Levi #2
When I crawl back over him so I can slick my fingers up and push two inside, all I can think about is how fucking grateful I am that we have a bed this time.
Because seeing him like this—sprawled out and pliant, arching into the press of my fingers as his head falls back against the pillows—is something I’m not sure I ever want to forget.
“Holy shit, Levi,” Dylan murmurs roughly as I spear him open on my fingers and tongue at his balls filthily. “Don’t make me wait any longer. I don’t know if I can—”
I don’t give him the chance to finish before I withdraw my fingers, enjoying the sharp whimper he makes in response a little too much.
“So impatient, mon grande,” I rasp, although the desperation already shivering up my spine matches the urgency in his voice. Dylan’s eyes follow the movement of my hand as I slick up my cock. “How do you want me?”
“W-what?” he says, looking dazed.
“It’s your choice, Monsieur Champion,” I say, stroking myself slowly just to take the edge off the arousal surging through me.
I was ready to let him have me, but damn if I’m not glad it turned out this way, because being inside him once was never going to be enough.
“Missionary, doggy, against the wall, upside down…”
He shudders. “Jesus. I don’t know, whatever you want, just—are you going to make me beg?”
Heat sparks through me at the thought. “I would like that very much. But no, not today.”
I line myself up with his entrance, figuring that having him on his back is as good a position as any, especially when I lean my weight against him and I get to watch the way his lips drop open and his eyes glaze over when I slip inside.
“Fucking beautiful,” I murmur in French, the words spilling out before I realize what I’m saying.
I bracket his head with my arms as Dylan hooks his legs around me, pulling me into him.
I can’t stop myself from kissing him again as the tight, burning friction of his ass wraps around my cock, taking my breath away.
“God,” Dylan groans against my lips, burying his fingers in my hair. “God. Move, Levi, shit.”
“So demanding,” I huff, but I give him exactly what he wants, drawing back and punching my hips forward again, drawing a deep moan from his throat. His cock is hot and hard between us, huge and neglected against our stomachs as I begin to fuck him in earnest, feeling his precum smear between us.
My lips find his scent gland, and I’m in awe of the way he defers to me, his ass taking me like he was made for it and his neck bared to me like I’m his lover, even as his distinctly alpha scent thickens in my nostrils.
The contrast of it drives me wild, heat coiling tighter and tighter in my core as I pick up the pace and Dylan whines brokenly in my ear.
The room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of our skin colliding and our stuttered groans.
I pull back only so I can look at Dylan, a huge mass of rippling muscle and alpha submission laid out beneath me, his cheeks pink and his face twisted in that unique mixture of pleasure and pain that I know from experience only comes with being taken by another alpha.
I take his cock in my hand, stroking him in time with my thrusts. “Are you going to be a good boy and come for me?” I rasp.
And damn, he likes that. I can see it written across his features, the embarrassment as plain as the arousal, his scent spiking heavily. “I’m close,” he chokes out.
“So fucking good for me, uh? So tight and perfect. Like you were made for it.”
“Oh, fuck,” he stutters. “Yes—ah—there, Levi—”
His cock stiffens in my hand, and I slam my hips into his, angling them until he’s gasping and shivering underneath me, his nails leaving welts in my back. And when he tips over the edge, his heavy balls emptying in thick ropes onto his taut, clenching, sweat slick stomach, I fuck him through it.
And it’s only when I’m sure he’s completely spent, his legs going limp around my waist and every last drop of pleasure milked out of him, that I let myself come.
My orgasm rips through me, a violent wave that forces my hips to still as I bury myself deep inside him, his thumbs rubbing smooth circles into the nape of my neck as I come apart.
When my heart rate starts to calm, Dylan drags me back to his lips before I can pull away. And this feels like it’s a long, long way from our original wager. A long way from two amped up kids who hated each other’s guts.
And I’m not sure I know what to make of that.
We stay locked together until my phone buzzes on the nightstand, the vibration disturbingly loud in the near-silent hotel room. I groan, going to turn it off but catching the name on the screen first.
Mamon.
Shit. It’s 1am, which means it’s 9am back home. I always call her after a fight, and I’m already a couple of hours late.
“Take it,” Dylan says, his voice hoarse. “I should clean up.”
I answer the call as Dylan gets out of bed, stretching.
“Hi, mamon,” I say in French, watching him pad to the bathroom and trying to shove the impure thoughts out of my mind.
I let her know I lost the fight, although it turns out she already knows—by this point she has all the sports websites that cover mid-tier boxing saved as bookmarks on her laptop.
I let her know I’m fine, just a bruised cheekbone and a bruised ego.
She tells me about the runner beans she’s trying to grow in her allotment, and a long winded story about someone she insists I went to school with, although I have absolutely no memory of them.
I end the call feeling like my brain has been reset, like I always do.
At some point, Dylan climbs back in beside me, scrolling idly on his phone, although when I hang up the call a few minutes later, his screen is blank and his breathing is deep and even. I nudge him gently before he drops it on his face.
His eyes flutter open. “Oh. Sorry,” he says, throwing his phone down.
“It’s fine,” I say in French, my brain still stuck on my mother tongue, before repeating it in English. I hold up my phone. “That was my mother, sorry.”
“Your mom’s awake at—” he squints at the clock. “1:30am?”
“It is not 1:30am in France, bête. I call her after all my fights, or she worries.” I’m not entirely sure why I tell him that.
“That’s sweet,” he says, rubbing at his eyes.
“What, you do not talk to your mother?” I say.
Dylan shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching down. “Not really. Sometimes on her birthday, or Christmas. We’re not close.”
“You grew up in New York, yes?” I say, twisting to face him under the covers. Dylan’s head jerks up, surprised.
“Yeah. How do you know that?”
I nudge his leg with mine, remembering the way I used to interrogate the other kids at school for information about Dylan.
I was only fishing for more ways to piss him off, of course, but I have a good memory.
“I know you like to pretend it did not happen, but we went to school together for a while, you know. And I remember things. Unlike you, I do not lose fights, so I still have half a brain.”
He looks at me curiously, before his lips curl in a small, incredulous smile. “You lost a fight to me literally a few hours ago.”
“What do you call this—” I wave my hand, trying to find the word, smiling proudly when it comes to me. It’s a good one. “A fluke. Luck.”
He smiles slowly, tiredly, shaking his head. For such an intimidating guy in the ring, he sometimes looks disarmingly sweet out of it, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
“I don’t actually know New York all that well. I left for Addington when I was nine.”
I hiss. “Un bébé.”
“Yeah. I’d spend summers back in New York when I was younger, but as time went on I got old enough to stay with friends, and summer breaks became occasional weekend visits. Eventually, I left school, moved into my own place out here, and never looked back.”
“Hmm. So I have shitty trainers, and you have shitty parents.”
Dylan laughs out loud, and it takes me by surprise how much his face changes when he laughs, the usual tension he carries in his jaw turning soft and relaxed.
“I guess so,” he agrees. “But the guys at The Foundry are kind of like my family now. We even had Thanksgiving at Marcus and Alex’s last fall.”
My stomach twists with a pang of jealousy. That sounds nice. “Ah, yes, the power couple. This Alex guy, he is also an alpha, yes?”
I don’t know why I’m asking as if I don’t know.
The news that Marcus, the owner of The Foundry, was dating another alpha spread through the boxing scene like wildfire.
Some of the things the guys at my gym said about it were…
not nice. It certainly didn’t help my already complicated feelings towards my own trainers.
“Yeah. Crazy, right?”
I hum. “Crazy. Brave.”
Dylan nods, smiling fondly. “Yeah, Alex is…” he laughs again, softly, and my eyes linger on the way his nose scrunches, just a little. “He’s a character. I think you two would probably get along.”
“Oh yes? Is he also a cocky bastard?”
“Kind of. He might be even more confident than you. He’s funny. I think Marcus needs that.” He leans his head back against the headboard, letting his eyes slip closed. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
“Because it is the middle of the night, and I just fucked your brains out. Your brain is probably like mashed potato.”
Dylan sighs, opening his eyes again. “Scratch what I just said, I don’t think anyone is more confident than you.” There’s a comfortable pause, and I have the wild urge to ask him to stay. “I should leave you to sleep. My brain actually is mashed potato.”
“Oui, yes,” I say quietly as he hauls himself out of bed, finding his clothes where they’re strewn on the floor.
He hovers at the door when he’s dressed. “See you around, Levi.”
Stay. Just for a while. Maybe all night.
“Until next time, gros.”