Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
I pressed myself against the closed bathroom door, my heart racing.
It turned out Logan had, in fact, noticed the double shower head when he was changing.
I wondered if he’d been thinking about it since lunch, but didn’t have the guts to ask.
Had he planned this? Did he think when he’d told me not to worry about the bed situation, that this was a possibility?
He kicked his pants to the side and turned to face me in only his boxer briefs, which meant I had a full view of his front and back, courtesy of the wall-length mirror.
My pulse swooped.
Logan leaned on the counter. “We don’t have to do this. It’s never too late to call it off.”
I wet my lips, my eyes travelling down his torso. “He says, standing in front of me, nearly naked.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Is that a factor in your decision-making?”
“No.” I lied, forcing my gaze back to his.
“It is educational. You can do your own research too, if you want.”
I bit my lip. “Just—turn around.”
He grinned. “Starting already?”
“No, I just don’t want you watching—”
“Hell, no!” Logan laughed. “If we’re doing this, you don’t get to tell me not to watch.”
I thought about pushing the issue, but what was the point? If, in fact, I was going through with this, we were going to be naked in the shower in about five seconds.
Despite my stomach lurching, I let go of the blouse and let it fall to my hips, then quickly unbuttoned my black slacks and slid them off with the shirt in tow.
I dropped them onto Logan’s pants and stood there in my underwear, hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin.
Of the way the bathroom light hit my curves and lack thereof, the soft not-quite-flatness of my stomach.
“Can I—” Logan’s voice caught. He lifted a hand, motioning to my bra. I nodded and turned, giving him access to the clasp.
Air hissed through my teeth as his fingers brushed my skin.
“Do most bras have two clasps or three?”
I blinked, trying to focus. “Depends. Most of mine have two, but I do have a couple that are three. The cute ones only have two.”
He made a sound, fiddling with the band. The tension released. Just like before, I waited. Logan slipped the straps off my shoulders, and I straightened my arms, letting it fall to the floor.
“Do you like that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Me taking it off?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He stepped back, and I counted to three, gathering the courage to turn. When I did, his eyes swept over me. Slow, but not leering, no smirk on his lips.
“You’re beautiful,” he said simply.
My insides liquified. “That’s . . . a smart thing to say. Women like that.”
Logan’s brow twitched. He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Got it.” He turned and pushed the shower door to the side, flipping on the water to hot, then walked to the other side to turn on the second head.
He spun back and looped his thumbs in his underwear.
“Wait.” My face turned crimson in the mirror. “I—it’s fine, you can—I just thought—”
“No, you can take them off.” He dropped his arms.
While I couldn’t speak for all women, I had a hard time believing a single one of them wouldn’t find this a huge turn-on. In the two more serious relationships I’d had, I’d never felt like I was going to pass out in their presence.
Was it Logan’s questions? His desire to learn? The fact that we’d talked for weeks or that he’d picked me up when my car stalled? That we’d gotten interrupted during our makeout session, and I didn’t get what I wanted?
Logan wanted to know what I liked, but I was probably the more curious of the two of us. Had I ever asked myself what I liked—what I wanted—and explored the answers?
I closed the gap between us and reached for his boxers, dragging them lower over his hips. It took a second to figure out where they were stuck—Logan laughed at that—but eventually, I succeeded.
When I tried to step back, he caught my waist and returned the favour. I about died of embarrassment as he pulled my underwear over my knees, his face inches from me.
We stood in front of each other, assessing. Curiosity didn’t begin to cover what I felt in that moment. In the past, I’d always been worried about doing the right thing, but Logan had given me permission to wonder. I wanted to touch every part of him. Explore and figure out how everything worked.
“Your body is . . . “ I shook my head. I didn’t have the right word for it. It wasn’t just that I was turned on by him. It was art.
Logan’s eyes flared, and I realized I’d said the words out loud. It was true. I wished I had a sketchbook, something to capture the perfect lines of his torso, the shading under his pecs, the gentle curve of his shoulders juxtaposed with the rough line of his jaw.
His breathing quickened. “Men like that.”
For a moment, I regretted everything. I should’ve said something, been honest with him about how I wasn’t totally sure this was all fake for me anymore. I didn’t want to say that to other men. I wanted to say it to him.
Logan opened the shower door, releasing a cloud of steam that billowed around us. He stepped in first, moving so I could follow.
The heat soaked into my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I pulled the pins from my hair and set them in the soap dish, then tilted my head into the stream. When I wiped the water from my face, I found Logan in front of me, holding the tiny bottle of hotel body wash.
“Turn around?” he murmured.
My heart jolted. What was it about having him behind me that sent my head into a tailspin?
Logan moved in close, building gravity that my body fell toward before I could stop it. The click of the cap. The hiss of the water. It all sounded in slow motion.
He didn’t move for a moment. I could feel his gaze on me, like a fingertip tracing just above the surface, not quite touching. Heat coiled low in my stomach. Then his hand landed on my back, and he smoothed the soap between my shoulder blades.
“How’s this?” he asked quietly.
Good? Perfect? “Nice,” I managed, though it came out half breathless. His hand slid down the curve of my spine, and my eyes fluttered closed.
“Pressure okay?” he asked.
I grinned. “You’re not going to break me.”
His hands glided over my body, smooth and soft. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
I didn’t ever want him to stop. This was the most soothing, erotic thing anyone had ever done for me. I struggled to fill my lungs.
When Logan finished, he spun me around to rinse the soap from my back. He blinked, heavy lidded, water from his shower head flicking off his shoulders and landing on my cheeks.
“Can I?” I held my hand out for the bottle, but Logan hesitated. “No? I didn’t—”
“I want you to. But . . .” Logan struggled to find the words.
“But?”
“I’m really far gone.”
My brow pinched. “What—?” He pointed down, and my eyes dropped. Oh.
“This is why I never ask women what they want. It’s not because I don’t want to know, it’s because I’m worried you’ll—they’ll—be disappointed when I try to do it and can’t last.”
I worked to engage my rational brain. “So what if you can’t?”
Logan huffed a laugh. “Um, then it’s kind of over.”
“No, it’s not.” I pushed my hair from my face. “Did you ever think that you not lasting would actually be something I liked?”
He stared at me blankly. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“You being so turned on, you can’t touch me and not respond? That’s like . . . I don’t even know. Like crack for my brain.”
He laughed out loud. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Why? Because you’re supposed to be some sex God? Honestly, if a guy lasted too long, I’d wonder if there was something wrong with me.”
His expression sobered. “You’re serious.”
“Yeah. I’m serious.”
“So, you wouldn’t be disappointed?”
I shook my head. “Only if he rolled over and stopped there.”
“But if he didn’t . . .”
I chewed on my lower lip, debating how honest I was feeling. “Then I’d be a little worried about taking too long myself.”
He looked away, his brow furrowing. “Does it take long?”
My eyes widened, and I quickly schooled my expression. “You don’t know?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m just . . . I don’t know if I’ve ever done it right.”
I took the bottle from his hands. “Yeah. It can take a long time. Especially when you haven’t been together before.”
“Do you ever pretend?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Ever? Try every single time.”
He blinked. “You’re joking.”
I wished I was. “Not joking.”
He stepped closer, planting his hands on my hips. “No.” My breath caught. He shook his head, water droplets from his hair landing on my skin. “Don’t ever pretend with me, okay?”
“But what if I can’t—”
“No, we’ll figure it out. How can I get better if I don’t know what I’m doing wrong?”
I thought of Bridet, the hockey artist at the dinner table. I’d honestly never thought about it that way before. “But, Logan, when I say a long time—”
“I don’t give a shit. Don’t pretend. Worst case scenario, we just get to spend more time doing something that’s pretty great.”
I looked up at him, hot water streaming down my back. Was this a promise I could keep? I decided it was at least one worth trying for. “Okay.”
He nodded in approval. “Good.” Logan’s hands slid from my hips, and he turned.
My pulse skipped as I poured the body wash into my hands and lathered it. He stood still, water slicking down his shoulders, one arm out, pressed against the tile.
My palms slid over the broad muscles of his upper back, and he flinched. “Is that okay?”
He chuckled, his hand reaching back to pull me closer. “You might not be breakable, Crys, but I think I am.”
I pressed closer, dropping my head and pressing my cheek against his skin. His hand squeezed on my thigh, warm water coursing from his body to mine.
Logan growled low in his throat, his hand circling my wrist as he turned to face me. “You’ll have to do that later.” He dropped his head, kissing me, rough and desperate.
I felt for the soap dish and set the bottle there with my hairpins. Yeah. I was good with that.