Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
LOGAN
He’s trembling under me.
From everything we just did. Everything we are. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths. His lashes are damp. His skin’s flushed red and slick with sweat and come and completely mine.
And I’m still inside him.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Because this? This feels like a line we can’t uncross. As if we went from something hot and reckless to something real—and fuck me if that doesn’t terrify the hell out of me.
I press a kiss to the side of his throat anyway. Just below his jaw. It’s instinct now—like my mouth knows the map of him even if the rest of me’s still catching up.
He shivers again. Not pulling away. Not pushing me off. Just breathing.
I finally ease out of him, grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom to clean us both up. It’s quiet. Still.
I half expect him to say something cocky. Something to break the moment and bring us back to the surface. But he doesn’t.
When I toss the cloth into my laundry basket and climb back into bed, he shifts instinctively, letting me pull him in. His back against my chest. My arm draped over his waist like this is our normal.
It’s not. Not like this. And I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The second my skin brushes his, I feel it—that pulse of heat low in my gut, soft and dangerous. My heart thumps a little too loud.
I rest my forehead against the back of his neck and breathe him in. He smells like sweat and sex and faint traces of my cologne. It’s a brand I barely wear—but now I’ll never be able to smell it again without remembering this.
He’s quiet, but he doesn’t fall asleep.
Neither do I.
We just…stay there. Tangled. Warm. Real.
And fuck me, I don’t want to move.
I’m not sure when he curled into me—maybe it happened in the haze after—but now Todd’s tucked tight to my chest, one leg draped over mine, his fingers pressed into my ribs like he’s anchoring himself.
And I let him.
Hell, I encourage it. My arm curls around his back, hand splayed low on his waist. Holding him closer. Like if I let go, the moment will slip away, and I’ll wake up to find this was just some wet, lonely fantasy I spun too far.
I shift a little and press a kiss to his temple.
He hums low in his throat, not pulling away.
“I didn’t plan on this,” he murmurs, voice rough and soft all at once.
“Me either.”
He snorts quietly. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“Supposed to make me feel better.”
His fingers twitch against my ribs, and I give in to the urge again—pressing my mouth to the edge of his hairline, then the curve of his cheek. Light, reverent. As though I haven’t already dragged him into every dark corner of my need tonight.
“I thought it would be different,” he says after a moment.
I go still, heart thudding too loud. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. Quick. Physical. Something I could shut off when it was over.” He shifts slightly, but not away. His cheek settles against my chest again. “But it’s not. I like it.”
I stare at the ceiling, my fingers tracing circles along his back. “Yeah.”
Another beat of quiet.
Then, softer: “You always this clingy after sex?”
I huff a laugh. “Only when it fucks with my head.”
He’s quiet again, his breath warming my skin. I think he’s fallen asleep until I feel his voice against my chest.
“Feels good.”
“What does?”
“This.”
Just that. This.
Not the sex. Not the lust and tension between us. This—his body molded to mine, the silence, the calm after the storm we just created.
And I’m not strong enough to joke it away.
I tilt my head and kiss the top of his head again. “Yeah. It does.”
He shifts, not pulling away but adjusting until he can look up at me. There’s something in his expression—worn down and wide open—that makes me ache.
“This is dangerous,” he says.
“I know.”
“I don’t do messy. I am not out of the closet with anyone. And it’s important to me that I keep it that way.”
I brush a knuckle down the side of his face, slow and soft. “Then we better stay really fucking neat. Because I’m addicted to the way you feel in my arms.”
His lips twitch, just a little. “You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re still in my bed.”
“I haven’t moved yet.”
I grin, brushing his lower lip with my thumb. “Don’t.”
He lets out a breath that might be a laugh, might be a sigh. Then he settles back against my chest like maybe he’s giving himself permission to stay—for tonight, at least.
And I don’t say a word. Because I’m scared if I speak, I’ll ask him to stay longer.
So instead, I hold him tighter.
And when I feel his breathing deepen, I press one more kiss to his hair and whisper against his skin, “You own me, Shaw.”
I half expect to wake up with him sneaking out again. Instead, I wake to the smell of coffee brewing. And…is that bacon?
My stomach grumbles, loud and traitorous, as I scrub a hand over my face and reach blindly for a pair of boxers. I tug them on and pad barefoot toward the living area, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
He’s standing in front of the stove in nothing but a pair of my pajama pants—ones he definitely stole from the bottom drawer—and humming under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.
As though it’s normal for us to spend half the night tangled together, panting and kissing and forgetting how to breathe unless it was in each other’s mouths.
And then waking up and cooking breakfast.
I lean against the doorframe and just…watch him.
Hair still messy from sleep, back bare and golden in the soft morning light, waistband hanging low on his hips, a spatula in one hand and a mug of coffee nearby.
It’s domestic.
It’s dangerous.
It’s perfect.
He glances over his shoulder and freezes when he sees me. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” I say, voice rough with sleep and something warmer. I push off the door frame and move toward him.
He shifts, suddenly shy, turning his attention back to the stove top. “I, uh…was hungry. I can replace the bacon—”
“You stole my pants.”
“They’re comfy.”
I cross the room and wrap my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my mouth to his shoulder. “They look better on you.”
He laughs—soft and surprised—and I feel it in my chest more than I hear it.
“You should sit,” he murmurs. “Coffee’s ready.”
I don’t move. “I like it here.”
He sets the spatula down and turns in my arms, a smile tugging at his mouth even as his eyes search mine. “You always this clingy in the morning?”
“Only when the guy I like is cooking me bacon in my clothes.”
His cheeks flush, but he doesn’t look away. “You like me?”
“I’m trying really hard not to scare you off with how much.”
He looks down for a second, then up again, all open and raw. “You’re not.”
I kiss him before I can say something too much—just a soft brush of lips that makes his breath catch. He kisses me back, easy and warm and real, and when we finally pull apart, he grins.
“Go sit,” he says, nudging me toward the barstools. “Before you make me burn the bacon.”
“Fine,” I grumble, but I watch him the whole way there like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I blink.
He plates the food a minute later and sets it in front of me—eggs, bacon, toast, and a second cup of coffee. I raise an eyebrow.
“You cook for all your hookups?”
He rolls his eyes and slides onto the stool next to me. “No. You’re the first one I haven’t ghosted.”
I try not to let that go straight to my chest, but it does anyway.
“Pretty sure this means you’re stuck with me now,” I say.
He gives me a crooked smile and leans in, brushing his shoulder against mine. “Guess I’ll have to suffer through it.”
We eat side by side, shoulders touching, knees bumping, coffee warming our hands, and something softer warming everything else. He makes fun of my choice in cereal in my cupboards. I tell him his eggs are overcooked. He flips me off and feeds me a piece of toast in the same breath.
“Okay, I’ll give you this,” I say, licking a smear of jam from my thumb. “Your toast game is solid.”
Todd hums smugly and steals a slice of bacon off my plate. “Damn right it is. You think I survive on raw athleticism and good looks alone?”
I give him a look. “You do not get to call yourself good-looking and steal my bacon in the same breath.”
“You let me steal your heart last night,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.
It shuts me up instantly. My chest squeezes, breath caught somewhere between startled and stupidly happy. I cover it with a smirk. “Bold of you to assume you didn’t hand yours over first.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “You’re awful.”
“Uh-huh.” I reach across and drag his plate toward me. “I’m also taking this egg as payment for emotional whiplash.”
“You would.”
“I just did.”
We eat the last bites in easy silence, that quiet kind of comfortable where nothing has to be said but everything feels said anyway. Then I glance at the clock and groan. 9 a.m.
“Shit. It’s Monday. We have class.”
Todd sighs like I just told him the Easter Bunny isn’t real. “Ugh. Right. What’s first for you?”
“Lit Theory. You?”
“Chem Lab. With Daniel, unfortunately.”
I shoot him a look. “You and Daniel in a lab with open flames? That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“He flirts with the professor and leaves me to do the work,” Todd says. “I am the victim.”
“Sounds about right.”
I grab our empty plates and bring them to the sink, rinsing them off before glancing back over my shoulder. “We should shower before we go. Can’t have the whole campus sniffing out our very obvious sex haze.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, smirk lazy and a little smug. “I’d rather smell like you all day. Like a reminder.”
My breath catches for a beat, and it takes everything I have not to walk over and kiss him against the cabinets again.
Still, I manage a shaky laugh. “Tempting. But if Daniel gets one whiff of you, he’ll know.
Might even make a team chat about it. Probably not the best idea—even if the possessive side of me really loves it. ”
Todd raises a brow, all mock innocence. “So, you’re clingy and possessive?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say, closing the distance between us.
I lift my hand and catch his chin between my fingers, tilting his face up just enough to kiss him again—slow, smiling, soft.
“Clingy. Possessive. Yours,” I murmur against his lips. “Get used to it.”
His hands curl over my shoulders, and he drags me closer. “No complaints here.”
“Good,” I whisper, brushing another kiss against his mouth, “because we’re going to be late for class, and if we shower together, we’re never gonna make it.”
His answering groan is almost filthy. “We can shower together, I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
I snort. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”
“Come on, Brooks, we can be quick.”
Against my better judgment, I follow him into the small bathroom.
I turn on the water, setting it to warm, and then push my boxers down to the floor.
When I look over, Todd’s watching me like I’ve just scored the game-winning goal in overtime.
The tent in his pajama pants telling me everything I need to know.
“Shower, Shaw,” I say, voice low. “Not a sex marathon.”
“You’re the one who keeps looking at me like I’m dessert.”
I gesture toward the shower, steam billowing behind the curtain. “Get in before I change my mind.”
He strips fast but not without touches—his fingers brushing over my stomach as he stands back up, mine dragging along his spine. It’s all quick and lazy, but under the surface, it hums. Electric. Stupidly charged for 9 a.m.
The second we’re under the hot spray, I press him against the tile. Just for a second. Just to kiss him.
Water pours over us, heat soaking into my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his mouth under mine. His hands splay across my back, his body molding into mine, and I lose the thread of time. Of reason. Of why we can’t just stay here all damn day.
He breaks the kiss first, breathing hard. “You said—” He swallows. “You said not to start something—”
I kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then under his ear, and whisper, “This is me not starting. You’ll know when I start.”
His fingers twitch against my waist like he’s fighting the urge to drag me down with him. “You’re killing me.”
“Mutual,” I murmur, pressing one last slow, sensual kiss to his lips.
Then I force myself to pull back.
He groans in protest, forehead resting against mine, breath shaky. “That was evil.”
“I’m aware.”
We finish fast—body-wash, shampoo, rinse—no more touches, no more teasing. Except for the occasional accidental brush of his hip against mine that feels very not accidental.
By the time we’re out, dressed, and I’ve grabbed my backpack, I feel like a kettle ready to blow.
Todd ruffles his damp hair as I grab my keys from the counter. “You good?”
“Not even a little.”
He grins like I’m the most entertaining thing he’s ever seen. “Guess that makes two of us.”
I kiss him again—just because I can—and mutter against his lips, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Yeah,” he says with a smug little shrug, “but what a way to go.”