Chapter 37 Logan
THIRTY-SEVEN
LOGAN
The drive back to my apartment passes in an easy quiet. My fingers brush his jeans in a constant movement I’m unable to stop. I have to touch him. If I wasn’t driving, I’d be kissing him. Each touch is small, fleeting, but it sparks something steady in my chest.
Is everything magically fixed because we both want it to be? No. But we’ll work on it and get through this together.
When we pull into the lot and climb out of the Jeep, the snow’s coming down harder—fat flakes that melt the second they touch his hoodie. He shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing up at me with a bright smile that ruins me every damn time.
“Still planning to find out about those big shower plans?” he asks.
I grin. “Pretty sure that’s why I was speeding.”
He laughs and follows me upstairs.
Inside, the apartment’s dim and quiet. The heat’s on, but the air still carries the chill from outside. Todd toes off his shoes, eyes skimming the room like he’s grounding himself in the space. As though he’s remembering that this—us—is solid.
I take a step toward him, fingers catching the hem of his hoodie. “You know,” I murmur, “you have a big promise to deliver on.”
He smirks, leaning closer. “Good thing I’m an overachiever.”
I kiss him before he can say anything else—the kind of kiss that makes time slide sideways. His hands find my shirt, tugging until it’s bunched around my ribs, his skin brushing mine in a way that makes me want to shed my clothing right here and forget all about the shower.
When we finally pull apart, both of us are breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
“Shower,” I whisper. “Before I decide I don’t care how stinky we both are.”
He laughs, the sound low and rough, still catching on the edge of his breath. “Wouldn’t be the first bad decision we’ve made,” he says, but he laces his fingers through mine anyway and lets me pull him down the short hallway.
The bathroom light spills warm against the cool tile.
I twist the handle until steam curls up from the glass door, blurring our reflections in the mirror.
Todd steps in behind me, close enough that his chest presses against my back.
His hands slide around my waist, fingertips finding skin beneath the hem of my shirt.
The contact sends chills down my spine. I had thought I lost this.
For a second, I just stand there, eyes closed, breathing him in. Sweat, that distinct scent that clings to you from the ice rink, and something that’s only him.
He murmurs near my ear, “You gonna get in, or are we just gonna stand here and fog up the mirror?”
“Patience,” I mutter, peeling my shirt over my head. “I thought I was the impatient one.”
“You are.” He grins, taking his time doing the same, like he’s daring me to look away first.
When we step under the spray, it’s almost too hot, the kind that burns before it soothes. Todd tilts his head back, water tracing down his throat. I reach for the soap, and he catches my wrist.
“Let me,” he says, voice quiet.
He lathers the soap in his hands, then runs them over my shoulders, down my arms—slow and steady, like he’s learning me again. Every pass of his palms feels like he’s washing away the weeks of silence between us.
I close my eyes and let him, loving the feel of him touching me. The steam wraps around us, the water pounding steady against my back, and for a few minutes, the world shrinks to this: warmth, skin, and the faint sound of his breath mixing with mine.
When I finally look at him, his lashes are wet, his cheeks pink from the heat. He’s smiling, small and real.
“Feeling better?” he asks.
“Getting there,” I say, reaching for him in return.
He lets me pull him close until our foreheads touch again, both of us slick with water, our fingers laced.
“Good,” he whispers. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere this time.”
The water beats against my shoulders, steady and rhythmic. Todd’s still close enough that every breath I take has our chests brushing. His hands slide up my sides and over my ribcage, fingertips tracing the faint scar beneath my collarbone.
When I look down, his eyes are already on me—blue and open in a way that knocks the air right out of my lungs. The weeks of silence, of distance, are still there in the space between us, but they’re thinning. Dissolving.
I reach for him, palm skimming along his ribs, the slick heat of water gliding between us. He shivers. Not from the cold. From the same thing I’m feeling. Need. A need to be closer to make sure nothing can pull us apart again.
“God, I missed you,” I murmur as I press a kiss to his temple, then his cheek, the side of his mouth, and then I’m devouring him. The water runs down our faces, dripping from our lashes, salt and heat and forgiveness blending until I can’t tell where he ends and I start.
I groan against his lips when his fingers curl around our lengths, gripping them together and stroking. It is probably the best feeling in the entire fucking world.
“I missed you, too,” he whispers. Then he’s dropping to his knees in front of me. The sight has my knees going weak, so I lean back against the tile as I watch him.
The sight of him kneeling in front of me knocks every bit of air from my lungs. Steam curls around us, blurring the edges of everything but him—his flushed skin, the water sliding down his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“Hey,” I murmur, my hand sliding into his wet curls. “You don’t have to—”
He looks up, water beading along his lashes, but it’s the quiet certainty in his eyes stops me cold. I want to, that look says. Let me.
The world narrows to touch and breath and the slick sound of water hitting tile. I’m shaking—partly from need, mostly from how much it means that he’s here, that he’s choosing this, choosing us.
“God, Todd,” I whisper, my voice wrecked. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
He smiles faintly, eyes still on mine. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
He swipes his tongue out, catching the water rolling down my hard length, and brushing over my slit.
Then he curls his fingers around me and strokes at the same time he sucks my crown between his lips.
My hips angle forward as he flattens his tongue and curls it over the sensitive underside of the head.
“Shit, that’s good.”
His hum in response nearly has my legs giving out. And it doesn’t help matters when he cups my balls and rolls them gently in his hand, before venturing further back. I am not going to last if he keeps this up.
In the same breath, he’s pressing his finger past the ring of muscle in my ass and bobbing so far on my cock that I feel the back of his throat.
“You’re a fucking expert at this,” I groan.
He rewards my words by swallowing around me while his finger brushes over my prostate, his eyes focused on mine, and I can’t look away from the sight of him breathing around me.
It’s enough to push me right over the edge.
My fingers thread into his wet hair as I come harder than I ever have.
I see stars as I slump against the cool tile.
And he continues to suck me like a fucking lollypop.
“Christ, holy fuck, Todd,” I gasp. He finally releases me with a loud pop and grins up at me.
He runs his tongue over his swollen lips, and I suddenly need to taste him. For a second, all I can do is stare down at him—chest heaving, the water still pounding against my shoulders, the steam curling around us like it’s trying to hide the world.
He looks wrecked and proud at the same time, a flush rising over his skin, eyes bright with everything we haven’t said yet. I reach for him on instinct, pulling him up, needing him close.
The kiss we fall into is slow but fierce, a promise and a thank you all tangled together. His mouth tastes like water and salt and something that’s entirely us.
When he breaks away, he rests his forehead against mine, still breathing hard. “You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, my voice gone. “Yeah. I just got a mind blowing blow-job from my boyfriend. I’m better than okay.”
“Shower plans executed successfully then,” he says, lips curling against mine.
I laugh—soft and unsteady but real. “Yeah,” I say. “Ten out of ten. Would do again.”
He smiles, small and soft, and I press another kiss to his soft lips. The tension that’s been living under my skin for weeks finally eases.
We stand there like that, wrapped in heat and steam, hearts still racing but steadying together. I can feel the tremor in his hands where they’re pressed to my ribs, and I cover them with mine.
“Come on,” I whisper after a minute, turning off the water. “Let’s get warm. And then we can take care of your issue.” I glide my hand over his still-hard length and give him a promising stroke.
He catches my hand, a low laugh spilling out of him. “You’re impossible,” he says, but his voice is all warmth.
I grin and pull him closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You love it.”
“Unfortunately, yeah,” he murmurs, and steals another kiss before I can answer.
The air is cooler now, the last of the steam fading into the quiet. I grab a towel, drag it over his shoulders, then pull him against me, drying both of us in clumsy, lazy motions that make him laugh under his breath.
We move toward the bedroom without really deciding to. The only light comes from the hallway, soft and gold, glinting off the water still running down his neck. Every few steps, one of us stops to kiss the other—quick at first, then slower, deeper, until I forget what we were even doing.
By the time we reach the bed, he’s smiling against my mouth, our hands finding each other in that easy, familiar way that says we’re okay. Really okay.