Chapter 8 #2
That determined look that I love comes over his face. He kisses me quickly before sliding off the couch and kneeling at my feet.
“What are you doing?” I squeak.
“Making sure you’re ready for me.”
“Oh, trust me. I’m more than ready.”
It’s almost embarrassing how turned on and soaked I am for this man. He doesn’t take me at my word, though.
Logan grips my thighs, tugging them wider apart and giving me one last heated look before he buries his face in my core.
“Fuck!” I shout, my hips bouncing off the couch cushions as I arch up. “Logan!”
He hums, his tongue licking up and down my folds. He finds my clit, and circles my sensitive pearl.
He’s driving me wild, and he’s barely even touched me.
“Logan!” I cry as my orgasm brews inside me.
The pressure starts behind my belly button and grows until I can’t think or focus on anything but coming. I rock my hips against his face, and he moans in approval. When I look down my body and see him staring up at me, that’s what does it.
I scream his name as I come, riding his face until every last ounce of my orgasm has been wrung out of me.
“Whoa,” I gasp.
Logan licks his lips as he prowls back up my body.
We lock eyes as his cock nudges my dripping opening, and I suck in a sharp breath as he starts to push into me.
“So perfect,” he murmurs.
He looks like he’s in a daze, and I wonder if he’s even aware that he said that out loud. I want to ask him, but before I can, he thrusts forward, popping my cherry, and I gasp, all thoughts leaving my head.
All I can focus on is how full I feel. There’s a pinch of pain, and I squirm beneath him, trying to get used to him filling me.
“You’re too big,” I complain.
He growls, closing his eyes like he’s in pain. “Stop. Moving,” he grits out.
I take a deep breath and study his face. He takes a moment before he opens his eyes, grabs my hips, and starts to move.
His movements are slow at first, letting us get used to being together. It doesn’t take long before we’re moving together in perfect sync, racing toward our bliss.
His hand tangles in my hair, and he jerks my head up until our eyes meet. His are so dark, so filled with heat that I’m worried it will burn me alive.
I wonder what my eyes look like.
His other hand drops to my tit, and he molds the soft flesh in his palm. His fingers find my nipple, and he pinches it.
That’s what sends me over the edge.
I scream his name as I fly into oblivion, and he groans mine from between gritted teeth as he follows after me.
I cling to him and close my eyes as I catch my breath. It takes me a moment to take stock of things.
I can’t believe that just happened. I had sex with Logan Carter.
We’re tangled on the couch, our limbs intertwined beneath the soft throw blanket that wasn’t made for two adults to share post-coitus.
His hand rests low on my back. My head is on his chest. We’re quiet, our breathing finally steady.
"So," I whisper.
He hums.
"That happened."
"Yeah."
"And?"
He exhales. "And I’m not sorry."
I smile against his shirt. "Good. Because I’m not either."
His arms tighten around me, like maybe he’s been holding back for so long he doesn’t know how to relax.
I slide my hand up to his jaw, gently tracing the line of his beard with my thumb. "Can I ask you something?"
He shifts slightly so he can look at me, brow furrowed. "Yeah."
"Why now? Why tonight?"
His answer is a long moment in coming.
Then, finally, he says, "Because you looked at me like I’m not a lost cause. Like you see something in me no one else does. And because I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you."
My heart cracks open a little wider.
Because same.
Because always.
The next few days blur into something that feels dangerously close to bliss.
We don’t define it. We don’t talk about what it means.
But we keep kissing. We keep touching. We keep finding excuses to be close—brushing shoulders at the sink, sharing long glances across the living room, pretending we’re not thinking about the next time we’ll be alone again.
I wake up one morning to the smell of coffee and the sound of Logan humming— humming —in the kitchen. I pad out in one of his hoodies and socks, my heart doing backflips at the sight of him pouring two mugs.
He looks up and smirks. "You’re wearing my clothes."
"I look better in them."
He walks over and presses a kiss to my temple. "Not wrong."
I grin into my mug.
God, I’m falling.
So fast.
So hard.
And then...
Everything shifts.
It happens in the middle of the day. I’m sitting at my desk editing the latest team content when my phone buzzes.
Declan: Hey, meeting at 3 to go over merch sales and sponsor requests. Can you be there?
Me: Yep, I’ll bring the engagement analytics too.
Declan: Thanks. Also, did you post that pic of Logan in the locker room? The one with the dog?
Me: No, wasn’t me.
Declan: Weird. It’s blowing up. Just wanted to check.
I open the team account and scroll. Someone must’ve snapped a behind-the-scenes shot and tagged us. It’s Logan, crouched beside a service dog during a veteran appreciation game. He’s smiling, relaxed, soft in a way most people never see.
And the comments are wild.
@HockeyWife95: If Logan Carter smiled at me like that, I’d melt into a puddle.
@MapleQueen: I swear he’s been happier lately. Anyone else notice?
@Thundergirls: Who’s the girl he’s been seen with outside the arena?? Blonde. Cute.
My stomach drops.
Because I know exactly who they’re talking about.
And it’s only a matter of time before Declan connects the dots.
I’m distracted during the meeting. I keep glancing across the table at Declan, wondering if he knows. If he suspects. If he’d lose his mind if he found out I’ve been playing tonsil hockey with his best friend in the kitchen.
I barely speak, and when the meeting ends, I bolt.
Back at the apartment, I pace.
I don’t know what we are.
But I know what we’re not.
We’re not safe.
We’re not smart.
We’re not hidden anymore.
Logan gets home around six, and the second he sees my face, he knows.
"What happened?"
"It’s starting," I say quietly. "The rumors. The pictures. The speculation. People are talking. Declan is talking."
He closes the door behind him. "Did he say something to you?"
"Not yet. But it’s coming. And I need to know what we’re doing, Logan. Because I like you—more than like you—and if this blows up in my face, I at least want to know it mattered."
He crosses to me, rests his hands on my hips. "It mattered."
"Then what are we?"
He hesitates.
And that— that —is when the panic sets in.
Because if he has to think about it, if he has to weigh it against the team, the rules, my brother, then maybe I already have my answer.
I step back, putting space between us. "You know what? Never mind."
"Violet—"
"It’s fine," I lie. "We don’t have to define it. We’ll keep sneaking around until someone catches us, and then we’ll pretend it was nothing."
His jaw tightens. "That’s not what I meant."
"Then what do you mean?"
Silence.
I nod. "Cool. Got it."
I head to my room before he can stop me.
And when the door closes behind me, I press my forehead to the wood and whisper the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t let happen.
"Please don’t break my heart."
But I think he already has.