Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
Ethan yawned, with a slow, deliberate stretch that rippled through his body, muscles lengthening and flexing as he reached toward the ceiling.
His arms extended fully, fingers splayed wide, tendons pulling taut beneath skin still flushed with the warmth of sleep.
He exhaled and let his arms drop to his sides.
The bedroom was dim around him, its shadows deepened by the pale gray light of dawn seeping through the blinds. The slats split the light into sharp ribbons, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Those same walls, painted in beige that once might have been warm and inviting, now seemed tired and worn, like they’d given up trying to hold their color. I must redecorate soon, he reminded himself.
The bed bore the evidence of last night—the sheets twisted and bunched into knots, pillows half on and half off the mattress. And somewhere beneath it all, the faint scent of Logan’s cologne clung stubbornly to the fabric, a bittersweet reminder.
His head throbbed in protest against the light, each flicker of brightness sending a sharp jolt through his skull. He pressed his palms to his temples as if trying to physically contain the relentless pounding. It was an unforgiving jackhammer drilling straight into his brain, the ache dull but insistent, radiating outward like waves crashing against a shore.
He blinked sluggishly, his lashes fluttering against dry eyes that burned with irritation from too little sleep—or maybe too much alcohol—and his body felt like he’d been dragged behind a truck and left for dead.
Every joint creaked when he moved, stiff and unyielding, his muscles protesting even the slightest shift in position as though he’d been sparring all night instead of sleeping—or whatever had passed for sleep these last few hours.
A sharp sting pulsed low in his backside, a raw and aching reminder of last night’s intensity. It wasn’t unpleasant—far from it—but it was enough to make him wince as he shifted on the mattress.
“Ughhh…” The groan carried with it a note of frustration as much as discomfort, and he rolled onto his side with some effort. The sheets tangled around his legs like stubborn vines, clinging where they shouldn’t. He shoved them off with an annoyed grunt before turning his head toward the other side of the bed—Logan’s side.
It was empty.
A pang hit him square in the chest—unexpected but sharp enough to leave him breathless as his hand drifted across the mattress to where Logan had lain.
His fingers brushed the cotton, but it no longer carried Logan’s familiar warmth and there was no indentation in the pillow. It was like he hadn’t been there at all—like last night had just been some hazy dream conjured by exhaustion and tequila.
Ethan swallowed, his chest painfully tight as disappointment threaded through the fog of his hangover. He told himself not to overthink it, not to read anything into Logan’s absence, but logic held little sway over the ache gnawing within him.
He forced his eyes open, squinting against the light that seemed to grow brighter by the second, and sat up.
It felt like he was scaling a mountain, every move sending fresh spikes of pain through his skull, but eventually he managed to prop himself against the pillows that smelled faintly of Logan’s shampoo.
The apartment was eerily quiet—a hollow kind of silence that felt heavier than it should have. It was broken by two sounds: the steady drip of water from the kitchen faucet and the distant hum of early-morning traffic filtering through a crack in the window.
“Logan?” he called, but the word hung in the air for a long moment before fading.
No reply came back, not even a muffled sound from another room or an accidental shuffle that might hint at someone else being there.
“Logan,” he tried again, softer this time, but no less desperate.
Still nothing.
Unease spiraled in his gut that had nothing to do with his hangover and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the sheets snagging one knee before falling away entirely.
The wood was hard beneath his bare feet, and as he steadied himself on shaky legs, his gaze fell instinctively to the floor beside the bed where Logan’s discarded tee shirt had lain. That space was empty too.
Ethan took a breath as realization sunk in—a slow-burning dread that crept through his veins like a winding river.
He staggered to the door, one hand gripping the frame to steady himself as he leaned into the lounge. “Logan?” he called more loudly despite how much his head hurt when he raised his voice.
The apartment offered the same oppressive silence, and he shuffled to the kitchen. The counter was bare save for two mugs and an empty bottle tipped lazily onto its side.
In the living room, empty beer bottles were scattered across the tabletop, courtesy of Brick.
Ethan stood for a long moment, hands clenched into fists at his sides, not out of anger but out of frustration.
Why hadn’t Logan said goodbye?
Then he smiled—a faint curve that lifted his dry lips. They’d done it. They’d crossed the line, and it had been great. No, it had been more than great. It had been perfect.
Ethan’s chest warmed at the memory, a glow that spread upward, threatening to steal his breath. He’d loved it. Loved Logan’s weight pressing him into the mattress, the rough, commanding pull of his hands, the way their bodies had fit together like they were built for this—for each other.
It meant they could do it again. They would do it again.
He dropped to the couch and let himself sink into the pillows, replaying every moment in his head, letting it spool out like an old film reel: Logan’s steadying hands, his thrusts, slow and deliberate at first before quickening into something raw and urgent, that fullness inside him that still lingered like a phantom ache.
His cock stirred, stiffening slowly beneath the blanket he draped haphazardly over his lap.
He glanced down, cheeks heating, when he realized he was still completely naked. A shiver prickled across his chest, and he pulled the blanket up around his waist even though he was alone.
“Shower,” he muttered. His body protested; there was an ache, deep and insistent—a pulsing reminder of last night. It flared with every movement, and he winced slightly.
It was a good ache. An ache he wanted. But an ache nonetheless.
A slow smile tugged at his lips as he stood up.
Padding back to the bedroom, his thighs felt sore, his lower back tight from arching under Logan’s relentless pace.
Ethan’s phone lay on the dresser. Picking it up, he brushed a smear from the screen with his thumb and watched it light up. The battery icon glared red in the corner, and he frowned as he checked the time.
He rubbed at his temple, soothing the dull thud that had taken up residence, and swiped aimlessly through the notifications until there was nothing left to distract him from what wasn’t there…
… a text from Logan.
Ethan stared at the empty screen, scrolling through old messages as if a text might magically appear. It didn’t, but what did was his own string of texts from last night—sloppy and desperate in hindsight.
He cringed, thumb hovering over the delete button before deciding against it. Let them stay—they were a visual reminder of last night.
Chewing his lower lip, he started typing…
Thanks for last night. I really enjoyed it.
Why didn’t you say goodbye?
Where are you? Maybe we could grab breakfast? x
He stared at the words until they blurred together. He couldn’t decide if they sounded needy. His thumb hovered with indecision before he went back and erased the small ‘x’ at the end of the message. He then decided to add it back again before he deleted it once more.
“Do guys even add kisses to texts after sex?” he muttered aloud to no one but himself, before tossing the phone onto the mattress with an exasperated sigh.
The question gnawed at him. Fuck. He didn’t know how any of this worked. Was this even something now? Was it a relationship? Or maybe it was just sex? Could it really be anything more when Logan was his team leader?
The thought of Brick’s easy grin turning cold or Alfa’s trust unraveling if they ever found out made his chest tighten, and Logan’s commanding voice suddenly filled his head: “We can’t cross that line,” he’d whispered.
And yet they had.
Logan had, not just physically but emotionally, shown Ethan how he felt last night in every touch and kiss without needing to say it outright.
But where was Logan now?
Ethan’s gaze drifted to the trash beside the bed where proof of last night lingered. The used condom was curled limply against discarded tissues, the small lube bottle upright on the dresser, its cap loose and slick with residue.
Heat flashed through him at the thought of Logan’s first thrust—the sharp sting that gave way to a delicious stretch, the cool lube easing him open while Logan whispered reassurances against his ear before their bodies moved. Pain blurring into pleasure so intense Ethan thought he might come apart entirely.
He shifted, then winced at the ache within him—a reminder that was seared into his body like a secret mark only he knew.
Lying back against the crumpled sheet, he stared up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and scenes started to play vividly behind his lids: Logan’s warm breath against his neck, their fingers laced together tightly, soft groans swallowed between desperate kisses.
What happened next would be complicated. But right now? Right now, all he wanted was to be with Logan again.
His hand wandered, fingers languidly tracing the broad expanse of his chest. The smooth pads of his fingers drifted over the hard curves of muscle, pausing briefly over his nipples. He shivered, remembering the heat of Logan’s lips, kissing, biting, teasing until he’d set him ablaze—a spark he couldn’t extinguish.
With a slow exhale, he pinched his nipple softly, testing the sensation.
As his hand slid past the taut plane of his abdomen and the dip of his navel, a sound escaped his throat, half sigh, half groan.
Logan Lockwood had taken him apart piece by piece.
Heat rose inside as he let more images from last night flood back. He allowed Logan’s touch to skate across his skin, until he was everywhere. The wild desire in Logan’s eyes had been a mirror to his own, and he could almost feel it again now.
The need to fuck roared through him like a tide that wouldn’t turn. His blood surged hot, and his cock pulsed in response, the length of it firm as it pressed insistently against his palm.
“Mmm...” A rich hum rumbled up in his chest, spilling out as a growl.
Ethan glanced down at the sight of his hardness, the slick bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. Fuck. He wrapped his fingers around it and began stroking slowly while his other hand braced the edge of the bed.
He let his head fall back and closed his eyes.
The world began to blur as Ethan retreated into his memories.
“Oh fuck…” The words spilled out, and his chest heaved with labored breaths.
He lost himself in the power Logan had over him, so intoxicating he couldn’t decide if it terrified or thrilled him.
Suddenly, his thoughts shifted to something else entirely.
Him on top—Logan beneath.
He imagined holding Logan down and taking control—watching Logan come undone beneath him.
It had to happen. His cock hardened at the thought.
And then…
There was a loud, insistent knock on the outer door that sounded like a gavel striking wood.
Ethan startled, his hand mid-stroke, heart lurching in his chest.
Logan… His mind hoped even though common sense told him otherwise. Maybe he had come back with coffee … an explanation for why he’d left.
Ethan scrambled, grabbing the towel draped over the bathroom door and wrapped it hastily around his waist. The fabric clung stubbornly to his erection no matter how much he tried to adjust it.
“I’m just coming!”
He suddenly realized what he’d said, and a childish chuckle burst from inside him… literally.