Chapter 24
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
TESSA
We’re sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, a half-empty bowl of popcorn between us, some action movie playing that neither of us is really watching. Beatrice is curled up on the armrest beside Logan, purring softly.
It’s a normal night. Perfectly ordinary.
Except for the way Logan keeps glancing at me when he thinks I’m not looking. Or the way my heart speeds up every time our eyes meet. There’s also the way the air between us feels charged, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, and steal another glance at him.
He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a faded Cranes T-shirt, his hair still damp from his evening shower.
The glow from the TV casts shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the curve of his lips.
God, I want to kiss him.
I’ve wanted to kiss him for weeks now. Maybe longer. If I’m being honest, I’ve wanted to kiss him since the very first day he walked into the coffee shop with that easy grin and asked me what my favorite animal was.
But he won’t make a move.
He’s careful with me. He keeps his distance even when I wish he wouldn’t. He looks at me like I’m something precious, something fragile.
I’m tired of it, of pretending I don’t feel this pull between us. I’m tired of waiting for him to make the first move when I know—I know—he wants this too.
On screen, something explodes. Logan shifts on the couch, stretching his arm along the back cushions. His fingers are inches from my shoulder.
I turn toward him, tucking my legs beneath me.
He glances over, meeting my eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’m okay.”
But I don’t look away.
Neither does he.
The moment stretches between us, taut and fragile. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before flicking back up.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
“Logan,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah?”
I take a breath, gathering my courage. “Why don’t you kiss me?”
He goes completely still. For a second, I think maybe I’ve misread everything. Maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake.
But then his expression shifts—surprise giving way to something deeper, darker. Want.
“Tessa,” he says carefully, like he’s choosing each word with precision, “I don’t want to be the guy who pushes you to do something you’re not ready for.”
“I’m ready,” I say immediately. “I’ve been ready.”
He shakes his head slightly, his jaw tightening. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Not because they’re cruel, but because they’re so achingly gentle.
“You won’t hurt me,” I say.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” I shift closer, closing the distance between us. “Logan, surely you have desire for me. You want me. Don’t you?”
His eyes darken, and for a moment, I see everything he’s been holding back—the restraint, the longing, the careful control he’s maintained for weeks.
“Tessa, I have one fucking desire, and that’s for you to be happy. That’s all I want.”
My breath catches.
“Nothing would make me happier,” I whisper, “than being with you.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then Logan reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone.
“You’re sure?” he asks, his voice low.
“I’m sure.”
He leans in, and time seems to slow.
His lips brush against mine—soft, tentative, asking a question. I answer by leaning into him, my hand coming up to rest against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm, as wild as my own.
The kiss deepens, but slowly. Carefully. Like he’s afraid I might break.
I won’t break.
I’ve been broken before, and this—this—is the opposite of that.
His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and I part my lips, letting him in. He makes a sound low in his throat, and the careful restraint starts to crack.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m not going to shatter, Logan.”
“I know,” he says, but his hand is trembling slightly against my face.
“Then stop holding back.”
Something in his expression shifts, and he kisses me again, deeper this time.
I slide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and into his hair. He groans against my mouth, and the sound sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
His hands move to my waist, careful but sure, and he pulls me closer until I’m halfway in his lap. The popcorn bowl tips over, forgotten, kernels scattering across the couch. Beatrice leaps down with an indignant meow and disappears down the hall.
I’m focused on the way his mouth moves against mine, the way his hands feel on my body—firm but gentle, possessive but safe. The way every touch feels like a question, and every response from me is a resounding yes.
He breaks the kiss to trail his lips along my jaw, down my neck, and I tip my head back, giving him access. His breath is hot against my skin, his stubble rough in the best way.
“Tessa,” he murmurs against my throat, and my name has never sounded like that before—like a prayer, like a promise.
“Logan,” I breathe, and his arms tighten around me.
I shift, straddling his lap fully now, and his hands slide to my hips, holding me steady. Our eyes meet, and there’s a question in his. He’s still asking for permission.
I answer by kissing him again, pouring everything I can’t say into it. Every ounce of gratitude, every bit of desire, every fragment of hope I’ve been too afraid to acknowledge until now.
He responds in kind, one hand moving up my back, pressing me closer. The other stays at my hip, his thumb brushing small circles against the sliver of skin where my shirt has ridden up.
That tiny touch—skin against skin—sends electricity through me.
I pull back, breathless, and reach for the hem of my T-shirt.
Logan’s hand covers mine, stopping me. “Wait,” he says, his voice rough. “Tessa, we don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I want you.”
He searches my face, looking for any hint of doubt. But there is none.
“Okay,” he says softly.
I lift my shirt over my head and drop it to the floor.
Logan’s eyes darken as they trace over me—the curve of my waist, the simple black bra that’s suddenly the only barrier between us. His hand comes up slowly, fingertips barely grazing my ribs, and even that featherlight touch makes my breath hitch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice rough with want.
I’ve heard those words before. But they never sounded like this—reverent, awed, like he can’t quite believe I’m real. They never felt like this—safe and desired all at once.
“So are you,” I say, reaching for the hem of his shirt and tugging insistently.
He helps me pull it off, and then we’re skin to skin, and it steals the breath from my lungs.
His chest is warm and solid beneath my palms, muscles shifting as he moves.
His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the fabric, and I arch into the touch with a soft gasp.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.
“More than okay,” I breathe.
His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra. He hesitates for just a second—one more silent question—and I answer by kissing him desperately, pouring permission into every stroke of my tongue against his.
He unhooks it with practiced ease, sliding the straps down my arms. The fabric falls away, and cool air hits my skin for just a moment before his hands are there, warm and sure, cupping me, his thumbs brushing over my nipples.
I moan into his mouth, and the sound seems to undo something in him.
“Fuck, Tessa,” he groans, his forehead dropping to mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Show me,” I whisper.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my throat, leaving a trail of heat. When he reaches my collarbone, he pauses, his breath hot against my skin. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” I say, threading my fingers through his hair. “Please don’t stop.”
His lips close around my nipple, and pleasure shoots straight through me, pooling low in my belly. My back arches and his arm bands around my waist, holding me steady as his tongue works its magic.
My hands roam over him—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs. I feel him shudder beneath my touch, feel the evidence of his desire pressing against me through our clothes.
“Bedroom?” he murmurs against my skin, his voice strained.
“Yes,” I gasp.
He stands, lifting me with him effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist. I can feel every inch of him pressed against my core, and I rock against him instinctively, making us both groan.
“Jesus, Tessa,” he breathes, his hands gripping my ass as he walks. “You’re killing me.”
“Good,” I whisper against his neck, then bite down gently on the muscle there.
His stride falters for just a second before he recovers, carrying me down the hall with purpose.
He lays me down on his bed with a gentleness that makes my throat tight, despite the urgency thrumming between us. The city lights filter through the window, casting soft shadows across the room, illuminating the desire in his eyes.
Logan hovers over me, braced on his forearms, and brushes a strand of hair back from my face. “You tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Promise me, Tessa. Any time. For any reason.”
“I promise.”
He kisses me again, slow and deep, and I lose myself in it. In him. In the way his body feels against mine—solid and warm and safe but also thrilling, electric, alive.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, hooking into the waistband of my leggings. He pulls back to meet my eyes, asking permission once more.
I lift my hips in answer.
He slides them down, taking my underwear with them, and tosses them aside. Then he sits back on his heels, just looking at me, and the heat in his gaze makes me feel powerful and wanted and beautiful in a way I never have before.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking perfect.”
I reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, and he helps me push them down. When he’s finally naked above me, I take a moment to appreciate him—all lean muscle and golden skin and barely restrained desire.
“Come here,” I whisper, pulling him down to me.
He settles between my thighs, his weight pressing me into the mattress in the best way. I can feel him, hard and ready, and anticipation coils tight in my belly.
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my center, and he groans when he feels how ready I am. “God, Tessa.”
“Please,” I breathe, rocking against his hand.
He works me slowly, carefully, his fingers moving in circles that make my toes curl. Pleasure builds with every stroke, every touch designed to learn what I like, what makes me gasp, what makes me whisper his name.
“Logan,” I moan, my nails digging into his shoulders. “I need—I need you.”
“I’ve got you,” he promises, reaching for the nightstand and pulling out a condom.
I watch as he rolls it on, my heart pounding with want and anticipation and something deeper I’m not quite ready to name.
Then he’s back, settling between my thighs, the head of him pressing against me.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
I do.
And when he finally sinks into me—slow, careful, giving me time to adjust—his eyes locked on mine, I feel whole in a way I never have before.
Not because he completes me—I’m learning I was always complete on my own.
But because for the first time, I’m choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing pleasure without pain, intimacy without fear, connection without control.
“Okay?” he asks, holding completely still even though I can see the strain in his jaw, the tension in his arms.
“More than okay,” I breathe, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Move. Please move.”
He does, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, and the friction is exquisite. I arch beneath him, meeting his rhythm, and he groans my name like a prayer.
“Tessa,” he breathes, and there’s so much in that one word—awe, desire, reverence, and something more profound.
“I’m here,” I whisper back, my hands framing his face. “I’m right here with you.”
He kisses me as he moves, deep and claiming, and I kiss him back with everything I have. Our bodies find a rhythm together—slow at first, then building, heat and friction and pleasure spiraling higher with every thrust.
His hand slides between us again, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and I cry out, my body arching.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my lips. “Let go, Tessa. I’ve got you.”
The pleasure builds and builds until it crests, crashing over me in waves that make me shake, make me gasp his name, and make me hold him like he’s the only solid thing in a spinning world.
“Fuck,” Logan groans, his rhythm faltering as my body clenches around him. “Tessa—”
“Let go,” I whisper the same words he gave me.
He does, burying his face in my neck as he comes, my name a broken sound on his lips.
We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync.
And I am fully present, utterly alive, and completely his.