Chapter 21
21
KATRINA
I startle awake to the sound of my doorbell echoing up the stairs.
Blinking, I push the blanket off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the floor?—
Carpet.
I frown. Something feels off.
I never sleep barefoot.
Glancing down, I realize I’m still wearing my sundress from yesterday.
GOOD MORNING!
A yellow sticky note greets me from the bedside table. Next to it, a coffee mug sits, steam curling from the top, the scent rich and inviting.
DRINK ME, another note on the handle reads.
Logan?
In an instant, last night floods back—coming home, the piano, the music. The way we kissed, and kissed, and… kissed some more.
Heat prickles up my neck. He stayed. We must have talked for hours until we drifted off.
I twist around, scanning the bed, but Logan’s not here.
Then voices downstairs. The front door opening. Morning pleasantries. Thank yous and goodbyes.
My gaze drops to the bedside table again, landing on another note.
TAKE ME
I pick it up, along with the silver fork attached to it, suppressing a grin.
Grabbing the coffee, I make my way downstairs.
At the bottom, I spot Logan closing the front door, two white paper bags in his hands. The sight of him standing in my house sends a sudden rush of warmth through me.
It was real.
Everything from last night.
“Hey,” I greet, my voice still soft with sleep.
Logan looks over and smiles. “Good morning! You’re just in time.”
“For what?”
“Breakfast.” He lifts the bags. “Did you bring the fork?”
I hold it up.
“Excellent! Hope you like pancakes.”
“I do,” I say.
“Then, let’s eat.”
He gestures toward the kitchen and strides ahead, leaving me standing here, my heart doing something ridiculous in my chest.
What is this feeling?
Bewildered? Ecstatic?
All I know is… I don’t want it to go away.
I shuffle after him, careful not to spill my coffee. Logan is already unpacking the bags, the smell of fresh pancakes and maple syrup filling the air.
I step forward, brandishing my fork like a weapon. “Question,” I say, slapping the TAKE ME sticky note onto the counter between us.
“Yes?” Logan prompts.
“Do you or do you not carry a stack of these around with you at all times?” I ask.
His hands pause mid-rummage. He glances up at me.
Then, with a sigh, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a slim stack of yellow sticky notes.
I smirk. “I knew it.”
“I like to be prepared.”
“I’m sure you do.”
He puts them back in his pocket. “First things first this morning,” he says, meeting my gaze again, this time more serious. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Well, I was going to make you breakfast. But one glance in your fridge and cupboard told me that wasn’t happening. Not unless you wanted a half-drunk bottle of water and an expired bottle of hot mustard.”
I wince. “I haven’t done a grocery run since the tour ended.” I glance around as he stacks to-go containers on the counter. “Have you been up long?”
“Not too long. Well, actually…” Logan sets down a round container— pancakes , my stomach rumbles—before shifting his focus back to me. “There’s something else I need to apologize for.”
His playfulness dims slightly.
“Okay,” I say, setting my fork down. “What?”
“Promise you’ll forgive me first.”
“Why? What’d you do?”
Logan steps closer, his hand outstretched, palm open. “Come with me,” he says.
Something in his expression gives me pause. Quiet and solemn. I want to ask questions, but I don’t.
I take his hand.
He leads me out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into my music room.
Logan releases my hand and approaches Freddie the piano. “I know I shouldn’t have,” he murmurs. “But I couldn’t get it out of my head all night. And... well, just listen.”
He sits, stretching his hands before placing them on the keys. A flex, a slow press, a deliberate touch.
Then, he plays.
The song from last night. My song. Our song.
But when it reaches the end, he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, fingers coaxing the melody forward as if it always belonged there, as if the song itself wants him to complete it.
It’s different, but also...
It’s exactly what it was meant to become.
His hands move with knowing ease, teasing out something richer, something deeper, and my body reacts before I can stop it. Heat curls low in my stomach, blooming outward in slow, rhythmic waves, each note resonating in places he hasn’t even touched yet.
When he finally lifts his fingers from the keys, the last notes linger in the air, trembling, waiting—just like me.
“You can disregard all that, obviously,” Logan says. “I just thought it sounded, well... pretty.”
I nod, throat tight. “It does.”
“I should have asked you first.” Logan holds my gaze. “Do you forgive me?”
I pretend to consider it, bending until we’re almost nose to nose.
“That depends,” I murmur. “Did you get bacon?”
His mouth twitches. “I did. Sausage, too. Wasn’t sure which you preferred.”
“Bacon, usually.”
His gaze drops to my lips. “Now I know.”
I kiss him, warmth spreading from my chest outward. “I forgive you, Logan.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good.”
He grabs me by the waist and yanks me onto his lap. A startled laugh escapes me, but I don’t resist, letting him settle me exactly where he wants.
“How about we work on it a little more after breakfast?” he asks.
My arms curl around his neck. “I’d like that.”
We hover so close I feel his breath on my lips. The last twelve hours rush over me, every touch, every kiss, the way he made me feel then. The way he makes me feel now.
Logan exhales, his eyes going soft, full of something unsaid. He starts to speak?—
Stops.
Frowns, thinking twice.
“What?” I ask, searching his face.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Nooo.” I narrow my eyes. “What were you going to say?”
He presses his lips together, then huffs out a breath.
“I was just thinking about how beautiful you look in the morning,” he says.
The way he says it. Like it’s so natural, so true. It makes my heart squeeze.
I kiss him again, unable to stop myself.
He smiles against my lips.
“Come on,” he murmurs, rising from the bench with me still in his arms. “Let’s have breakfast.”
While my stomach quivers with hunger, my skin tingles with an even greater need. I stand, gripping the piano to steady myself as my ankles tremble and my knees lock.
“Logan,” I hear myself say, my voice barely above a breath.
He pauses in the doorway. “Hm?”
“I, uh...”
My throat tightens around the words, my heart hammering against it. I know what I want to say, what I want to do, but I’ve never had to express it before. Ever.
How do characters in books make this seem so easy?
Hell, how do people in real life make this seem easy?
“Katrina? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I manage, swallowing hard. “I just, um... About last night.”
Logan shifts, planting his feet, his full attention on me. “Last night?” he echoes.
I draw in a breath, but it does nothing to cool the heat flooding my skin. “Well, I know there’s a bit of social etiquette involved with... returning the favor.”
One of his brows lifts. “Returning the favor?”
I nod, heat prickling my cheeks. “And I wanted you to know that... I’m open to doing that. For you. If you want me to.”
Logan takes a step toward me, his stride as smooth as his voice. “Is that right?”
“It’s the right thing to do, I think,” I say quickly. “So, if you want me to?—”
“No.” The word is firm, cutting through the space between us. “If you don’t want to, then I don’t want to. What do you want to do?”
I drop my gaze, but the heat creeping up my skin a slow burn, a growing ache. Before I can find an answer, Logan hooks a finger under my chin, lifting my face toward his. His electric blue eyes pin me in place, unblinking, demanding my response.
“I want to,” I whisper.
He doesn’t let go. “What do you want to do?” His voice is softer now, coaxing. “Be specific.”
As I open my mouth to answer, his thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, and another wave of heat rolls through me, pooling low.
“Do you want to use your hands on me?” he murmurs, his gaze burning into mine. “Do you want to feel how hard you make me? Do you want to stroke me until I come?”
“Yes.” The word escapes, sharp and breathless.
Logan smirks. His hand drifts from my chin to my side, fingers curling around mine. Without a word, he leads me out of the music room and toward the stairs.
I let him guide me, step by step, my pulse a frenzied drumbeat against my ribs. Each step drives me further into this madness. But is it madness?
My heart doesn’t think so, either.
At the bed, Logan turns to face me, his hands skimming up my arms before settling on my cheeks. He leans in, stops an inch short. “Same as last night,” he whispers, his nose brushing mine.
I shake my head, my need eclipsing everything else. “I’m not going to stop,” I say.
I kiss him, needing him, craving him. His fingers flinch on my skin before sliding deeper into my hair, his touch grounding me even as my body spirals. I part my lips, welcoming his, as my fingers seek his zipper.
Before I reach it, Logan grips my wrists, guiding me down with him onto the bed. He kisses me harder, deeper, his breath hot against my lips. Every bit he gives, I take. I return. He slides back, his head sinking into my pillows, and I follow, our bodies moving in perfect sync.
Logan takes my hand, dragging it purposefully down his torso. When my fingers brush over the hard length straining against his zipper, I inhale sharply.
“You feel what you do to me, kitty?” he whispers, his kisses warm and wet. “What you’ve always done to me?”
“Always?”
“Always.”
Another kiss, deeper this time.
I pull back enough to see his eyes. I need to see them. To know if he means it. Because given everything that’s happened between us, between our bands and our tours, is it any wonder I still feel that prickle of doubt, that quiet voice whispering:
Can I trust him?
But when I look into his eyes now, I don’t have to wonder. It’s all there.
I always knew he was a good man.
Always.
My fingers find his zipper, carefully easing it down. I slip my hand inside, the cool softness of his briefs a stark contrast to the heat beneath.
Logan inhales sharply, his jaw tightening as he watches me.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I’m just nervous.”
He touches my chin again, tilting my lips to his. One kiss. But somehow, it’s more intense than all the others.
“Go on, kitty,” he murmurs, his smile patient. “Play.”