Love on the Brain(76)

“Why?”

“Because.” I hesitate, and Schr?dinger 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 Schr?dinger 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 find 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.