I had started thinking of my life, my love, in a linearly sliced timeline of before and after Seroquel.
I even questioned which version of me loved Levi. Whether that version even existed in the first place.
‘Every. Fucking. Version.’
His enraged confession often lingers in my head for longer than I want it to. Only, I think he simply echoed my own words.
Every version of me loves him. I just didn’t let every version of me believe inhislove.
But I’m learning to believe him. Trust him.
The same trust that shattered under his lies of omission is building back up stronger—with each passing truth he unhesitatingly volunteers. With the way he always offers me information about his schedule. With the way he not only loves mespecifically, but also notices all my little habits that I have subconsciously resumed in the past month.
He notices.
He learns.
Then he makes room formeto learn.
And I now hear the truth in his words from last month. That he won’t ever stop learning me.
Well, neither would I, it seems. Because he’s gained a new, irresistible habit of running his fingers near my throat, enticingly moving them toward the nape of my neck before feeling my sharp, coarse hair.
And what always follows is his gentle yet needy pull until his lips are on mine. It’s almost like a signal now. His signal.
The second his hand is anywhere near my neck, I’m melting into a puddle. I’ve started to anticipate the kisses so well that my lips always part in invitation, tongue darting out—all before he’s even leaned in.
According to my psychotherapist, it is my own way of initiating. Although subtle, it’s an initiationnonetheless.
Ever since she told me that, I’ve discovered several other ways I’ve started initiating all kinds of interaction. Physicalandverbal.
Hell, even the tug is something I’ve finally admitted to beingmy initiation—an action of my love within itself—instead of the daunting plea for a hug that I thought it was.
So I’ve been evolving the tug even more now, using it to convey more than I set it out to mean. Which is why I knew exactly what I intended when my knuckles paled against his blazer as I pulled at the lapel. And this man understood it within the space of our muffled breaths.
His arms had already been around me. His entire body blazing against the front of mine since there wasn’t a single inch of space between us.
He was as close as he could get, yet I still wanted him closer. Burrowed under my skin.
Because I didn’t want him to let doubt seep in again.
Because I can’t watch him slowly abandon the idea of me ever saying those three words back to him. Or even say them first.
Because he has shown me that his touch is worth a thousand words of reassurance.
Because… oh, there are a hundred damnbecauses.
But those three words still got heaped somewhere between my throat and lips, every time I’d try to move them past that lump.
So, I decided that this was one of the ways to show him until Ilearnedhow to love him better. Until I could say those words without panic drumming up in my chest.
When we reach the corridor of his penthouse, I’m a needy, hungry mess who wouldn’t let go of his lips. The only reprieve he had was when he drove us here.
Now, he doesn’t need both his hands. Only one to unlock his door while the other remains clinging to my skin, squeezing the back of my neck every time I try to come up for air.
“God,” he gasps into my mouth as he lifts me up with one hand expertly under my ass.
My legs wrap around his waist, feeling his cock pressing against the thin fabric of my pants.
