My hands grip the sheets, his shoulders, anything I can reach. The cast thumps against the pillow with every thrust, which should be ridiculous, but I’m too far gone to care.
“Leo— I can’t— I’m?—”
It hits me like a wall. My spine arches off the bed, my vision whites out, and for a few seconds, there is nothing in the world except Leo’s hand and Leo’s body and the sound of my own voice saying something that might be his name.
He follows immediately, shuddering, his forehead dropping against mine.
Not because he won. We both detonated at roughly the same time. I just happened to have hit the fuse a fraction earlier than Leo. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
We lie there, breathing hard. My good leg has slid down from his shoulder at some point and is now draped over his thigh. His hand is in my hair. Neither of us moves to disentangle.
“That didn’t answer my question,” he says eventually. His voice is hoarse.
“It answered several of your questions. Just not the ones you wanted.”
There’s a huff of laughter against my collarbone.
We’re quiet for a moment. The ceiling is very interesting all of a sudden.
“Nine point eight,” I say.
He lifts his head. “Nine point eight?”
“Lost point two for the shirt. That was good fabric.”
“You’re the one who ripped it.”
“Under provocation.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. The one that makes his eyes go warm and does something reckless to my pulse.
I’ve never had anyone who could keep up with me before.
Not like this. Not someone who meets every escalation with an equal and opposite force. Who doesn’t let me win just because I’m louder. Who doesn’t back down, or give in, or decide I’m too much work.
Every other person I’ve been with has either let me steamroll them or tried to slow me down. Leo does neither. Leo matches the pace and raises it.
And he does it while repositioning my cast on a pillow, without breaking stride.
I don’t know what to do with someone like that.
I also don’t know what it means that instead of feeling unsettled, I feel exhilarated. Like I’ve been sparring with amateurs my whole life and have just met someone who fights in the same weight class.
“Rematch tomorrow?” I offer.
“You’re insatiable.”
“Competitive,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
His thumb skims my hipbone. “Is there?”
I don’t answer that. Some questions are better left alone.
Especially when the answer might reveal more than I’m ready to give.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Leo
