Chapter 40 Logan
FORTY
LOGAN
By the time I pull into my apartment’s lot, I’m a full step away from feral.
I throw the Jeep in park and fix him with a look. “Out.”
He blinks innocently. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“I’m not,” I grit out. “I’m…taking control, you like that.”
He laughs—low and smug—and hops out of the Jeep. The snow crunches under his shoes. The cold air makes his cheeks pink.
God, he’s pretty.
I come around the front of the car just as he decides to lean back against the passenger door again, like he wants me to pin him there. And yeah—my brain absolutely supplies that image.
“You okay?” he asks lightly, eyes sparkling.
“No,” I say honestly. “Not even a little.”
He steps into my space, hands slipping under the hem of my jacket, his cool fingertips skating over my hips. “Want me to kiss it better?”
“Jesus, Todd,” I breathe. “Get inside.”
He grins and tugs me by the sleeve toward the stairs, half dragging, half teasing. Before he can pull open the door, I grab his wrist and spin him back into me, kissing him hard enough that his back hits the brick wall with a soft thud.
He gasps into my mouth, fingers curling tight in my shirt. “Thought you wanted to go inside.”
“I changed my mind,” I mutter against his lips.
“Uh-huh,” he says, breathless. “Sure you did.”
I force myself to pull back—barely, reluctantly—and he laughs, breath fogging between us.
We stumble the rest of the way into the apartment building, taking the stairs, and I fumble with the keys because he will not stop touching me.
By the time the door swings open, he’s got both hands under my jacket and hoodie, fingers skating up my stomach like he’s memorizing every fucking muscle I have.
The apartment is warm, dim, and familiar. It smells like leftover coffee from that morning and laundry detergent and him.
He walks backward into it, still holding my hoodie, pulling me with him. “So…” he says, voice teasing, “what’s the plan?”
I toe the door shut behind us. “We don’t need a plan.”
“No?”
“No,” I say, stepping right into his space again. “We just need a bed. Or a couch. Or any surface really.”
He smirks. “That’s what I thought.”
I kiss him again—slower this time, soft in a way that punches every bit of air out of my lungs—and he melts into it, hands sliding up my chest, curling around the back of my neck.
His voice is a whisper against my mouth.
“I missed this.”
My answer is simple: “I missed you.”
And it feels terrifyingly good to say out loud.
I step back long enough to toe off my shoes, and he does the same. Then he backs me toward the hallway, trying to steer the moment. Trying to take control.
I let him. For a few steps.
He pushes me gently against the wall outside the bedroom, lips barely grazing mine. “Bedroom,” he murmurs, like it’s an order.
I raise a brow. “Yeah?”
He nods, leaning in, trying to press his advantage again.
And that’s when I flip us.
One second, he’s crowding me against the wall; the next, I have him pinned there, my hands bracketing his wrists above his head, his breath catching in a quiet, surprised sound that goes straight through me.
His eyes darken instantly.
“Logan…” he says, voice dropping.
“What?” I ask, leaning in just enough that our noses brush. “You thought you were running this?”
He swallows, pupils blown wide. “I mean… I was trying.”
“Uh-huh.” I let my lips ghost over his. “And how’d that work out for you?”
A small, breathless laugh escapes him. “Not great.”
“Did you really think,” I murmur, sliding my hands down to his hips, “that I was going to let you push me around?”
His fingers curl in my hoodie. “I was hoping.”
There it is—the honesty in him that only shows when I’ve got him right where he wants to be.
I kiss him then, slow but deep, sliding one hand up to cup the back of his neck. His whole body melts into mine, like he can’t help it. His fingers dig into my hips; he’s trying to pull me closer even though we’re already pressed together.
I pull back just enough to smirk against his mouth. “You really don’t want control, do you?”
His exhale shudders. “Not with you.”
Something hot and possessive lights up low in my chest.
I take his jaw in my hand and tilt his face up to mine. “Good,” I whisper.
I step back, grip his hoodie, and tug him toward the bedroom. He follows instantly.
The moment we cross the threshold, he tries one last time to reclaim the upper hand—pushing me backward onto the bed, crawling over me with that cocky little smile.
“You sure about that?” he asks, hands sliding up my chest.
I let him believe it for a heartbeat. Then I grab his waist, flip him cleanly onto his back, and settle over him with all my weight braced on my elbows.
His startled gasp turns into a soft, helpless sound I feel everywhere.
“Logan,” he breathes, gripping my shirt.
I kiss him once before murmuring against his lips, “I told you. I’m in control.”
And the way his entire body arches into mine? Yeah. He loves it. The sound he makes when I pin him is enough to unravel every scrap of restraint I walked in with.
His hands slide up my sides, palms warm through my shirt, fingertips trembling just enough to betray how much he feels this. I catch his wrists, press them gently into the mattress above his head, and his breath stutters like I’ve short-circuited him.
“Logan…”
I lean down, lips brushing just below his jaw. “God, I love when you say my name like that.”
His pulse jumps under my mouth. He tilts his head instinctively, giving me more skin, more access, more of him. I trail slow kisses down the side of his throat. Nipping and sucking as I go.
His legs slide along mine, seeking friction and contact, needing something. I don’t give it. Not yet. He groans, frustrated, squirming under me in a way that sends a hot rush straight through my spine.
“Please,” he murmurs, barely audible.
I lift my head, catch his mouth, kiss him deep—slow at first, then deeper when he whimpers into it. His hands strain under mine, trying to get free and touch me. I keep them pinned.
When I finally let his wrists go, he doesn’t push me away; he grabs my shirt and drags me closer like he can’t stand the inches between us.
His hoodie rides up as he moves, revealing the toned curve of his stomach. I slide my hand over it, drawing a shiver out of him that makes anticipation flood my veins.
“Fuck…” he breathes again, voice wrecked. “Touch me.”
I draw back just enough to look him in the eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from my kisses, chest rising fast against mine.
“You’re so damn needy,” I tease softly, brushing my thumb over his lower lip.
He bites at it, barely catching me, and stares up at me like he’d let me take whatever I wanted. “Only for you.”
That does something to me—hot, dizzying, dangerous.
I slide my hand under his shirt, fingers splayed over warm skin, feeling the way every muscle in his torso tightens and softens at the same time. His body arches into my touch—into me—silently begging for more.
I kiss him again, and this time, the sound he makes—soft, needy, completely unguarded—obliterates every coherent thought in my head.
“Tell me what you want, Captain.”
He pulls a sharp breath, eyes blown wide. “Less clothing between us,” he gasps.
Yeah. That I can do.
He lifts his arms without hesitation, letting me peel his hoodie off him. His skin is warm, flushed, chest rising fast. He shifts his hips to help as I drag his jeans and boxers down his legs, urgency and trust threaded through every movement.
When he’s finally bare in front of me, I hesitate—not because I’m unsure, but because the sight of him like this knocks the air out of my lungs.
Christ, he’s everything.
He doesn’t look away or flinch. Just meets my stare, steady and open and wanting.
I stand long enough to tug my hoodie over my head and let it drop to the floor. His eyes track every inch I uncover like he can’t help it. My fingers find the button of my jeans, popping it open, sliding the denim down my hips. The air hits my skin, cool compared to the heat rolling off both of us.
I kick the last of my clothes aside and climb back onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as I hover over him once more. His breath catches when I settle between his legs, our bodies lined up with nothing left between us. His hands grip my waist instinctively, pulling me closer.
I brace my hands on either side of his ribs, lowering myself until our chests brush—just barely, but enough to make him suck in a breath. His fingers skim up my spine, tracing each line.
He reaches for me, pulling me down into another kiss—hot, messy, greedy.
A soft whine escapes him when I break away to kiss down the length of his throat.
“Logan…” he breathes, fingers curling in my hair. “You’re driving me insane.”
I smile against his skin. “Good.”
I slide my hand up his side, slow enough to make him shiver. He arches into me, panting lightly, lost in it.
“More,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Please—just… more.”
I kiss down his chest, feeling him tremble beneath every slow press of my mouth. His hand finds my shoulder, gripping tight.
“God, I need you closer,” he murmurs, head tipping back against the pillow.
The honesty in his voice hits me right in the center of my chest.
“You will,” I promise, kissing my way back up his sternum. “I’ve got you.”
His breath stutters when I pin his wrists lightly to the mattress again.
“Logan…” This time it’s a helpless sound, half-whispered, half-moaned. He looks at me with blown pupils and a desperate grin. “If you’re gonna be in control,” he murmurs, voice shaky but teasing, “then quit teasing and take it.”
That line nearly ruins me.
I move back up his body until my lips brush his ear. “Not yet.”
He groans—frustrated, needy, perfect—and lifts his hips helplessly toward me.
“Don’t move,” I instruct, as I let go of his wrists.
I catch his hips with both hands, holding him still, even though every instinct in me wants to grind down and give him exactly what he’s begging for.