Page 161 of Next Level Up
Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since she moved in. Since her name officially became part of this house, this rhythm, this chaos we call ours.
Two weeks of split groceries and shared toothpaste. Two weeks of waking up to her voice drifting down the hall while she streams. Two weeks of Carter falling asleep on the couch halfway through every movie night, of me pretending I don’t like it when she steals my energy drinks from the fridge when she forgets to put hers in, of her calling this place home without flinching.
And I’ve been good, shockingly good.
I’ve taken the late shifts at work. I let Carter have his soft morning routines with her. I even folded her laundry once without being asked. I’ve kissed her cheek and called her mine and helped fix her headset without flipping the fuck out whenshe moaned my name under her breath in front of 10,000 viewers.
But it’s 3:17 AM. I’m done being good.
The room is quiet, lit in that soft, signature red glow from the LED string lights lining her ceiling—the same ones Carter insisted we install on move-in day while she directed us from her bed.
Her favorite playlist plays low from the speaker on her desk, the hum of it vibrating in my ribs. The window’s cracked just enough to let in a whisper of cool fall night air.
She’s in the middle, where she always is now. One leg kicked free from the blankets and one arm slung over Carter’s waist. He’s half-wrapped around her, breathing slow and sweet like a golden retriever turned human furnace.
I’m on the other side. Staring. Hard as fuck.
One hand under the sheets, palming myself in lazy, silent strokes because I can’t not touch.
Her lashes flutter. She shifts. Mumbles something I can’t make out and Carter doesn’t even twitch. He’s dead to the world.
But I’m awake and starving. I want to break her all over again.
I bite my lip, trying to keep still. But she shifts—just slightly—and the sheet slides off her hip, baring the curve of her ass and one long, perfect thigh.
I groan. Not quite enough I guess.
Her eyes blink open. Just barely before she freezes—blinks again—and zeroes in on me.
“Tate,” she whispers, her voice wrecked and husky with sleep.
I don’t stop stroking my cock.
“You’re touching yourself?” she breathes, sitting up slowly, the sheet falling into her lap.
“Couldn’t help it,” I mutter, still working my cock slow beneath the waistband. “You were moaning in your sleep.”
She shifts like she’s going to reach for herself.
“Ah—no,” I snap quietly. “You don’t get to touch. You watch.”
Her mouth parts and her thighs press together under the blanket.
Carter stirs beside her. He groans and blinks blearily in the red light. “W-what’s going on?” he yawns.
“She woke up,” I say, licking my lips, “and caught me touching myself.”
Carter’s gaze drops. He sees my hand moving under the blanket. He sees Haven with her lip between her teeth.
“Fuck,” he breathes, sitting up. “You’re gonna kill us eventually from lack of sleep.”
“You joining me?”
He mutters and shifts the blanket down, his cock is half-hard. He wraps a hand around it, slow and smooth.
Haven watches us both, panting softly, her thighs twitching. “Please,” she whimpers. “Let me—”
