Love on the Brain
: Chapter 18

“AMAZING.” GUY’S VOICE trembles slightly, a tinge of fear to his admiration. Awe, I guess it’s called? All that matters is that it opens the floodgates for everyone else to speak up.

“Incredible.”

“—we have a working prototype—”

“—can’t believe there was such a simple solution—”

“—BLINK is basically done—”

“—such an elegant way of—”

“Fucking awesome,” Rocío declares, the loudest voice. Everyone looks at her, and that’s when the impressed whispers become more like a frat party. High fives, hugs, the occasional chant. I’m surprised a keg isn’t suddenly produced out of thin air.

Levi leans against a bench on the opposite side of the room, wearing last night’s Henley. This morning I offered him my stretchy tie-dye camisole, but he just glared at me. Ingrate. He notices I’m staring and we both look away, bashful to have been caught. Then our eyes lock again. This time, we share a smile.

“We should celebrate!” someone’s yelling. We ignore him and keep on smiling.

The first time Tim and I had sex, I was terrified he hadn’t enjoyed it. He didn’t call me for two days, which I spent wondering if I was shit in bed—instead of focusing on how shitty he was. In the fight that ended our engagement, he accused me of pushing him to sleep with other women because I was “a total starfish” during sex (I had to google what that even meant after he left). On reflection, our relationship was bookended by Tim making me feel terrible about myself. How poetic.

Maybe in the past years I’ve learned to give considerably fewer fucks about what dudes think of me, and that’s why I’ve spent zero seconds of the last twenty-four hours wondering whether Levi thinks I’m a shit lay. But maybe that’s not the only reason. Maybe it has to do with the way he looked at me this morning, when I woke up on top of him in my twin bed that he accused of being “an instrument of torture repurposed as a piece of furniture.” Maybe it was the quiet, sweetly bashful conversation we had about me being on birth control, and about the fact that we’ve both been living like ascetic monks for long enough that we’re sure to be clean. Maybe it’s the appalled face he made when he saw me guzzle unsweetened soy milk directly from the carton. Maybe it’s the swift, covert glances he’s been giving me all day long.

We haven’t talked much. Or—we’ve talked a lot. About circuits and high-frequency stimulation trains and Brodmann areas. The usual.

Today’s not usual, though.

“Looks like you got it.” Boris comes to stand beside me. He glances at his engineers—currently giving one another celebratory wedgies—with mild disapproval.

“We still need to tweak the neuro software. Then we’ll test the model on the first astronaut. Guy has volunteered.” A euphemism: Guy begged to be test subject number one. It’s nice knowing that someone else is so invested in BLINK.

“When’s that?”

“Next week.”

He nods. “I’m going to set up a demonstration for the end of next week, then.”

“A demonstration?”

“I’ll invite my bosses, your bosses. They’ll invite someone higher up still.”

I stare at him, alarmed. “That’s way too soon. We have weeks before the project deadline, and there’s lots to troubleshoot. Human subjects are involved—plenty of things could go wrong.”

“Yes.” He gives me a level look. “But you know what the stakes are, especially with MagTech so close to catching up. And you know the pushback against the project. We’ve got lots of eyes on us. Lots of people who know very little about science, and yet are very invested in BLINK.”

I hesitate. Ten days is much fewer than I’m comfortable with. On the other hand, I understand the pressure Boris is under. After all, he’s the one who got us approval to start. “Okay. We’ll do our best.” I push away from the bench. “I’ll tell Levi.”

“Wait.” I stop. “Bee, what are your plans when this is over?”

“My plans?”

“You want to keep working for Trevor?” I press my lips together to temporize, but Boris is no fool. “I’ve chatted with him a few times. He seems to be under the impression that we’re making suits?”

“Trevor is . . .” I sigh. “Yeah.”

He gives me a commiserating look. “If the prototype’s a success, NIH will likely promote you, maybe give you your own lab. You’ll have options. But if you don’t like those options . . . come see me, please.”

I stare at him wide-eyed. “What?”

“I’ve been wanting to start a dedicated neuroscience team. This”—he points at the helmet—“is one of many things we can do. Our neuro unit is scattered and underutilized. I need someone who can actually lead it.” He smiles tiredly. “Anyway, I’ll go tell Levi about the demonstration. I’m partial to the way he scowls when I give him bad news.”

I stand there like an idiot, blinking into the distance. Was I just offered a job? At NASA? Leading a lab? Did I hallucinate? Is there a carbon monoxide leak in the building?

“You coming out to celebrate?” Guy asks, startling me.

I shake my head. Celebration seems premature. “But you guys have fun.”

“Sure will.” His eyes lift to a spot above my head. “And you?”

I turn around. Levi is right behind me. “Another time.”

“You have plans?” I ask once Guy has left. I look around to make sure we’re alone, like I’m asking Levi for his secret apple pie recipe. I’m ridiculous.

“I was going to spend some quality time with my cat.”

“Expression night?”

“Schrödinger and I do sometimes have interactions that don’t involve his rectum,” he points out. “But no. There’s a restaurant. Vegan.” His eyes wander away, as though he’s embarrassed to ask. “I’ve been wanting to try it. We could . . .”

I laugh. “You don’t have to.”

He gives me a curious look. “Do what?”

“Take me out. On a date.”

He scowls. “I know I don’t have to.”

“I’m aware this isn’t . . .” I start to tell him that I know it’s not like that between us. That he doesn’t need to take me out. That the sex was excellent, and even though I’m sore and sleepy and possibly all orgasmed out, I’d be happy to have more. With him. If he’s interested. I’m familiar with the concept of friends with benefits. Bed buddies. Frenefits. Fuckfriends. But then I remember the weekend. Watching Star Wars together, drinking Sazerac. This friendship of ours is older than the benefits, even if just by a few hours, and I’d be happy to spend time talking with him. Plus, he probably has no one to try vegan restaurants with. I’m the same in Bethesda. Yeah, that’s why he’s asking me out. “Actually, that sounds amazing. Do we need a reservation?”

He lifts one eyebrow. “It’s a vegan restaurant in Texas. We’ll be fine.”

I know how this is going to be: Levi will get to work out of his system whatever’s left of his years-old attraction toward me; I will finally get to have some decent sex; we’ll both get to do so without the pressure of being in a relationship and the disastrous stickiness that always happens when you let yourself care too much about someone. Tonight’s dinner is not going to be a date—just a meal between two horny friends who happen to share dietary preferences. Still, I replace myself putting more care than usual into my appearance. I choose a thin rose-gold septum ring, my favorite piercings, and classic red lipstick. I curl my hair to fall in waves down my shoulders. I’m ready well before Levi’s supposed to pick me up, so I go wait on the balcony.

Shmac has finally gotten back to me, apologetic for having been offline for the best, then worst, then best weekend of my life.

SHMAC: STC is grasping. Everyone knows you have no financial interests and are supporting #FairGraduateAdmissions because you believe in it.

MARIE: I hate what they said about fair admissions being impractical. Who cares? We can and must do better.

SHMAC: Orally.

MARIE: ???

SHMAC: *Totally.

SHMAC: Sorry, speech to text. I’m driving.

MARIE: LOL!

MARIE: Where are you going? And, does it have to do with your best-then-worst-then-best weekend? And does that have to do with The Girl?

SHMAC: I’m taking her out for dinner.

MARIE: djhsgasgarguyfgquergqe

MARIE: (That was a keyboard smash, in case text-to-speech is failing you)

SHMAC: It was, thank you.

MARIE: I’m soooo happy for you, Shmac!

SHMAC: I am, too. Though she’s still a bit skittish.

MARIE: Skittish?

SHMAC: For valid reasons. But I don’t think she’s quite ready to admit it to herself.

MARIE: Admit what?

SHMAC: That I’m serious about this. That I’m in it for the long haul. Or at least for as long as she’ll have me.

I frown. Wait—isn’t the girl in a relationship? There’s no long haul unless she divorces, is there? I want to ask, but I wouldn’t want Shmac to think that I’m judging him for taking up with a married woman—I really don’t, especially since her husband sounds like someone I wouldn’t mind pushing down the Eiffel Tower stairs. I consider telling him that I, too, am going out for dinner—with Camel Dick, no less—but I hear a soft noise.

A little ball of red and gray is hovering in midair around the feeder, pretty wings beating happily at a fluttering rhythm. The first hummingbird of the year. “Hey, beauty.” He sticks his thin beak into one hole and leaves before I can take a picture. I watch him fly over the parking lot and notice Levi’s truck pulling up.

I run downstairs like I’m eleven and heading to the splash pad. “I got my first hummingbird!” I say excitedly, climbing into the truck. Levi has barely finished parking. “Red throat! I didn’t get a picture but they’re territorial, so he’ll be back. And I’ll have the coconut-ginger chickpea soup! My sister says that it’s uncool to read restaurant menus online, but I fully embrace my obsession with food. . . .” I stop. Levi is staring at me open-mouthed. “I have hummingbird shit on my face, don’t I?”

He keeps staring.

“Do you have a tissue?” I look around the cabin. “Or even a piece of paper—”

“No. No, you don’t . . .” He shakes his head, lost for words.

“What’s wrong?”

“You . . .” He swallows.

“. . . I?”

“The dress. You wore . . . the dress.”

I glance at myself. Oh. Yes. I did wear my Target dress. “I thought you said you didn’t really hate it?”

“And I don’t.” He swallows. “I really don’t.”

I take a better look at him and realize the way he’s staring. Which is . . . “Oh.” My heartbeat picks up.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and I could fall in love with this hesitant, shy version of Levi Ward—the same man who nibbled my throat awake at three a.m. to say that he’d die if he couldn’t fuck me again. I let him, enthusiastically. Just like I let him kiss me now, until we’re making out like teenagers, deep, fingers holding my neck, tongues stroking, his weight pressing me into the seat and he’s really, really good at this, charmingly assertive, deliciously insistent. That’s his hand on my knee, under my dress and up my smooth leg, up and up until it’s wrapped around my inner thigh. A light brush against the front of my panties, and I whimper in his mouth just as he groans. I think I’m already wet. And he knows I’m already wet, because his fingertips slip under the elastic and hook it to the side. I gasp against his mouth and his thumb slides against my—

Someone honks one street over, and we both pull back. Oops.

“We should probably . . .”

“Yeah. We should.”

We’re both in agreement. And both reluctant. We’re slow to let go of each other, and when he turns the key in the ignition, the same hand that uses precision screwdrivers on a daily basis is trembling slightly.

I glance out the window. “Levi?”

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to say that . . .” I smile. “Red lipstick looks great on you.”

• • •

IT’S NOT A date.

But if it were—which it isn’t—it would be the best date of my life.

Of course, because it’s not a date, the point is moot.

But. If it were.

Though it’s not.

Even when, I must admit, it almost feels like one. Maybe it’s that he paid while I was in the bathroom (I briefly protested, but honestly, I’ll let any dude buy me dinner until the gender pay gap is ungapped). Maybe it’s that we never stopped talking, never, not even for a minute—just polite nods for Archie the Overzealous Waiter when he kept coming by to inquire about our meals. But maybe it’s the hour we spent reframing some of our most traumatic grad school memories.

“I presented my data during lab meeting. Halfway through my first year. And you looked out the window for the entire time.”

He smiles and takes his time chewing. “You were wearing this”—he gestures in the middle of his forehead—“thing. On your hair.”

“A headband, probably. I was smack in my boho-chic phase.” I shudder. “Okay, you’ve got a doctor’s note for this one. But it was excellent data.”

“I know—I was listening. Your salience network research—very compelling. I just . . .” He shrugs. His hand closes around his glass, but he doesn’t drink. “It was cute. I didn’t want to stare.”

I burst into laughter. “Cute?”

His eyebrow lifts, challenging. “Some of us haven’t outgrown their boho-chic phase.”

“Uh-huh. What does boho-chic mean, Levi?”

“It’s a . . . city? In France?”

I laugh harder. “Okay. Another one. That time that friend of yours from microbiology came into lab. That guy you played baseball with?”

“Dan. Basketball. I’ve never played baseball in my life—I’m not even sure how it works.”

“A bunch of guys stand around in their jammies and chat amiably. Anyway, Dan came into lab to pick you up for a game of a sport, and you introduced him to everyone except for me.”

He nods. Tears off a piece of bread. Doesn’t eat it. “I remember.”

“We can agree it was a dick move.”

“Or.” He drops the bread, leaning back. “Or, we could agree that a few nights before, after a few drinks, I blurted out to Dan that I was . . . interested in a girl named Bee, that Bee’s not a common name, and that Dan was totally the kind of person to look you in the eye and ask, ‘Aren’t you that chick my bro blubbers about when he’s sloshed?’ ”

My heart skips a beat, but I power through. “You can’t have an excuse for every single time you acted like a dick.”

He shrugs. “Try me.”

“The dress code. A few weeks ago.”

He covers his eyes. “You mean, when I asked you to dress professionally while I was wearing a T-shirt with a hole in the right armpit?”

“Were you really?”

“Most of my T-shirts have armpit holes. Statistically speaking, yes.”

“What’s the excuse?”

He sighs. “That morning, Boris said something to me about how he thought NASA might use whatever they could to get NIH off their backs. He said, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they got rid of her because of the hair.’ It was probably a throwaway line, but I panicked.” He lifts his hands. “Then you called me out for promoting gender bias in the workplace, and I felt like a Bond villain bragging about his doomsday device.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t just tell me.” In retaliation, I pluck a broccoli rabe from his plate.

“I’m an excellent communicator with outstanding interpersonal skills, according to my résumé.”

“Mine says that I’m fluent in Portuguese, but the last time I tried to order food in Coimbra I accidentally told the waiter that there was a bomb in the bathroom. Okay, last one: What about when you refused to collaborate? I overheard you through the door. You told Sam you didn’t want to be on the project because of me.”

“You overheard me?” He sounds skeptical. “Through Sam’s solid wood slab of a door?”

I bat my eyes angelically. “Yes.”

“Were you eavesdropping in the ficus?”

“Perhaps. Anything to say in your defense?”

“Did you leave right after I mentioned that I didn’t want the project because of you?”

“Yup. I stomped my way to my office with the rage of a murder of dragons.”

“Is that their collective noun?”

“It should be.”

He nods. “If you left right after you heard your name, then you didn’t hear everything I told Sam. And that misunderstanding is on you.”

I scowl. “Is it?”

“Yup. There’s a lesson for all of us here.” He picks up the piece of bread he dropped earlier.

“Which would be? Don’t eavesdrop in the ficus?”

“Nope. If you eavesdrop, you shouldn’t half-ass it.” He pops the bread into his mouth, and has the audacity to grin at me.

• • •

SCHRÖDINGER REMEMBERS ME. Possibly from the other night, when he slept on my windpipe, gave me suffocation nightmares, and left black tufts of hair in my mouth. He slinks from his spot on the couch the moment we come in and twines himself around my bare ankles while Levi stores our leftovers in his fridge.

“I love you,” I coo at him. “You’re a perfect, magnificent beast, and I’ll protect you with my life. I will slay a murder of dragons for you.”

“I looked it up,” Levi says from the doorjamb. “It’s a thunder of dragons.”

“Fascinating.” I rub the underside of Schrödinger’s chin. He squints in feline bliss. “But we like ‘murder’ better, don’t we? Yes, we do.” I glance up. “I believe I was promised some anal expression?”

He shakes his head. “It was to lure you here. Don’t believe everything you’re told.”

“You heard that, Schrödinger? Your daddy uses your malfunctioning glands as bait.”

Levi smiles. “He’s not like that, usually.”

“Hmm?”

“Schrödinger’s shy with most people. Hides under the couch a lot. He used to be very aggressive with my . . .” The way he trails off has me dying to know.

“Your?”

He shrugs and looks away. “I lived with a girlfriend. For a few months.”

“Oh.” The cat flops on his side into a waterfall of purrs. “Lily?”

“Before her.”

I think I can stop lying to myself and the tiny porcelain frog that passes as my brain and just admit that Levi is the perfect combination of Sexy Guy™, Handsome Guy™, and Cute Guy™. You know when you’ve been in love with someone for years, and then they do something horrible, like forgetting to water your Chia Pet unicorn or screwing your best friend, and you stop seeing them through rose-colored lenses? All their shortcomings are thrown in sharp relief, like you just put on 3D glasses for inside ugliness? Well, now that I’ve gotten rid of my asshole goggles, I can acknowledge that Levi’s been eligible-bacheloring it up just fine. He’ll make some lucky girl an even luckier girl someday. And I have no idea why the idea of him having a live-in girlfriend sends that cold tingle in my belly—we’ve been fuckbuddies for less than twenty-four hours, for cake’s sake. It’s not my business, and the last thing I want is another relationship doomed to a messy, painful ending (i.e., any romantic relationship).

“Schrödinger didn’t like her?” He gnaws lovingly on my thumb.

“To be fair, she was a dog person.”

“When was this?” I ask, as nosy as a curtain-twitcher.

“In grad school. Before . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but his gaze lingers on me for a moment, and I wonder if he meant “Before you.”

Annie used to have a funny theory: we all have a Year Zero around which the calendars of our lives pivot. At some point you meet someone, and they become so important, so metamorphic, that ten, twenty, sixty-five years down the line you look back and realize that you could split your existence in two. Before they showed (BCE), and your Common Era. Your very own Gregorian calendar.

I used to think Tim was my Common Era, but I don’t anymore. In fact, I don’t want another flaky, fickle human being to become my Common Era. You know what would work great as a pivotal lifetime point? Me, getting my own NIH lab—which, I’m thrilled to say, is closer than ever. I almost want to text Annie to ask if new jobs can be Year Zeros, but I’m not quite there yet. Still, it’s nice to know that I could. That the door between us is ajar.

Levi wasn’t going to say “Before you,” because I’m not his Common Era. I don’t care to be. But I’m positive he’ll meet her soon. Probably a girl who’s five eleven, knows how to build a microwave from scratch, and has the astounding grace of Simone Biles. They’ll produce fierce, athletic kids with scarily smart brains and have sex every night, even when there are grant deadlines, even when the in-laws are in the guest room. Hummingbirds will flock to their yard during the spring months, and Levi will study them from his screened-in porch and be implacably happy—just like I’ll be happy with my lab, my research, my students, my RAs (Yes, they’ll all be women. No, I don’t care if you think it’s unfair).

But I’m glad I found out that Levi used to like me. I’m glad I get to have excellent sex for the first time in my life. I’m glad we’re doing this sleeping-together thing without all the ugly that comes from actually investing in a relationship. I’m glad we can be part of each other’s BCE for a while. I’m glad to be here. With him. I might even be happy.

“I think you’re the best,” I say, ruffling the fur around Schrödinger’s ears. “He’s very small.”

“Runt of the litter.”

I smile at the perfect beany underside of his paws. “I’ve always loved an underdog. Undercat?”

“I’m surprised someone who likes cats as much as you doesn’t . . .”

“Have one?”

“I was going to say five.”

I chuckle. “There is Félicette . . .”

“I was thinking more of existing cats.”

I glare at him. “I’d love to dedicate my life to embodying the cultural archetype of the crazy cat lady. But it’s a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because.” I hesitate, and Schrödinger purrs against my fingers. My love for him knows no bounds. “I couldn’t take it.”

“Couldn’t take what?”

“When they die.”

Levi gives me a curious look. “Not for years. Decades, sometimes. And a lot happens between the beginning and the end.”

“But the end does happen. Unavoidably. All relationships between living beings end somewhere, somehow. That’s just the way it is. One party dies, or is called away by other biological needs. Emotions are transient by nature. They’re temporary states brought on by neurophysiological changes that aren’t meant to be long-lasting. The nervous system must revert back to homeostasis. All relationships associated with affective events are destined to end.”

He seems unconvinced. “All relationships?”

“Yup. It’s science.”

He nods, but then says, “What about prairie voles?”

“What about them?”

“They pair-bond for life, don’t they?”

His eyes glint appraisingly, like he’s observing a fascinating biological phenomenon. We might not be talking about the misery of having to flush a goldfish down the toilet anymore. “Then prairie voles are the exception, because their oxytocin and vasopressin receptors are scattered across their reward systems.”

“Isn’t that biological proof that emotions and relationships can be long lasting?”

“Not at all. So you have two cute rodents and they stick together. Amazing. But one night husband vole crosses the highway to catch Ratatouille at the local theater and ends up pancaked by a Ford Mustang owned by a dipshit who’s driving to cheat on his wife with an unknowing college girl. Cue: grieving widow vole. It sucks, but it’s like I told you: one way or another.”

“And what happens in between doesn’t make it worth it?”

Have you ever been left behind? I want to ask him. Have you ever lost it all? Do you know how it feels? Because it doesn’t sound like you do. But I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not cruel. I just want to protect myself, and if Levi doesn’t want to do the same . . . he’s stronger than I am.

“Maybe,” I say, noncommital, and watch Schrödinger gracefully steal to where Levi is standing. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”

“What do you want to do?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

He smiles at me mischievously. “I thought maybe we could go for a jog.”

• • •

I’D EXPECTED HIM to be reserved about sex.

Not that I’d thought about it very much, but if someone had held a gun to my head and forced me to guess, I’d have probably told them, “I bet Levi Ward is quiet in bed. Boring. Because he’s such a guarded person out of bed. A few low grunts, maybe. A handful of words, all directives. Faster. Slower. Actually, this other angle is better.” I’d have been wrong. Because there’s nothing reserved in the way he takes his pleasure out of my body. Nothing at all.

I’m not sure how I replace myself spread out on my stomach in the middle of his bed, trying to breathe steadily as he traces the line of small tattoos down my spine.

“The UK,” he says, hoarse and a little shaky. “And—I don’t know this one. Or the next. But Italy. Japan.”

“Italy’s—ah—a boot. Easy.” I push my forehead into the pillow, biting my lower lip. This would be easier if he weren’t inside me. If he hadn’t pushed to the side the green panties I’d bought to celebrate BLINK—the ones that I regretted the second Levi was announced as my co-lead, the ones I didn’t think I’d use anytime soon, the ones Levi stared at speechless for a whole minute—and slowly, inexorably slid in to the hilt.

“They’re pretty. The outlines.” He lowers himself to kiss the skin of my neck. It makes his cock shift inside me, and we both groan. It’s just embarrassing, the way my back arches, the way my ass bucks back into his abdomen like my body isn’t mine anymore. “You might be too tight this way. It might be too good.”

Sex isn’t like this. I’m not like this. I’m not the type to come quickly, or uncontrollably, or loudly. I’m not the type to come very often. But there’s a place inside me that he hits. He found it last night, too, but now, in this position, or maybe just because it’s slower . . . I don’t know what it is, but it’s even better.

He thrusts inside me a couple times, shallow, experimental, and I have to fist my hands into his sheets. They are shaking.

“They’re—” I have to stop. Collect myself. Clear my throat. Tense. Release. “They’re my homes. All the places I’ve lived.”

“Beautiful.” He presses a soft kiss to the ball of my shoulder. “So damn beautiful,” he repeats, almost to himself, like it’s not about my tattoos anymore. Then the mattress shifts, I hear a frustrated groan, and all of a sudden I feel cold. He’s not touching me anymore. He has pulled back. Pulled out.

“What are you . . . ?” I try to turn around, but his hand splays between my shoulder blades to hold me down gently.

“Just trying to pace myself.” His voice is all strained, self-effacing amusement. I can’t see his smile, but I picture it in my head, faint, warm, beautiful. I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to relax into the sheets, feeling his eyes roam my body. His fingers trail down my back and then he begins to arrange me ever so slightly, tilting my hips at a different angle.

Levi exhales. “All those years ago. And then later. There were lots of things that I imagined doing to you, but I always went back to . . .” He trails off. For a few seconds I hear very little, but it’s okay. I’m unwinding from the trembling, needy, overheated mess he makes of me, and it’s good to have a moment to calm down. It’ll be nice to keep some dignity in this bed—

The palms of his hands move between my legs and spread them apart. My panties are yanked all the way to the side. I gasp, feeling cold air on my core, feeling so open, exposed, it’s almost obscene. “You look . . .” His voice is quiet, and then he half explodes in a low, “Fuck.” I’m a fraction of a second from asking him what’s wrong with me when I feel him pull my hips higher.

“Levi?”

His tongue, his lips, his nose press into me from behind, and I inhale sharply. First it’s careful, delicate licks, flicking my clit and nudging my opening; then it’s deep kisses, mapping me thoroughly.

“Oh my God,” I moan.

His only response is a low, satisfied growl against my folds, and I don’t know if it’s the vibrations, or the enthusiastic way he’s working on me, or the fact that he’s holding me wide open like I am a feast made for him to consume, but my belly tenses, and my limbs are shaking, and keeping my pleading noises in is a losing game. It can’t last, not like this. It takes him less than a minute to push me tumbling over the edge.

This is not my body. Or maybe it is, but Levi’s in charge, and I don’t mind. The pleasure takes over, crashes over me like a tidal wave, and before it even dries out I feel him rearranging me once more, pressing my stomach into the mattress again until I’m at his mercy.

His fingers are on me, parting me open. Then there is a stretch, a split-second burn, and he’s pushing deep inside. He was there before and it was heaven, but I’m wetter now, and the friction is even more delicious. I feel myself tighten, quick, fluttering contractions around his length.

This is. So. Unbelievably. Good.

“Jesus,” Levi grunts. Tests a deep, shaky thrust. “You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. I twist my neck and turn back. He’s looking down at me. At my flushed skin and my trembling flesh. He’s not going to stop anytime soon, I know it. I’m going to come disastrously quickly, again, or maybe I’ll never stop, and he’s going to stare at me for every last second of it. Caging me, propped up on his huge, shaking arms, with that hungry, spellbound gleam in his eyes. “You’re some kind of fantasy. Built to do this. Built for me. Fuck, Bee.” His rhythm picks up. Uneven and choppy, but it picks up.

And I can’t bear it.

“You can’t,” I moan.

He immediately pauses.

“No,” I whine. “Don’t stop.”

“You said—?”

“Just . . . Please, don’t look at me.”

He seems to finally get it. “Hush.” He lowers himself and presses a kiss to my cheekbones. It’s getting—it’s impossible, but it’s getting even better. He’s figured it out, the inside of me. How to angle his thrusts. They’re more shallow, more purposeful, and I’m . . .

Babbling. Things like Oh my god and More and Please and Please harder and he somehow knows what I mean. He makes sense of me, and bends down to run his tongue down the skin of my throat, to bite my shoulder, to grunt his pleasure against my nape.

“I’m not sure,” he murmurs gutturally, breath harsh against my ear, “how I haven’t come yet.”

Me neither, I think. I say his name, muffled in the pillow, and just let go.