“Is this a bird?” he asked, and I tensed as he traced the tattoo that had beengiftedon the skin over my heart when I turned nine. I always promised myself I would finally fix it; a psychologist would have a field day with why it was there and why I hadn’t removed it. The Raven was his mark; the pain had been awful.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“Less talk, more fucking.”
I moved closer, crowding into his space, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand—not in a hard or restraining way, just asserting myself. His breath hitched beneath me. I could feel every bit of it. The way he opened up and trusted me.
“Look at me,” I said, low, rough.
He did. Immediately. As if he’d been waiting for the order.
That did something dangerous to me.
I nudged my knee between his thighs, slow enough that he could push back, fast enough that he knew who was in control. His hips lifted to meet me, desperate for friction, for direction, for whatever I was going to give him.
“Good,” I murmured, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
His eyelids fluttered, and when I dragged my fingers down his chest—ghosting across his skin—he shivered as if I’d hauled him right to the edge. I reached for the drawer beside the bed without looking; he knew what I wanted because he pushed the back of his knuckles into my hip, guiding me to it. Condoms. Lube. The reality of it hit me, sharp and heavy.
He waited. His breathing was wrecked, uneven, but he didn’t move. Didn’t rush me. Just stared up at me as if he knew what I needed—to be the one deciding the pace, the pressure, the whole goddamn moment.
I slicked my fingers, his eyes half-lidded, mouth parting. Chest to chest, my weight pressed him into the mattress while my hand slipped lower between us, slow, deliberate, claiming inch by inch.
“Please…” he whispered, voice shaking.
I kissed him before he could say anything else—deep, careful. His hands tightened on my back, not pulling, but holding on.
He moved under me, offering himself up, and I steadied him with my free hand, my forehead pressed to his. The world narrowed to heat, skin, trust—his and mine, tangled in a way I hadn’t let happen in years.
“You want to fuck me?” he asked. “I’m vers.”
I shook my head. Maybe one day in a future that wasn’t so broken, I could do that. But right now, I wanted to be filled; I wanted him to get me there. “Let me ride you.”
He nodded once, hard, almost frantic. I rolled on a condom, pressed fingers inside me. He held his cock and guided me, every movement slow and controlled, his grip firm on my waist—holding me, claiming the rhythm, the angle, the entire damn experience as I sank onto him. His gasp hit my throat, and I swallowed it with another kiss, keeping him steady beneath me, keeping myself from shaking apart.
He clung to me, not to take control, but to stay anchored as I pressed closer, deeper, in a way that made both of us tremble.
And for a moment—just a moment—I lost the violence of the night, the blood, the women, all of it. There was only him, and the way he gave himself over to me as if he trusted me with every part of him.
I dragged my hands up his chest, slow at first, then rougher—claiming, not asking. His skin was hot under my palms, his breath catching every time my fingers scraped lightly over his nipples, every time I pressed down enough to make him feel the weight of me. He pushed into my touch, waiting for me to take what I wanted.
He lifted his hands to reach for me, but I caught his wrists again and pushed them back to the mattress, pinning them there with one hand. Not restraining—just reminding him I was the one setting the pace. His whole body arched beneath mine, a tremor running through him.
I kissed him hard, dragging my mouth down his jaw, his throat, tasting the heat of his pulse beneath my tongue. Every sound he made pulled me deeper into the moment—low, wrecked noises that hit me somewhere I didn’t have defenses for.
His chest rose against mine, warm and solid and open to me. I flattened my palms over his pecs, sliding down with slow, possessive strokes that made his back arch off the bed. I took my time exploring him, mapping the way he shivered when I found the places that undid him, learning him with my hands, my mouth, my body pressed tight to his.
His fingers tangled in my hair, tugging—not to take control, but to get me closer. To keep me on him. To pull me back every time I tried to breathe.
Every shift of my hips met a matching one from him, desperate and helpless and perfectly in sync with mine. Hewasn’t passive—he was participating in every second of it—but he let me lead, let me set the rhythm, let me take from him in a way that felt more intimate than anything explicitly filthy could’ve been.
He was all heat and tension and trust beneath me, and I held him through all of it, guiding every movement, every sound, until he came hard, his back arching, and it wasn’t much after that when I came across his pecs and collapsed onto him.
When he’d dealt with the condom, he rolled with me, and my voice broke without warning, words tearing loose from a place I swore I’d padlocked. I must have been fucking high or something.
“You wreck me, detective.” I froze the moment it was out. Horror hit cold and fast.
Levi’s eyes widened, and I jerked back, stumbling off the bed, grabbing my clothes with hands that didn’t feel like mine.
