I stood in the doorway and just watched him, the way the light crept in and painted stripes across his back, the way he breathed like nothing in the world could hurt him.
This was my territory. Every nail, every inch, every person in it. I felt a surge of something—pride, or maybe just the satisfaction of a job well done. The old hunger burned underneath, but it was different now. Not the desperate, angry kind I’d carried since I got back from the desert. This was quieter, more patient. A hunger that knew it had all the time in the world.
I went to the bed and sat on the edge, careful not to wake him. My hand hovered above the tattoo on his wrist, wanting to touch, but not wanting to break the spell.
The house was quiet, the world just starting to spin up. In an hour, Levi would wake, and I’d make him eat something, and we’d pretend for a little while that we were the only two people alive.
I sipped my coffee and traced the seam of my name on his skin, just barely, just enough for me. Let the world try to ruin this. I’d built it to last.
The first sound of morning was Levi’s groan, muffled under the covers. I was in the kitchen, filling his mug to the brim, but the noise drew me back down the hall. I found him tangled and squinting against the slant of sunlight through the window, arms flopped out like he’d been shipwrecked.
He didn’t see me at first, but I saw everything: the way his bare shoulders cut a line across the sheets, the pink flush on his neck where I’d bitten him last night, the deep furrow betweenhis brows as he tried to remember what day it was. I set both mugs down and sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the heat pouring off him.
“Morning, Sunshine,” I said, my voice rough from disuse.
He blinked, then zeroed in on the coffee. He crabbed upright, grabbed the mug with both hands, and inhaled half of it before even looking at me. When he did, the blue of his eyes hit like a gut punch, just as sharp as it had been the first day he’d shown up at my shop, seventeen and broken, already looking for trouble.
He slumped back, mug balanced on his knee, and eyed me over the rim. “How long have you been up?”
“Awhile,” I said. “Had things to check.”
He grunted, then flopped onto his side, propping his chin on his fist. “You always do.”
I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, careful not to brush the scar on his temple. He leaned into the touch, his eyes slipping half-shut.
“What’s the plan today?” he mumbled, yawning.
I shrugged, but the movement was all theater. “Thought we’d break in the rest of the house,” I said. “Make sure it still holds together.”
He smirked. “You mean you want to have sex in every room.”
“That, too,” I said, deadpan. “But mainly it’s quality control.”
He set his mug down, rolled onto his back, and stretched his arms above his head. The sheets fell away, and I let my gaze follow the line from his collarbone down to his navel, the faint dusting of hair, the bruises from my fingers already blooming on his hips. He caught me staring, and instead of looking away, he crooked a finger at me, inviting.
I moved up the bed, slow, crowding into his space until my thigh pressed against his. My hand found the back of his neck, thumb rubbing lazy circles at the base of his skull.
“Christen the place, huh?” he said, voice gone soft and playful. “You already did that last night.”
“Didn’t count,” I said. “That was just the warm-up.”
He grinned, a full-bodied thing that showed all his teeth. “You’re insatiable.”
I pressed a kiss to his temple, then to his cheek, then finally to his mouth. He tasted like coffee and toothpaste, the mix strangely comforting. He kissed back, slow and easy, like we had all the time in the world.
I rolled him onto his back, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. He didn’t fight, just arched up and let me take. My free hand traced the curve of his ribs, then lower, mapping out every inch of skin I already knew by heart.
He squirmed when I hit a ticklish spot near his waist, and I grinned into his neck. “Sensitive today?”
“Shut up,” he said, breathless, but his pulse said otherwise.
I released his wrists and let him wrap his arms around my neck, pulling me closer. I settled between his legs, the sheet bunched under my knees, and let the heat of him burn away whatever chill lingered from the night.
We didn’t rush. There was no one to hear, no one to interrupt, just the sound of the creek through the open window and the slow creak of the bed as I moved over him.
Every time he moaned, I pressed my mouth to the spot, swallowing the sound. I wanted to leave him marked, claimed, so that when he walked through the house later he’d remember exactly who he belonged to.
He shuddered when I pushed into him, his hands clutching my back, his eyes wide and glassy. I took my time, watching every twitch and tremor, learning what made him shake, what made him beg.
