11. Logan
Logan
Her mouth is still on mine when everything shifts.
Not the kiss—that’s already there.
Heat, pressure, her breath breaking against mine in a way that tells me she’s past thinking and somewhere deeper now.
No—it’s the way she doesn’t pull back.
Doesn’t reset.
Doesn’t try to control it.
That’s new.
My hand tightens at her waist, pulling her closer, and this time she comes willingly—no hesitation, no pause, just a soft, unsteady exhale that goes straight through me.
Yeah.
There it is.
I deepen the kiss, slower now, deliberate, giving it space to build instead of taking it all at once.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, gripping like she needs something to hold onto, and that alone is enough to push me further.
Because she doesn’t need anything.
Except right now—
she does.
“For someone who likes control,” I murmur against her mouth, “you’re not using much of it.”
Her breath catches, a quiet sound slipping out before she can stop it.
“Don’t,” she says, but there’s no strength behind it. “Don’t analyze this.”
I huff a low breath, brushing my mouth along her jaw, not quite kissing, not quite pulling away.
“Then stop thinking,” I say.
“I don’t work that way.”
“No,” I agree softly. “You don’t.”
My hand slides along her side, feeling the tension there, the way she’s holding herself together even as she leans into me.
Even as she doesn’t step back.
Even as she lets this happen.
That’s the part that gets me.
Not the kiss.
Not the heat.
Her choice.
I shift, backing her a step until she hits the edge of the bed, and the second it grounds her, her breath changes again—Quinn now, more aware of where we are.
Of what this is turning into.
Her eyes lift to mine.
Focused—but not fully steady.
“Logan,” she says.
My name lands different like that.
Not controlled.
Not strategic.
Real.
“Yeah,” I answer.
Her hand tightens in my shirt, pulling me just slightly closer.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I kiss her again—harder this time, less restrained, the line between control and want blurring fast.
She responds immediately, no hesitation now, no distance, just heat and pressure and a soft sound that builds the second I deepen it.
This isn’t the deal.
This isn’t the plan.
This is something else.
Something we didn’t stop when we should have.
My hand slides up her back, pulling her flush against me, and I feel it—the exact moment she stops trying to manage it.
Stops trying to separate it.
Her breath breaks again, quieter this time, closer, and that’s it—
that’s the shift.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her focus isn’t sharp anymore.
Not calculated.
Not distant.
And I don’t miss that.
“Still thinking about control?” I ask, voice low.
She shakes her head once.
Small.
Barely there.
Honest.
Yeah.
I lean in again, brushing my mouth against hers, slower now, not rushing it, letting it build instead of forcing it.
“Good,” I murmur.
Her fingers tighten again, and this time when I move, she follows.
Not resisting.
Not hesitating.
Choosing.
That’s what does it.
Not the heat.
Not the tension.
That.
“You sure about this?” I ask quietly.
Not a challenge.
Not a test.
A line.
Her gaze locks on mine.
And this time—
there’s no calculation behind it.
No strategy.
Just decision.
I kiss her again—harder this time, less restrained, the line between control and want blurring fast. My mouth finds hers with a hunger I've been keeping leashed since the Vegas, since the balcony, since every moment I've had to watch her think instead of feel.
The kiss isn't gentle. It's demanding, claiming, my teeth catching her lower lip before I angle her head and take it deeper.
She responds immediately, no hesitation now, no distance, just heat and pressure and a soft sound that builds the second I deepen it.
That noise—half gasp, half moan—vibrates against my mouth and travels straight through my chest, settling low in my gut.
Her hands are fisted in my shirt, knuckles pressing into my shoulders, and I can feel the way her fingers tighten each time my tongue strokes against hers.
"You sure about this?" I ask quietly. The words come out rougher than I intend, scraped raw by want. I pull back just enough to see her face; to watch the way her chest rises and falls with quickened breath.
Her gaze locks on mine. Those hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something fierce in them—something that looks like defiance and surrender all tangled together.
"Yes."
That's all it takes.
I don't hold back after that.
My hand slides into the hair at the nape of her neck, gripping just firm enough to tilt her head back.
The kiss I press to her mouth is slower but stronger, something steadier taking over where tension used to be, something that doesn't feel like it's going to stop just because it should.
I take my time, tasting her, learning the rhythm of her breath, the way her lips part for me like she's been waiting for this exact moment.
Her breath breaks against mine, softer now, closer, and I feel her shift under my hands—not pulling away, not holding back, just moving with it.
Her body sways toward mine, fitting herself against my chest like she's finding her place there.
The warmth of her seeps through my shirt, and I can feel the rapid beat of her heart where our bodies press together.
I drag my mouth from hers, trailing kisses along the sharp edge of her jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below her ear.
She shivers, and I smile against her skin before continuing lower, my lips brushing the column of her throat.
Her pulse flutters beneath my mouth, quick and unsteady, and I linger there, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the thin skin.
My hands find the hem of her shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric to skim the warm plane of her stomach.
She inhales sharply at the contact, her abdominal muscles tensing beneath my touch before slowly releasing.
I take my time, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, mapping her through the thin cotton.
When I lift the shirt over her head, she raises her arms without hesitation, and I toss it somewhere behind me, not caring where it lands.
Soft light gilds her skin, casting shadows in the hollows of her collarbones, the swells of her breasts.
She's beautiful—slender but strong, the kind of strength that comes from holding yourself together for too long.
I step back just enough to look at her, to take in the sight of Quinn Mercer standing half-dressed in the amber glow, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath, her eyes watching me watch her. There's vulnerability there, but she doesn't try to hide it. Not anymore.
My hands cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, and her head tips back against the wall.
The sound she makes is quiet, barely more than an exhale, but it sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I lean down, pressing a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, then lower, tracing a path across her collarbone with my lips.
I take my time with her breasts, kissing the soft swell of first one, then the other, avoiding the tight peaks until she's shifting restlessly beneath my mouth. Her fingers slide into my hair, not pulling, just holding, and I can feel the slight tremor in her hands.
When I finally close my lips around her nipple, her grip tightens.
I tease her with my tongue, circling the hardened peak before sucking gently, then harder, drawing a moan from deep in her throat.
Her back arches off the wall, pressing herself into my mouth, and I give her what she wants—more pressure, more heat, my teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before I soothe it with my tongue.
I lavish attention on her nipples, alternating between them, kissing and sucking and biting until her breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
The sounds she makes are intoxicating—soft whimpers and desperate moans that make my cock strain against my jeans.
But I'm not rushing this. I want her unraveling before I'm through.
My mouth begins its descent, kissing a slow path down her sternum, across the plane of her stomach. I pause at her navel, dipping my tongue inside, and she sucks in a breath, her hands falling from my hair to grip my shoulders. I can feel her fingers digging into my muscles, desperate for purchase.
I kneel before her, my hands finding the waistband of her pants.
My fingers work the button free, then the zipper, and I look up at her.
Her eyes are half-lidded, hazy with want, and her lips are parted, swollen from my kisses.
She doesn't speak, but she doesn't need to.
The answer is written in every line of her body.
I slide her pants down over her hips, taking her underwear with them, and she steps out of them, kicking them aside. My hands skim up her thighs, feeling the lean muscle beneath soft skin, and I lift one of her legs, draping it over my shoulder.
The position opens her to me completely, and I take a moment just to look—at the glistening evidence of her arousal, at the way her body is already trembling with anticipation.
She leans back against the wall, her hands finding purchase on the cool surface, and I can see the tension in her arms, the way she's holding herself up.
I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, feeling her muscle jump beneath my lips. Then another, higher, closer to where she wants me. Her breath hitches, and I smile against her skin before dragging my tongue through her slick folds, back to front.
The taste of her floods my mouth—musky and sweet—and I groan, the vibration traveling against her flesh.
She cries out, her hips jerking forward, and I grip her thigh with one hand, holding her steady as I lick her again.
Slow, deliberate strokes that have her gasping, her head falling back against the wall.