Half of My Heart ✔️

46 | on my knees

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♔

"to burn with desire and keep quiet about it
is the greatest punishment
we can bring on ourselves."
- Federico García Lorca

warning: explicit sexual content

♔

"God, this chair is fucking small," Levi murmurs against my lips, causing me to laugh. "One second."

He moves me off his lap, leaving me to wonder if this is his way of politely telling me he doesn't want me. But he moves toward the couch pushed up against the wall and sits down, bracing his hands behind his head lazily.

"That's better," he says with a satisfied smile. One hand extends toward me, and I take it warily.

"This couch looks old," I comment, looking down at the worn-out sofa. It doesn't even look dirty, and I realize I'm just stalling for some reason. I focus on the thumps of my heart in my chest, hoping Levi can't hear it.

"Good thing you won't have to sit on it," he says smoothly. Then his hand moves to the back of my exposed thigh and pulls me down onto him so my legs are on either side of him.

The bottom of my dress rises up my thighs, and Levi's hands brush over the exposed skin. His lips find mine again, and we pick up where we left off. Levi's movements are confident and fervent, tugging me from my second-guessing thoughts.

It all comes pouring out between our lips and his hands lighting heat within my veins. I shut my eyes tighter and try to fall deeper into the moment.

Levi's lips pull away from mine for a fraction of a second, and it isn't until I feel the fiery warmth of his bare skin under my hands that I realize he's taken his shirt off. I flatten my hands against his firm chest and pull away.

I look at him—the redness of his lips, the desireful look in his eyes, the messiness of his dark hair. I let my eyes trail down even further to his tanned torso. Levi lets me take in the view, resting his head against the back of the couch and watching me with dark eyes.

The black ink on the side of his ribcage. XIX : XXVIII. I trace the cryptic tattoo lightly. "Nineteen twenty-eight?" I ask, translating the roman numerals into numbers. "Is it a year or something?"

Levi takes my hand off the tattoo. "Leviticus. Chapter nineteen. Verse twenty-eight. 'You shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor tattoo any marks on you.'"

I raise my eyebrow and bring my hand up to his cheek. "You got a tattoo of the verse that tells you not to get any tattoos?"

Levi laughs. "It seemed a lot more badass when I was eighteen," he explains. "It was kind of a 'fuck you' to my parents."

I start leaning back down to meet his lips. "What a rebel you were," I whisper, hovering just inches above his face.

"A rebel with a cause," he says just before closing the distance. Then his hands are back on me, this time, teasing under the hem of my dress. I keep kissing him as his fingers hook under the sides of my lace underwear. When I don't say anything, he takes the hint and lifts my dress so it bunches around my waist, exposing me to him.