my fingernails down his body and then lift the weight of him in my palm, rubbing my thumb over the tip to spread his arousal.
Heat grows between my legs as I stroke him.
“I want you sitting up.” I run my hand across the sheets.
He nods before wrapping my legs around his waist and bringing both of us to the top of the bed, his back against the headboard. “I want whatever you want.”
At this moment, I think Levi Stephens would let me do just about anything to him and then ask for more.
I pluck the condom from his hand, tear open the foil, and place the rubber over his tip.
Slowly, carefully, I roll it down his shaft.
The groan he releases washes over me like late afternoon sunshine.
I tilt forward, and with a quick press of my mouth to his, I line myself up with his length. He lifts his hips to push inside, but instead I slide back, grinding myself on his cock, over and over, until it’s slick. Levi grips my hips, his fingertips pressing into the flesh to still me.
“If you’re not careful, this is going to be over before it starts, sweetheart.”
“You can handle it.” I hold his gaze as I drag myself, slow and torturous, along his shaft.
“Ana, I swear.” He holds me with bruising pressure, forgetting himself, and I wonder if I’ll have marks from his fingertips tomorrow. Probably should stop my taunting.
I bring my mouth to suck on his neck, to the soft spot above his collarbone, as I notch his tip at my entrance. I lower myself slowly, taking the first inch of him on an exhale.
“Better?” I slide down another inch as his eyelids fall and his gaze goes unfocused.
“The best.” His hips shift up to push deeper. A jolt of pain meets the movement.
“Wait, I just need a second to adjust.” I take another deep breath and beg my pelvic floor to relax. Please.
Please.
“Hypertonic” is what they called it when I got my diagnosis. Tight, stiff muscles that try to compensate for the instability in my joints, even in my pelvis. Tight, stiff muscles that are sometimes—at the worst times—resistant to movement.
“I’m sorry, just . . . one more second.” A witch’s brew of anxiety, embarrassment, and frustration fills my chest.
“We don’t have to do this.” He reaches for my face and holds my jaw with both hands.
“But I want to.” I’m borderline petulant, imploring him with my eyes to give me time, not to decide for me that I’m too fragile or damaged for this.
“What do you need? How can I help?”
“Keep your hand here.”
I place my hand over his, bring it to my center, and lead him in slow, consistent strokes of my clit, still sensitive from before.
I close my eyes. I try to focus on the movement of his thumb.
I let the pleasure and pressure build. I visualize myself soft and open, and I try, with everything in me, not to worry if he’s wondering what the hell is going on with me right now.
“Thank you,” I say.
My eyes are still closed. His hand is still moving. And after a few too many minutes, I feel myself sink farther down his length. We both gasp at the sudden bliss of it, and I crash my mouth into his. “Thank you,” I repeat between kisses. “Thank you.” Again and again.
I lift myself up and down, reveling in the stretch and the way he feels inside of me and under my fingertips—the short stubble on his cheeks, the soft skin of his neck, the hard planes of his chest. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and it pushes me closer to the edge.
“Ana, this is . . . shit, you feel so good.”
“You feel so good.” The movement of his fingers on me picks up speed to match our rhythm, and a moment later I come again.
Like a wave crashing, I’m hit with the full weight of my pleasure, seeping from my center and zipping up my spine, reaching toward my fingers and toes and settling warm in my chest.
With a few more thrusts, Levi finishes. A moan, primal, leaves his mouth, and then we’re a heap. He sinks into the bed, and I sink into him, and we’re still connected, indistinct, nothing but heartbeats and heaving breaths.
Levi brushes hair away from my sticky forehead to press a kiss to my temple. “That was . . . to be honest, I don’t have words for what that was.”
“Yeah, that was . . .” I let the sentence linger unfinished. I understand exactly what he’s not saying, because I’m not saying it either. That wasn’t first-time, one-night-stand sex.
That was I care about you sex.
I know you sex.
His patience and attentiveness. How he responded to my discomfort. The teasing before. How safe I felt. It might have been, in another universe or on another timeline, I love you sex.
And so we don’t try to find the words. Instead, Levi cleans himself up and throws the condom away.
I gather my makeshift pajamas and put them back on.
At some point, I fall asleep with the comforting weight of his arm around me and the belief that maybe I can learn to trust again.
Buried under years of fear, it’s a desire that’s suddenly asking to be excavated.
Light pours in through cracks in the closed blinds, highlighting the curve of Levi’s shoulders as they rise and fall with his breath.
An arm draped across my stomach keeps me captive beneath the white fluff of the comforter.
I claim the opportunity to study him while he sleeps: brown lashes resting on his cheeks, the strong line of his nose, a growing shadow of a beard, and the hint of his dimple—just a barely noticeable divot now, but one that holds promise for those who know how it transforms when he smiles.
He’s a beautiful man. Through and through, I’m learning.
“How long have you been staring at me?” He pops one eye open, his mouth still half-hidden by the pillow, the words muffled.
“How long have you been awake?”
He rolls to his side to face me, never moving his arm from my waist. “Long enough. Like what you see?” He gives a hopeful raise of a shoulder and a small tilt of his head. His grin deepens as he waits.
My eyes roll—one large, leisurely circle—and his smile grows. “Tell me about this.” I bring a fingertip below his collarbone, to a scar about three inches long.
“That’s from one of my very first projects. It was an indie film, low budget, but I figured any experience is good experience, right? I was too green to know they weren’t following proper protocols.”
I trace my finger across the smooth skin, back and forth from end to end. It flashes white for a second when I press on it.
“I was doubling for a fight scene.” He’s unbothered by my fingertip mapping the scar. “It started with hand-to-hand combat, throwing each other around, but ended with the guy opposite me pulling a knife.”
I gasp, and he shakes his head.
“Oh, no—that was all part of the plan. We’d rehearsed how I’d dodge left to avoid his first strike.
But when it came time to film, my momentum was off, and I didn’t move quickly enough.
He swiped me with the edge of the blade, and that’s how I learned he wasn’t using a prop knife or one that had been appropriately dulled.
Eighteen stitches. Five years later, I think of the scar as a reminder—to work with teams who know what they’re doing, people who honor protocols—and also to respect that this work is inherently dangerous. ”
He brings his hand from the dip of my waist to drape his palm over mine on his chest. Our fingers tangle inches above his heart, and it beats faster as we lie there for a moment with our eyes locked.
“Personally, I’m glad to be the one who sits out the hardcore stuff so people like you can jump in.”
He taps his pointer finger three times against my skin before absentmindedly tracing small circles over my knuckles.
“Do you ever worry about it?” I ask. “About getting seriously hurt, or not being able to do this long-term as your body ages, or messing something up that’ll affect your quality of life forever?” It’s an easy question to ask, but I know it’s a big one to answer.
“Sometimes. It’s hard not to worry, I think, especially when you hear stories about people getting injured, or worse, on set.
” His eyes scan the room as he collects his thoughts.
“But at the end of the day, this is my one life. I’d rather spend it taking risks than playing it safe.
You know better than anyone that a working body isn’t guaranteed, no matter what a person does.
I want to use my body in this way while I can, and what happens down the line is down the line. That’s my thought process, I guess.”
I reply with a slow nod, but my mind races to follow the thread: Levi prioritizes his job, risks and all. We both do. That’s what this arrangement is about. Last night was . . . I’m still not really sure what last night was.
His breath feels cold on my skin when it hits the layer of nervous sweat that’s sprung up on my neck.
“Are you worried about it?” he asks, with searching eyes and a tighter grip on the hand nestled with his.
“You’ve got enough people to worry about you.” I dodge the question entirely because am I worried? Yes, but not about his stunt work or his safety—I’ve seen him perform. I’m worried about how comfortable our relationship has gotten and how real my feelings for him are becoming.
Sensing my hesitation, he slides his foot between my shins and wraps his ankle around my calf like a snake, pulling me closer. It brings our chests and hips flush. God, he feels good. Warm and strong and safe. But I feel myself tense anyway.
“Hey, no, no, no. No retreating into your head.” He brings a hand to my face and presses his thumb into my chin, preventing me from turning my eyes from his.
“That’s outside world business, and we’re not messing with the outside world right now, right?
We’re still in sleepover mode. So tell me, what happens the morning after a sleepover? Should I make eggs?”
The thought of Levi bringing me breakfast in bed, shirtless, with a dish towel draped over his shoulder? I pull my lip between my teeth with a nod.
His eyes dart down to my mouth. He leans forward and presses his lips to mine in a slow, intentional, lingering kiss. With a smile, he asks, “Or should I have you for breakfast?”
My brain says, No, we should take a step back.
My heart says, No, don’t let me get hurt.
My mouth says, “Yes. Please,” and he drags his mouth down my torso.