Page 116 of Levi

He groans, coming apart for me, and his hand tightens in my hair, still not pushing, just holding on. The weight of his cock settles on my tongue, thick and hot, the stretch of my jaw around him a good ache. I go slowly, enjoying the way his stomach draws tight every time I take him deeper, the raw sounds he makes rolling up out of his chest.

His hips try to move. I lay a forearm across them, hold him down and set the pace myself. There’s no rush anywhere in me. I’d stay here sucking on his cock till the sun came up if he let me.

“Levi. Your mouth—” His voice breaks clean in half.

I glance up and he’s watching me, his chest breathing hard. I hold there with him heavy on my tongue and let him see it. How much I want him. That there’s not one place on this earth I’d rather be than right here with my mouth on him and his hand gripping my hair.

I take him deeper and find a rhythm. I figure out the rest of it off the sounds he makes, off the twitch of his thighs. I use my hand at the base of his cock where my mouth can’t reach and twist it slow the way he did to me. Spit slick and warm, the wet sound of it loud in the room, his breath going ragged over the top of it.

He’s coming undone under me and I’m the one doing it.

“Levi, I’m close.” His hand tightens and tries to pull me off him. “You don’t have to—”

I don’t stop or slow down. I take him as deep as I can, and that finishes him.

He goes rigid, a cry tearing out of him, and comes hot down my throat with his body bowing up off the bed. I feel every pulse and swallow everything. I keep him in my mouth until he’s shaking and pushing weak at my shoulder because it’s too much now.

I ease off him and drag myself back up his body, mouth wet, jaw aching good, the taste of him still on my tongue. He’s destroyed because of me. Yet another version of Dante that I never dreamed I’d see.

“Come here,” he says, hoarse, reaching for me before I’ve even settled. “Let me—”

He gets a hand around me, and it doesn’t take much. I’m most of the way there already just from having done that to him. From the taste of him and the sounds and the fact of being allowed to put my mouth on him.

A few pulls from his hand and I’m coming too, my face buried in his neck, breathing him in, biting the sound of it back into his shoulder, spilling hot over his fist.

He pulls me down on top of him and wraps both arms around me tight. We’re a mess and neither of us moves to fix it. His skin’s slick against mine, both of us cooling slow in the hum of the air conditioning, his heart going hard under my ear and mine coming down to meet it.

His hand moves up and down my back. Then he says close to my ear, barely more than breath, “Levi. Can you breathe okay in this room?” His hand never stops moving. “We can go out to the living room. I can put the sleeping bags down by the door if you need the air. Whatever you need.”

After all of it, he’s lying there listening to my breaths to hear if I’ve got enough air in me.

“I’m good,” I tell him. And it’s the truth. “I can breathe just fine right here with you. Don’t worry.”

He makes a contented noise like that settles something in him, and pulls me in closer, and I let him. I don’t know how long I’m down before the bed shifts and the warmth at my back goes. Some old part of me wants to come up hard after it, hand already moving, but I’m too far under to make it happen.

Water runs in the other room a minute. Then the mattress dips again and there’s a warm, damp cloth moving over me, gentle, wiping me clean. My stomach, lower, careful and unhurried. Dante’s cleaning me up without a word.

I try to get one eye open to tell him thank you, and all that comes out is a contented sigh.

“Shh…” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

He tosses the cloth off somewhere and settles in behind me again, his arm coming heavy across my ribs, the both of us clean and dry now. I go back down.

A few short hours later, I come up out of sleep slowly, from somewhere deep. I never wake slow. I wake like the floor might be on fire. All at once, the body online before the eyes, arms already half up, the room counted off in the first half-second. Door, window, where’s out, who’s here.

This morning I just surface. Up through deep water. No jolt. No arms coming up. I’m awake before I’ve checked a single exit, and the not-checking is strange enough it finally gets my eyes open.

I slept good. Hours of it. Not the half-sleep I run on, one ear up, dozing on top of the covers in my clothes with my boots inside arm’s reach. I went under last night with a warm body at my back, in a bed that isn’t mine. Every threat my body has ever learned, all in one room, and it didn’t keep watch. It stood down. It left the post and let me go under, and nothing bad came for me.

And I’m burning up. Damn, it’s hot in here. There’s a chest against my back and an arm slung over me, gone heavy, the hand open on my ribs. Slow even breath on the back of my neck.

Dante.

Asleep, pressed up the length of me, still here. His arm hasn’t moved all night. However long it’s been there, he hasn’t pulled it back. I lie inside the weight of it and can’t get my heartbeat to calm down.

I’ve done a few casual hookups with men before. In the dark, on the tour, fast, when everybody’s wasted. Not a lot, not all the way stuff, but enough to know what’s coming next.

I’ve never done the staying part. Where somebody slows it all down like there’s no hurry, like I was the main point. Where I fall asleep afterwards and my body lets me stay wrapped up tight in a man’s arms.