He watched me take a bite, and something in his expression softened. “You look happy,” he said quietly, voice warm with something like wonder.
I swallowed, smiling back. “I am. Really happy. Right here, right now. With you. And we’ve got these next couple of days—just us. No podcast yet. No big decisions. Just time to breathe. To be close. I want to hold on to that.”
His smile deepened, slow and gentle, the kind that made tingles run up and down my spine. He set his fork down, leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. His voice dropped to that low, steady register that always made my pulse skip, but tonight it was quieter, more careful.
“Becca,” he said, reaching across to brush his thumb along the inside of my wrist, slow and light, “last night still feels like a dream I’m afraid I’ll wake up from.”
The words wrapped around me like the warmest blanket. A soft heat bloomed in my chest, my skin felt alive under his thumb, aware of every small, careful point of contact.
I turned my hand over, laced my fingers with his. “I keep thinking about it too,” I said softly. “The way you held me after. The way you looked at me like I was something special. I want more of that. I want to be close to you again—slow this time. I want to feel you next to me, hear you breathe, knowing we’ve got these couple of days to just exist together.”
His breath caught, just barely. His thumb stilled on my wrist, then resumed its gentle stroking, like the motion helped him stay steady. “I want that too,” he said, voice thick with feeling.
I stood slowly, tugging him up with me. Our bodies met, his hands settling at my waist, mine sliding up his chest until I could feel the steady thump of his heart under my palm.
“Then come here,” I whispered, rising on my toes to kiss him.
He met me halfway. The kiss started soft—lips brushing, gentle, like we were savoring the beginning of something we both wanted to last. It deepened gradually, naturally. His tongue touching mine in slow, careful strokes, one hand sliding into my hair to cradle the back of my head, the other pulling me close so I could feel the warmth of him, the quiet strength in his arms.
I sighed into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair. He walked me backward until my back met the counter. Then he lifted me gently onto it, stepping between my thighs, hands resting on my hips like they belonged there.
We kissed like that for long minutes, lazy, lingering, no hurry at all. His lips moved to my jaw, my neck, soft, open-mouthed kisses that made me shiver. I tilted my head back, giving him more room, and he took it—kissing the sensitive spot below my ear, breathing me in like I was the only thing that mattered.
“Bed?” he murmured against my skin, voice low and warm.
I nodded, smiling. “Bed. But slow. We’ve got time.”
His eyes flared dark. He stood, pulling me up with him in one smooth motion. Then he kissed me—slow at first, reverent, like he was tasting something sacred. My arms wound around his neck, and his wrapped my waist, lifting me just enough that my toes barely skimmed the floor. We moved toward the bedroom like we were dancing, shedding clothes in soft piles along the way, my sweater, his shirt, my leggings, his jeans.
By the time we reached the bed, we were down to underwear, skin flushed and breathing unevenly. He eased me onto the mattress and followed, settling between my thighs, bracing on his forearms so his weight didn’t crush me. For long minutes, we just kissed—deep, slow, open-mouthed kisses that tasted like years of restraint finally breaking. His tongue stroked mine, teasing, retreating, coaxing little whimpers from my throat every time he pulled back just enough to make me chase him.
His mouth left mine to map my jaw, the sensitive line of my throat. He found the spot below my ear and sucked gently; I arched, gasping his name. His hands roamed—warm palms gliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, then cupping them fully. He rolled one nipple between his fingers, gentle pressure that sent heat arrowing straight between my legs.
“Levi…” I breathed, hips lifting.
He kissed lower—collarbone, the swell of my breast—then took me into his mouth, tongue circling slow, teeth grazing just enough to make me moan. I threaded my fingers through his hair, holding him there while he worshipped one nipple, then the other, until I was trembling beneath him.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were nearly black. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against my skin. “I’ve dreamed about this—about you—more times than I can count.”
“Show me what you dream of,” I whispered.
He did.
His hands slid down my body, learning every curve, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips, the soft skin of my inner thighs. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and paused, eyes on mine.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
He peeled them off slowly, kissing every new inch of skin revealed—hip bone, the crease of my thigh. When I was bare, he settled between my legs again, broad shoulders spreading me wider. He kissed the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, then higher, his breath hot against me, before his tongue finally touched me with slow, deliberate strokes that had me clutching the sheets.
He learned me with patient devotion. Noting the way I bucked when he sucked gently, the way my thighs shook when he circled just right. He slipped one finger inside, then two, curling them while his mouth stayed on my clit, and I shattered—back arching, a broken cry of his name, pulsing around his fingers.
He kissed his way back up my body while aftershocks rippled through me, soft presses to my stomach, ribs, throat. When he reached my mouth, I tasted myself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss.
I pushed at his shoulders until he rolled onto his back. Straddling him, I braced my hands on his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under my palms. I kissed him deeply, rocking against the thick length still trapped in his boxers, drawing a low groan from his throat.
“Becca,” he rasped. “You’re killing me.”
I smiled against his mouth, slid down his body, kissing his chest, his stomach, tracing the line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. I tugged his boxers down and off; he sprang free, hard and flushed. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his face tighten with pleasure.
