13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Kayla
A car arrives for us at seven—well, I say car, but it’s more of a shuttle. We all pile in, dressed to kill and smelling more fragrant than ever. In a good way. I even found a perfume shop in town that had something close to what I usually go for. A little pricey, but worth it. There’s something about being dressed sharp, smelling good—it changes the way you carry yourself.
Not that it stopped us from acting like high schoolers, fighting over who got to wear what scent.
Mac, though.
Dios mío, angel, what are you trying to do to me?
I can barely take my eyes off her. And unfortunately, I’m not the only one.
The guys sneak glances as she steps into the bar, their gazes flicking to the dress hugging her curves like it was sewn onto her skin. A muscle in my jaw twitches. She’s always been beautiful, but tonight? Tonight, she’s something else entirely. And every guy in this place fucking knows it.
The men at the door barely glance at us as we squeeze past. Maybe they recognize us, or maybe they’re too busy staring at the way Mac moves—effortless, completely unaware of the attention she commands. Then I spot Clay, joking with one of them, and the tension in my shoulders knots even tighter.
He walks in beside her, leaning in, his hand barely brushing her arm.
It’s fine. They can joke, they can laugh.
But if he so much as tries to make a move, I swear to God—
Mac tips her head back and laughs at something he says, and a sharp pang shoots through my chest.
Jealousy.
I grit my teeth and drag my gaze away, but it’s useless. My eyes find her again, drawn to her like she’s got her own gravitational pull. She walks through the shifting lights, reds and golds melting into blues and greens as she reaches the bar. The colors wash over her, painting her in something almost otherworldly.
I prowl after her, my top few buttons undone. She probably didn’t even notice me slipping into the shuttle earlier—front seat, while she sat in the back with the guys. But I hope she notices me now. I picked this outfit for her. Dark maroon trousers, black tailored shirt. The tailor who helped me said I looked like the devil. And hell, maybe I do.
Because tonight, I feel like her devil.
The clothes fit like a glove, snug enough to sharpen my edges but loose enough to move in. I’ll need it—there’s dancing involved, and if I’m lucky, I won’t be doing it alone. I might be more at home in ripped denim and a leather jacket, but standing here, watching her, I feel powerful.
People gasp as I push through the crowd, recognition flickering in their faces. I ignore them. They don’t matter. Not right now.
Not when she’s glowing under the lights, transcending her already stunning self.
Something primal tightens in my gut.
I want to hold onto her.
I need to hold onto her.
Because in two days, I have to let her go.
The thought nearly wrecks me.
I just found her again, and already, I fucking miss her. Even with her standing right there, just a few steps away, it feels like a knife pressing into my ribs.
I just got her back. And now I have to turn around and walk away? Pretend like she won’t still be here, living her life without me? That some other guy won’t see what I see and step in?
How could they not?
The idea makes me sick.
I shift my stance, forcing myself to stay put as she leans in to order a drink. The bartender plays his angle, pretending he can’t hear her, making her move closer, giving him the perfect view down her dress.
Asshole.
I know damn well he can hear her just fine. I can hear her just fine, and I’m standing by the fucking dance floor.
My grip tightens around my drink. It takes everything in me not to storm over there, slide my arm around her waist, and claim her right then and there. Make sure every single guy in this place knows she isn’t up for grabs.
That she’s mine.
Except… she’s not.
Not really.
Not yet.
And maybe not ever.
Dios mío, even as my gut twists and my dick strains against my pants, I try not to brood.
Don’t fucking do it.
No.
Do it.
Now’s your time, Logan.
Don’t.
Dios mío, I need another drink.
I take a step forward, ready to close the distance, to do something—anything—but I’m jostled by a small group of women, their laughter breaking my focus.
By the time I steady myself, Mac is already reaching for her drink, oblivious to the storm raging inside me.
I exhale slowly, forcing it down.
Forcing myself to remember that tonight, at least, she’s still here.
Still with me.
Two more nights.
That’s all I get.
That’s all I deserve.
The bass thrums through the floor, through my bones—through her.
The air is thick, charged, filled with bodies moving to the music, but I only see Mac.
The crowd disperses after a few pleasantries, and I find her watching me, drinks in hand. Her teeth graze her lower lip, a nervous habit. Is she hesitating? Unsure about stepping forward, seeing me surrounded by others clamoring for my attention?
They mean nothing.
Only Mac.
I push past, tossing out a few polite goodnights, ignoring the moans and whines as I leave them behind. Five steps. Four. Three. And then she’s right there, her breathing just slightly uneven.
She looks at me like the world around us doesn’t exist. Like the chaos of the club—the guys making a scene, the couples pressed together, swaying to the rhythm—fades into nothing.
I smile, reaching for the beer in her hand. She releases it, a shiver rolling through her.
That look.
That look of surrender.
It’s fucking adorable. How can she be even more so? Maybe it’s my mind, my libido hiking things up, but I feel drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and I want her to burn me up.
She already knows how this night will end.
The thought makes my blood run hotter.
We make our way to a reserved booth, slipping inside as the music shifts. Neither of us speaks. We don’t have to. She sets her drink down without breaking eye contact.
An invitation.
One I’m not about to refuse.
I step forward, closing the space between us, my fingers skimming up her bare arm. Her skin reacts instantly, goosebumps rising in my wake.
She feels me.
The way I feel her.
Her breath hitches as my hand slides to her waist, my grip firm. Possessive.
She tilts her head back, lips parting slightly, waiting.
I’ll give you what you want, baby.
The music shifts, something slow and sultry, a bass-heavy rhythm begging for friction.
I pull her in, pressing her body flush against mine, and she melts.
Fuck.
Her hips roll, slow, deliberate, a perfect drag against me. Every inch of her pressed into every inch of me, and I feel it everywhere. My hands roam, one sliding up the curve of her back, the other dipping lower, fingers splaying over the curve of her ass as I pull her closer. She exhales—a soft, needy breath, barely audible over the music.
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” I rasp.
Mac shivers, her hands sliding up my chest, nails dragging just enough to make my muscles tighten beneath her touch.
“Don’t I?” she murmurs, pressing back against me, grinding into me with perfect, torturous precision.
I suck in a sharp breath, fingers flexing against her hip.
She fucking knows.
Knows exactly what she’s doing.
Knows how hard I am.
Knows that every single part of me is screaming to take her somewhere private and ruin her.
She turns in my arms, her chest pressing into mine, and I barely resist the urge to claim her mouth right then and there. Her hands slide up, fingers tracing the back of my neck before tangling into my hair. She tugs me closer, just enough that our lips almost—almost—brush.
“God, you smell fucking good,” she says, almost dreamily, looking up at me with a sly smile.
The crowd sways around us, the music thick and heavy, but they might as well not exist.
“You sure you can handle the heat, Dale?” she teases, voice husky, lips inches from mine, begging to be taken, her breath mingling with mine.
Fuck.
I’m not sure I can handle her.
I’m not sure I want to handle her.
I dip my head, my lips ghosting over her jaw, teeth grazing just enough to make her shudder.
“You want fire, baby?” My voice is thick, rough, barely controlled. I drag my mouth lower, skimming along the column of her throat. “I’ll burn you to the ground.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair as she inhales sharply.
I know—deep down, I know—if I kiss her now, we won’t make it through the song.
A voice in the back of my head reminds me this isn’t fair. That I only have a few days left before I have to walk away. But even that can’t quell the fire in my veins, the pull toward her that I have no hope of resisting.
Right now, none of it matters.
Not the time.
Not the distance.
Only this.
Only her.
And the way she feels pressed against me.
I can lie to myself and say she’s already mine.
Was it selfish? Probably.
But I need her.
The song fades, leaving only the pounding in my chest and the ache low in my gut. We make our way back to the booth, where the others have gathered.
“Where have you two been? And why you both all sexy and shit?” Sam calls.
Before I can answer, Trey—because of course he fucking would—pipes up, seeing that everyone is together.
“All right, assholes and vageens! Glasses up! I wanna do a toast!”
The tray in front of him is filled with shots of different colors, a petite blonde perched in his lap like she was born there, twirling his hair around her finger.
I groan.
Fucking hell.
Without even looking, Mac hands me a shot. Our fingers brush, and for a moment, we share another look. A silent, electric something that settles low in my gut.
Then, with a sigh, we both turn our focus to the sporadic fucker that is Trey.
Fuck. Here we go.
I mutter it under my breath, and Mac hums in agreement, her head settling on my shoulder like it belongs there. Like it’s natural. Like it doesn’t make my entire goddamn chest tighten. From the dance floor to this—the casual way she touches me now—it knocks the fucking breath out of me.
Trey clears his throat dramatically.
“Here’s to big dick energy, lazy morning sex and parental issues. May it keep us all chasing true love with collars, clamps and crippling self-doubt!”
Groans erupt around the booth. Sam shakes his head.
“Trey needs to get himself a girlfriend, the casual flings are doing more harm than good.” Chace adds.
“Touring can be hell, man,” Sam says morosely.
Not to be distracted, Trey continues his drunken tirade, pausing for dramatic effect.
“To—”
I roll my eyes, leaning in to whisper to Mac, “You think we should just get him a dog?”
But the second my breath hits her neck, she jumps. Not much, just enough that her hand falls behind her—
And brushes against my cock.
At first, I think it’s an accident.
And I try—fuck do I try—to think of literally anything else so I don’t react.
But then she doubles down, fingers curling around me through my pants.
My entire body tenses. It’s my turn to jump.
Mac snorts softly, like she knows exactly what she’s doing, and the worst part? It’s so fucking obvious that even Trey notices.
“To Logan and his legendary penis!” he shouts, lifting his drink.
Mac, mid-sip, nearly chokes. Her hand—finally—eases off.
She’s still playing innocent. Still keeping that butter wouldn’t melt look on her face. But I see it. That flicker of something wicked in her eyes. That little spark that says she’s enjoying this way too much.
“He’s slept with sisters, a stepmother, and then the daughter while the stepmother slept. And when they found out afterward? They were happy for each other. I tell you, folks, the girth and size of his legendary penis is dwarfed only by the size of his heart. He brings families together. Cheers!”
I fucking groan, dragging a hand down my face.
Mac? She’s having the time of her life. Her hand sneaks up my thigh, just enough to let me know she knows exactly how fucking hard I am. She pats me—pats me—twice around the tip, then steps forward like she hasn’t just ruined my life.
My eyes widen in alarm, but fuck it. If she wants to play games, we’ll play.
Trey smirks, zeroing in. “What do you say, Mac? Care to find out?”
The whole booth goes still.
Mac pauses, setting down her empty shot glass with slow, deliberate ease.
And then, she turns to me.
The air fucking crackles.
“I swear to God, if you two get it on, I am going to be so fucking proud of you,” Trey says. “It’s not incest, but it’s close. And if you want me to film it, I’m down. 100%. Just say the word.”
Sam thumps him—hard enough that the table rattles—but no one moves.
No one breathes.
Then Mac blurts, “I thought you’d never ask!” and grabs another shot, walking right back over to me.
She smirks as she tilts back her drink, victorious.
I’m going to kill her.
Or kiss her.
Maybe both.
I grab my own glass, leveling her with a look. “To us,” I say, voice thick with meaning.
“Salud.”
The shots go back. The others cheer, voices mixing—cheers, skol, salud, and Trey, who, I’m pretty sure, slurs “dwink” into the blonde on his lap.
Mac meets my eyes again over the rim of her glass.
And just like that, I know—
This thing between us?
We’re just getting started.
The house is quiet. Or at least, as quiet as it can be with a bunch of rockstars passed out inside. Dean handed out room keys earlier, and one by one, the guys peeled off—Sam mumbling about macros, tequila, and protein shakes in a half-asleep daze, Chace slinging an arm around a girl I’m pretty sure had been with Trey most of the night. Trey, still buzzing, disappeared with another girl, someone I think I’ve seen around before. Either way, they were too wrapped up in each other to notice much else.
Honestly, the boarding house feels more like a frat.
But Logan stayed.
And so did I.
Now, we’re out on the porch, the air thick with the scent of ozone and earth, the unfallen downpour holding its breath.
It’s late—later than I should be awake, but my body isn’t tired. Not even close.
I push my foot lightly against the wooden floorboards, making the porch swing sway beneath us.
The motion is lazy, slow.
So is the way Logan’s watching me.
I can feel his gaze. It burns like the heat rolling off his skin, like the whiskey still sitting in the back of my throat. He’s close enough that his knee brushes mine, close enough that if I wanted to, I could just…
I exhale, gripping the edge of the seat.
Nope.
Bad idea.
Danger.
His arm is draped over the back of the swing, his fingers close enough to ghost against my shoulder. He looks like he belongs here, like he’s always belonged here—like the world bends to him without him even trying. And fuck, maybe it does. That outfit, clinging to him like a second skin, should be illegal. My pulse damn near flatlined when I spotted him in the club, my drink almost slipping from my fingers.
I want to sneer at the girls vying for his attention, roll my eyes at the way they drape themselves over him, all fake laughter and wandering hands. But I can’t. Because I was one of them, for fuck’s sake.
He has the kind of presence that swallows a room whole, the kind that could shake an entire stadium to its foundations. But then—just when you think he’s untouchable—he looks at you. Just a flick of those electric blue eyes, a moment, a heartbeat… and suddenly, it’s only for you.
And that? That feels dangerous.
"How long are you going to keep pretending this isn’t killing you?"
His voice is low, rough, like gravel and smoke, and it guts me.
I swallow hard. "What?"
His lips curve, but there’s no humor there—just something dark, something knowing. He shifts, just enough for his knuckles to graze my thigh. Barely there. A whisper of contact that still manages to set my skin on fire.
I stop breathing.
The game we’ve been playing all night? It just hit overtime.
"This," he says, tipping his head toward me. "Us. You act like you don’t feel it."
Act like I don’t feel it, Logan?
I fucking ache for you.
It’s pathetic, the way my body responds before my brain can catch up. The way I lean in, just slightly, like gravity’s lost its goddamn mind. I let out a laugh, but it’s weak, shaky. "Logan—"
"Don’t." His fingers flex on the back of the swing, his jaw tight, his breathing unsteady. "Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it’s not there. Don’t act like I don’t see the way you look at me."
I shake my head, but my pulse is pounding, my hands clenching uselessly in my lap.
He’s too close.Too solid.Too fucking much.
This beautiful idiot doesn’t get it.
Maybe I should pump the brakes. Maybe I should remind myself that this is temporary. That he’s leaving. That falling into Logan Dale is the kind of mistake that ruins people.
But I already know the truth.
He isn’t just a bad habit. He isn’t something I can just quit.
He’s a drug I won’t want to stop taking.
He’s my heroin.
“Logan, you’re leaving soon.” I whisper. It sounds pathetic even to my own ears.
His throat bobs as he swallows.
“I know.”
I hate how much that hurts.
I hate that I want him to tell me that he’s staying. That he’ll throw it all away—his band, his tour, his entire fucking life —just to stay right here.
With me.
But I won’t say it.
Because it’s selfish.
Because it’s unfair.
Because it’s not the way this works.
So, instead I sit there, gripping the bench like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded, while Logan watches me like he’s memorizing every inch of my face.
Like he already misses me.
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to leave you again.” The words are barely above a whisper, but they hit like a cannon.
Something snaps in my chest.
I turn toward him, and suddenly we’re too close, our knees pressing together, our breaths tangling in the space between us. My heart is a wild, reckless thing , slamming against my ribs.
“Then don’t.”
Logan stills.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s me, maybe it’s the inevitable fucking gravity that’s been pulling us together since the moment he walked back into my life.
All I know is that one second, I’m staring into those impossible blue eyes, and the next, his hand is on my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, and fuck . It’s like a missing piece of me is filled.
I feel safe.
I feel claimed .
Branded by the heat of his palm, the weight of his touch.
I tilt my face up, just slightly , just enough for his breath to ghost over my lips. A shiver runs through me, my body leaning into his like it has no choice, like the space between us has never been real.
His thumb brushes my cheek.
I can feel how close he is. How badly he wants this.
How badly I want this.
He lets out a slow, ragged breath, and pulls back.
I blink. My head spins.
He’s still looking at me, jaw clenched so tight I think it might crack.
“I can’t.” he says, his voice hoarse.
I don’t know if he’s talking to me or himself.
Maybe both.
The loss of his touch is like a slap. My body aches from the absence of him, my chest tight, throat burning.
Maybe I should tell him it’s okay. That I understand. That, from a reasonable standpoint, this is for the best.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I’ve been so fucking selfish—wrapped up in me. My pain. My grief. My need to run. It’s all me, me, me. I’m sad. I’m grieving. I’m leaving.
And now? Now there’s this between us.
This thing that’s been simmering for years, bubbling under the surface, threatening to spill over. But tonight—tonight it boiled over. In the way his hands found me like he already knew exactly where I’d break. In the way he whispered my name like a prayer, like a plea.
And for one fleeting moment tonight, I let him.
Because in that moment, I wasn’t drowning. I wasn’t lost in the echoes of the past. I wasn’t running.
I was his.
But reality doesn’t give a shit about stolen moments. And neither does time. Logan has a life that doesn’t include me, and I made a choice to walk away from everything we were before.
So I just sit there, gripping the swing, fingers aching with the need to hold onto something.
But there’s nothing to hold onto.
Not when Logan exhales, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake me loose from his mind, and turns away. Not when he heads inside without another word.
Not when I’m left here alone, with nothing but the ghost of his touch and the ache of everything I will never say.
I shut the front door of the boarding house behind me, the lock clicking into place like the final beat of a song that’s been building forever. The house is quiet—no grunts, no moans of the girls that have been brought back, haunting the hallways, leaving their mark.
I let out a frustrated sigh, the frustration gnawing at me from the inside out. So much to say, that I could say… but fucking nope.
It’s fine. It’s probably for the best, right?
Maybe we could hang out after the tour. It’ll be stress-free. Right? Just... us.
But no. No, it doesn’t work that way.
Maybe I should go to him. Go up to him and tell him everything I’ve been holding in. Tell him how I feel about him. How I’ve always felt about him. Maybe I should talk to the guys, see what they think?
I want to shout. I want to scream until my throat is raw, stamp my feet, just release it all. I want to cry into the darkness, let it all slip away.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Whatever.
Whatever, Mac. Get a fucking grip.
Logan’s probably already gone to bed anyway.
And then I see him.
Logan.
He’s standing by the stairs, his back to me, one hand gripping the banister like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, a heavy rhythm I feel in my chest, like his every exhale is somehow tethered to me.
I don’t say a word.
I don’t have to.
Slowly—so fucking slowly—he turns his head, just enough for me to catch the sharp line of his jaw, the faintest flicker of something dark in his eyes that feels like a warning.
My stomach drops.
Every part of me knows.
Knows what’s about to happen.
His tongue drags out, slow and deliberate, over his bottom lip, and my body reacts before my mind can keep up.
"Fuck it."
My breath catches.
He moves toward me, each step unhurried, like he’s in no rush to get where we both know we’re going. And yet, each step feels like it’s stretching the seconds between us, thick and weighted with everything we’ve been too scared to say.
Everything we’ve never forgotten.
Everything that’s been burning between us.
And then his hands are on me.
A firm grip on my waist. A rough slide up my back. A fist tangling in my hair. I barely have time to gasp before my back is pressed against the door, the wood cool against my overheated skin.
And then Logan’s mouth crashes onto mine.
It’s not soft.
It’s not patient.
It’s desperation and heat and years of tension snapping all at once.
I fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and God, he growls, low, rough, like the sound is being ripped from his chest.
His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me up against him, and fuck —he’s all hard muscle and heat, the sheer size of him overwhelming in the best way.
He bites my bottom lip, just enough to make me whimper as our kiss deepens, his tongue catching mine as our mouths wrestle. A part of me wants to submit.
Like he owns me.
I want him to.
I let him.
My fingers slide up, threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The sound shoots straight through me. Liquid fire pooling low in my stomach.
He presses closer, so close I can feel the erratic beat of his heart slamming against mine. I don’t even realize I’ve lifted a leg until his hand is there, fingers digging into my thigh, hitching me up against him, holding me right where he wants me.
Jesus fucking Christ .
The kiss turns deeper, rougher—his lips, his tongue, the sharp edge of his teeth wrecking me.
He needs this. I need this. I can feel it in the way his hands grip my hips, the way his breath shudders when I drag my nails down his back.
Like he’s afraid I might disappear again.
Like he’s memorizing every inch of me before I slip away.
But I’m not slipping away.
Not now.
Not from him.
His mouth moves to my jaw, down my neck, sucking a bruising kiss just below my ear. My head tilts back against the door, a breathy moan slipping from my lips.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough, ragged. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I shiver.
His lips hover near my throat, his breath hot against my skin, “Tell me to stop.”
Should I, knowing that this can only end in heartbreak?
But instead, my fingers curl into his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine.
I kiss him deep, slow, dragging my tongue against his in a way that makes him curse into my mouth.
Then I whisper against his lips, “Don’t you dare stop.”
I didn’t know I was waiting for a song to change my life until his voice became the lyrics I couldn’t stop playing.
Logan grabs my hips, lifting me, and my legs wrap around his waist like it’s second nature. He groans when I rock against him, his body aligning with mine in a way that’s all too easy, too right.
Too dangerous.
“Fuck, baby.” He grits the words against my lips, his fingers flexing on my bare thighs. He’s holding back, but I don’t want him to. Not tonight. Not when everything between us is about to shift.
The buttons of his shirt feel like too much, an obstacle I can’t get past fast enough. I fumble with them, my hands trembling as I undo one, then another. But then he grunts, frustrated, and yanks the shirt apart. I slide my hands beneath, my nails dragging down the hard planes of his stomach, savoring the feel of his skin beneath my fingertips.
I can feel him tense under my touch, a tremor running through him, and I can’t help but smile, knowing I’m the one who’s doing this to him.
I want to mark him the way he’s marking me—with lips, teeth, hands.
“Logan,” I breathe, tilting my head back as his mouth trails lower, dragging over my throat, nipping at my collarbone before sucking the skin between his teeth. He’s leaving a bruise.
Good. Let it stay. Let me feel him even when he’s gone.
His fingers curl around the hem of my dress, hesitating, waiting. My heart pounds so loud I can hear it, but I don’t stop him. I don’t say no.
Because, for just a few more nights he’s mine.
And then he won’t be.
Logan groans, his grip tightening. And then he’s kissing me again, harder, hungrier , like he’s trying to make up for every second we lost. It’s reckless, it’s wild. It’s exactly what I need.
Logan brushes his thumb over my nipple, slow and teasing, his breath hot against my lips. "I'm going to ruin you, baby," he murmurs, his voice all gravel and sin. His fingers tighten on my hip, keeping me exactly where he wants me. "Make you beg. Make you come so hard you forget everything but me."
His lips trail along my jaw, teeth grazing my pulse before he growls low against my ear. "Be a good girl and take it."
His hand slides between us, fingers slipping beneath my panties, and the second he feels how wet I am, a deep, guttural sound rumbles from his chest.
"Fuck," he groans. "You’re soaked for me, angel."
He runs his fingers along my folds, slow and deliberate, dragging out the ache. My breath hitches, and I barely suppress the whimper threatening to escape. But when he pulls his hand away and lifts his finger to his mouth, sucking it clean with a low moan, my thighs clench instinctively around his.
His gaze locks onto mine, dark and hooded. "Fucking perfect."
Logan’s hands trail down my sides, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of me. My back presses against the boarding house door, the cool wood biting through my thin top, but I barely register it. Not when he’s looking at me like that—like I’m something sacred, something he’s been starving for.
He drops to his knees in front of me, his hands gliding over my thighs, spreading warmth in their wake. The sight of him there steals my breath. Dark hair tousled, electric-blue eyes locked onto mine, a knowing smirk teasing the corner of his lips.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, tugging them down at an excruciating pace, inch by inch. His calloused fingertips skim my skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. I shudder, my fingers digging into the door behind me.
“Fuck, Angel,” he murmurs, voice rough with want. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
He slides the lace all the way down, past my knees, down my calves, and over my feet, before pocketing them with a wicked wink. My pulse stutters, heat pooling low in my belly at the raw possession in his eyes.
“Logan…” It’s barely a whisper, but it carries every ounce of my need.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading me just enough to make my knees threaten to buckle. Anyone could walk by. Anyone could see.
But I don’t care.
I need him like my next breath.
And from the way his mouth parts, his gaze turning molten as he leans in, I know he needs me just as badly.
An unbearable ache that has me shifting, chasing more, but Logan only chuckles, dark and knowing.
"That’s my girl," he groans, voice rough with restraint. "Now let me hear you, angel."Gravity seems to disappear, the world around me turning static as he takes control, his presence consuming me completely. His hands are everywhere—needy, desperate, and full of hunger. One of them grips my ass cheek, squeezing it firmly, and before I can catch my breath, he hooks my left leg over his shoulder, lifting me effortlessly. My back presses against the door, his body braced against mine, holding me in place.
His tongue flicks out, teasing and tasting me, darting in and out, kissing my clit with such intensity that I lose myself completely. My breath hitches in a shuddering gasp, and then it happens—a rush of heat, a dizzying, all-consuming wave of pleasure as I come for him.
He doesn’t let me go. He keeps me there, holding me in the storm of sensation, before turning to kiss the inside of my thigh. His scruffy beard brushes against my sensitive skin, sending another wave of electricity through me. The feeling makes me tremble, convulsing again, my body a slave to the pleasure he’s giving me. I can’t think. I can’t move. All I can do is feel, overwhelmed by the way he makes me come apart piece by piece.
“Good girl, angel. Let me show you the pleasure you’ve always deserved.”
Words escape me. I feel at a loss as my back slides up and down against the cold, hard wood. A finger enters me, his grip adjusting, and my mind blanks. My body takes over. I begin to claw at him, half-mad with desire. But this... this won’t do. I need more. I need him inside me.
Unhooking my leg, I push him back with a growl, desperate.
His alluring smile falters as I lock eyes with him, losing myself in the depths of his gaze. I slide my hands down, pulling his zipper open, already familiar with the heat of him. My fingers slide into his boxers, pushing them aside, and his cock springs free, hot to the touch. I see the flicker in his eyes, a brief moment of surprise as my hand wraps around him.
I lift my legs, wrapping them around his waist, feeling the strength in his arms as they easily support me. My pulse quickens, a raw need driving me as I guide his rigid cock to my entrance. The first slow roll of my hips makes my body hum with anticipation, but it’s not enough. I need him deeper. I lean in, my teeth grazing his collarbone, biting down with a soft growl, and that’s when his hands grip my ass, lifting me effortlessly before slamming me back down on him.
The sharp, intense stretch of him fills me completely, and my body quivers with the overwhelming sensation. If I hadn’t already come, the fit might have been a struggle, but I’m ready for him. I want him. I need him. His cock presses deep, and the feeling of him inside of me sends shivers of pleasure that make my head spin.
The look in his eyes shifts—worship, awe. I’m not sure who’s worshipping who in this moment, but the thought of him emptying himself inside me makes me lose all sense of time. It’s all I can think about as my hips begin to move again, faster now, desperate. I want to ride him until I pass out from exhaustion or until his knees buckle beneath us, leaving him a pile of wanton, breathless desire.
"Angel," he mutters, his voice hoarse, kissing me with a wild intensity. "You’re so fucking beautiful."
With each thrust, I feel myself slipping further, losing grip on everything but the need to feel more, to drown in this moment, this pleasure. I don’t want it to end.
The night was a blur of fire and electricity, a perfect storm of passion that I never thought I’d experience. Everything about it—the way he touched me, the way he made me feel—was the most alive I’ve ever felt. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt more wanted, more needed. I thought I was lost in him, but in reality, he brought me back to myself in a way no one else ever had.
When it’s over, I’m breathless, my body trembling and sore from the intensity of it all, but I’ve never felt more content. The haze of pleasure slowly lifts, and I’m left in a daze, my heart still racing, my body humming with the aftermath. He doesn’t move away, though. He keeps me close, holding me like I might slip away if he lets go.
By the time we make it to the bedroom, the world outside doesn’t matter anymore. The sheets are tangled around us, a mess of limbs and heated skin, our bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with the scent of us—intimate, raw, perfect. His hand slides down my side, tracing the curve of my waist, and I let out a content sigh, my eyelids heavy from exhaustion and satisfaction.
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering as if he never wants to leave. His touch is gentler now, a stark contrast to the fire we just shared, and it feels like he’s grounding me, bringing me back down when I’m sure I could float away.
I shift in his arms, curling into him as he pulls the blanket over us, wrapping us both in its warmth. He holds me tighter, as if protecting something fragile, and for the first time in a long while, I feel safe—completely, utterly safe.
He pulls me close, his lips brushing the top of my head, murmuring something unintelligible against my skin.
He doesn’t rush away. He doesn’t let me go. Instead, he’s all hands, gentle and tender, as he eases me into a seated position, his eyes never leaving mine. “You good, angel?” His voice is soft, almost like he’s afraid to break the spell we’ve cast around us.
I nod, my body still trembling from the aftershocks, and he smiles like he’s won a victory, even though I’m the one who feels like I’ve won everything.
He stands, pulling me up with him, and I’m a little wobbly on my feet. He catches me effortlessly, steadying me with a firm grip around my waist. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
His hands are so careful, as if I’m the most delicate thing in the world, and it makes me want to melt into him all over again. He guides me to the bathroom, his body warm against mine. We step into the shower, the steam billowing up around us as he reaches for the soap. His hands move over me with slow, deliberate care, washing away the remnants of our night together, but it feels more intimate than anything we’ve shared yet.
I close my eyes, savoring the warmth of the water and the way he’s touching me—his fingers gliding over my skin like he’s memorizing every inch of me. His touch isn’t rushed, like he has all the time in the world.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he whispers, his voice low and soothing as he rinses me off. His eyes meet mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
“You’re not,” I breathe, not trusting my voice to say more. The truth is, I feel safe with him in a way I never thought I’d feel with anyone.
When he’s done cleaning me, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, slow and gentle, like we’re the only two people left in the world. It’s a stark contrast to everything we just shared, but it’s exactly what I need.
He dries me off carefully, as though I might break if he’s too rough. Once he’s done, he wraps me in a towel and pulls me to the bed. He doesn’t let go of me, doesn’t let me slip away, and I don’t want him to.
We lay there in silence for a while, just breathing, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my skin.
Finally, he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Best night of your life?”
I nod, unable to form the words. I feel like I’ve just been reborn, and it’s all because of him. He’s taken care of me in ways I didn’t even know I needed.
With a small, satisfied smile, he pulls me closer, tucking me against his chest, and we fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside forgotten for just a little while longer.