Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone, eyes dark and steady.
“Becca,” he said softly.
I smiled, small and real. “I’m here.”
He searched my face for another long moment, then asked quietly, “This still what you want?”
I nodded, throat tight with how much I meant it. “More than anything.”
Whatever he saw in my expression satisfied him completely, because the careful part of him fell away. What was underneath was warmer and more certain and considerably more focused, and the combination sent heat pooling low in my belly.
He stood and held out his hand.
I took it.
He walked me the four steps to my bedroom like he had all the time in the world, which he did, because we had established that—all the time we want—and I was finally, completely, starting to believe it.
The lamp from the other room threw just enough light through the open door. The river was audible through the cracked window, steady and unhurried.
I stood in the middle of my small bedroom, looking at Levi Barrett, and thought of the years I’d wasted keeping myself away from him.
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture that had been undoing me since we got started. Hishand stayed at my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, and he looked at me like I was worth looking at carefully, like he had no intention of rushing past any of this.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said. Low and certain.
Something in my chest cracked open in the best possible way. I reached for the hem of his Henley and pushed it up; he reached behind his head and pulled it off in one smooth motion and dropped it to the floor. I stood there for a moment just looking—because Levi Barrett was, objectively and specifically, a lot to see. Broad shoulders built by real work, the lean strength of someone who hauled gear and climbed ladders and carried people out of burning buildings. A pale scar along his left ribs, a story I would ask for later. The steady rise and fall of his chest in the low light, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
I put my hands on him—palms flat against the warm planes of his chest—and felt him go very still at the contact, not tension but fierce attention, like a man receiving something they’ve wanted for a very long time. His breath caught, just barely.
Then his hands found the hem of my sweater. His eyes asked, and I lifted my arms in answer. The sweater came off, then my bra, and the cool air hit my skin for only a second before his hands were there—warm, sure, sliding up my ribs to cup my breasts with reverent care. His thumbs brushed my nipples, and I gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He groaned low in his throat, the first unguarded sound he’d made all night, and the raw want in it made my knees weak.
He kissed me again—slower at first, then deeper, hungrier, tongues sliding together as his hands roamed my back, my waist, learning every inch like he was memorizing me. I pressed myself closer, feeling the hard length of him against my stomach through his jeans, and he made that low sound again, almost a growl.
We fell together onto the bed—careful, coordinated, laughing softly against each other’s mouths when the mattress creaked in protest. He settled over me, weight braced on his forearms so he could look at me, really look, and the way he did—open, adoring, a little wild—made my throat tight.
I pushed at his shoulders gently until he rolled onto his back. He let me, watching with that steady, patient gaze as I kissed down his chest, tracing the scar with my tongue, feeling the way his muscles jumped under my mouth. When I reached the waistband of his jeans, I looked up at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, chest rising and falling faster.
I undid the button, slowly slid the zipper down, and tugged everything off. He was thick and hard and beautiful, and the way he watched me—reverent, almost disbelieving—made heat flood through me.
I wrapped my hand around him first, stroking slow and firm, learning the weight of him, the way he pulsed under my touch. Then I leaned down and took him into my mouth, slow at first, savoring the low, broken sound he made when my tongue swirled around the head. His hand came to my hair—not pushing me down, just threading gently through the strands, trembling slightly.
“Becca,” he breathed, voice rough. “God. Please.”
I took him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, moving with the same unhurried care he gave me. His hips lifted once, involuntarily, then stilled as he fought to let me set the pace. I felt him thicken, felt the way his thighs tensed, heard the way his breathing turned ragged. When I looked up, his head was tipped back, throat working, completely falling apart in a way I’d never seen.
I pulled off slowly, kissed the tip, then crawled back up his body. He met me halfway, kissing me hard, tasting himself onmy tongue, and groaning into my mouth like it was the best thing he’d ever experienced.
He rolled us so I was beneath him again, settled between my thighs. He stripped the rest of my clothes away, then paused, looking at me like I was everything before finding a condom in my bedside table and rolling it on.
“I’m falling for you,” he said quietly, the words rough and honest. “Hard. And I’ve been falling for a long time.”
My eyes stung. I reached up, cupped his face. “I know. Me too.”
He pushed inside me slowly, inch by inch, giving me time to adjust to the stretch, the fullness, the perfect way we fit. When he was seated deep, he stilled, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard.
“You feel—” He swallowed. “You feel like home.”
We moved together then—slow at first, savoring every slide, every gasp, then faster as the need built. His hands gripped my hips, and I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper. I met every thrust, nails digging into his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. He kissed me through it all—messy, desperate, loving—until we were both trembling on the edge.
