“Have you?” I arched a brow. “Because from where I’m lying, bringing me to your private yacht is a bold choice for a man planning on behaving.”
“Technically, it’s my father’s yacht,” he said, kissing the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the sensitive spot just below my ear.
His teeth grazed my skin, and my breath caught.
“Levi.”
“Yeah?”
“Less talking,” I said.
He laughed against my throat, the sound vibrating through me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The T-shirt went first.
He took his time with it, hands sliding under the fabric, palms mapping my waist, my ribs, the curve of my back like he was committing topography to memory. When he finally tugged it up over my head and tossed it toward the chair, the air hit my skin, cool and sharp, and goosebumps chased his touch.
His gaze swept over me, and the look in his eyes made me feel like I’d stepped out of my own body for a second.
Not appraising. Not casual.
Reverent.
“You’re staring,” I said, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
“Correct,” he said. “Highly recommended activity.”
I would’ve made a snarky reply if he hadn’t leaned in and kissed down the line of my throat, his hand splaying flat over my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles that made my thoughts fizz.
Two years of distance collapsed into that touch. All the nights I’d lain awake, replaying fights and almosts, wondering if he missed my body as much as I hated missing his. All the times I’d tried to banish the feel of his hands from my muscle memory.
Apparently, my muscle memory had staged a quiet rebellion.
We’d had sex yesterday—hot, angry, necessary—but this was different. This was after the truth, after the confessions, after sayingI love youwith our whole chests. This was touching him knowing we weren’t stealing moments anymore. Knowing we weren’t temporary or doomed or pretending this was just closure.
I slid my hands under his shirt in turn, feeling the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his back. He let me strip it off. It landed somewhere near the chair with mine, forgotten.
Skin to skin, everything else went quiet.
No mansion. No card. No father. Just him, the steady thud of his heart under my palm, the warm slide of his hands over my body, the taste of his mouth.
He rolled, bringing me under him, bracing his weight on his forearms so he didn’t crush me. The movement knocked a laugh out of me, more from surprise than anything.
He froze. “Too much?”
“Not enough,” I said.
He smiled against my lips, and then there wasn’t much talking.
The rest blurred into sensation—his mouth, his hands, the way he knew exactly where to touch, when to slow down and when to push. The way he listened with his whole body, adjusting to every sound I made like we were running a mission and the objective was my undoing.
I’d always admired his focus in the field.
It translated.
The world narrowed to the two of us, the creak of the bed, the muted slap of water against the hull. The yacht rocked under us, and for once, I didn’t feel off-balance. I felt … anchored. Like the center of gravity had finally shifted to where it was supposed to be.
