Chapter 8
NATHAN
“You always look so serious, Hayes.”
His voice comes from somewhere behind me, low and rough enough to make my pulse skip. I turn, and Logan’s there, bare-chested, barefoot, his hair a little messy like he just rolled out of bed.
“You should relax more,” he says, stepping closer. “Let someone take care of you for once.”
He closes the space between us, his fingers finding my chest, tracing the edge of my collarbone before sliding lower.
It’s not even much of a touch, just a graze, but it’s enough to make every inch of me freeze.
His skin is warm against mine, and I’m so hyperaware that I should move away, but I don’t. I can’t.
He studies me for a moment, his eyes searching my face before they dip to my mouth.
He leans in, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to—which, apparently, I don’t. His nose brushes the side of my jaw, his breath warm when he murmurs, “I wanna see what you look like when you fall apart.”
And then he kisses me.
His mouth is warm and so soft, and the kiss is messy and wet and fucking hungry, his tongue sliding into my mouth like he’s done it a thousand times before.
He exhales against my jaw, the sound rough, vibrating against my skin before he finds my mouth again, kissing me harder, licking into me like he owns me.
Like he knows every inch of me, knows how I like to be touched.
One hand comes up to the back of my neck, his fingers curling there, pulling me in until we’re chest to chest, hip to hip.
My hands go to his waist without thinking, dragging him closer, and he lets out this broken sound against my mouth, like he’s been holding it in for too long.
My hands slide down his bare back, digging in and pulling him closer. His skin is hot under my fingers. My hips stutter against his, and he groans, loud and raw, and I feel it in my fucking spine.
I don’t know what the hell is happening, and I know I should pull back, should say something, stop this before it spins any further out of control.
But instead, I tighten my grip and kiss him harder.
He’s solid against me. His hips grind into mine, and I feel the hard press of him against me through the thin cotton of his boxers.
I don’t even care how we got here, all I care about is the way Logan’s voice breaks against my mouth, and I never want it to stop.
“Fuck,” I manage, sinking my teeth into his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Logan whispers back, his breath hitching. “Just like that.” He kisses me harder, his hands roaming everywhere. On my chest, my waist, my face, like he can’t decide what to touch first. “Fuck, Nathan.”
His mouth finds my neck, sucking just below my ear. I claw at his back, urging him closer, chasing the contact. He groans again, rocking harder, deeper into me and my body arches up to meet him, chasing every bit of friction.
It’s too much.
Too good.
Too—
I jolt upright with a strangled sound, my chest heaving as my eyes dart around the dark room. It’s quiet, still, and completely fucking empty.
There’s no Logan. Just me. And the sound of my own heavy breathing filling the silence.
I sit there for a second, trying to catch my breath, the sheets sticking to my skin, my pulse still racing like I just sprinted laps.
My brain’s trying to keep up with my body, but all I can see—all I can feel—is him.
The weight of Logan’s body pressed against mine. The sound he made when I bit down on his shoulder.
The way it felt so goddamn real.
I drag a hand over my face. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter into the darkness.
The sheets are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat. My boxers are uncomfortably sticky, and I’m somehow still hard. So hard it aches.
I shove both hands through my hair, leaning forward to place my elbows on my knees, trying to breathe through it.
What the fuck.
I scrub at my eyes like I can erase the dream, but it’s useless. It’s burned into my brain. Every goddamn detail.
His hands. His voice. That look in his eyes right before he kissed me.
I stand abruptly, yanking the curtain open to let in light.
It was just a dream, I tell myself. A filthy, graphic, completely unforgettable dream that means I probably won’t be able to look him in the eye anymore.
I open my bedroom door, cross the hall to the bathroom, lock the door behind me, and flick on the light.
The shower door squeals when I pull it open, and I crank the handle all the way to cold and step under the spray.
Maybe it’ll help, or maybe it won’t, but right now, it’s the only thing that might shut my brain up.
A harsh breath leaves my lips as the water hits my skin, but I leave the dial untouched. I let the cold seep through my muscles, hoping it’ll cool the warmth that still lingers deep in my stomach.
I brace one hand on the tile, keeping my head low as water falls down my face, and before I can talk myself out of it, my other hand slides down, wrapping around my hard cock.
Don’t think about him.
I stroke once. Twice.
“Fuck,” I hiss, biting down hard on my lip.
I try to picture anyone else. Literally anyone else. But it’s a wasted effort. Because the only thing running through my head is Logan. Logan saying my name, Logan’s nails dragging down my spine, Logan pressing against me.
My name being moaned while he kisses me, those eyes, that stupid, cocky smirk he always wears.
My hand speeds up, my hips stuttering forward, chasing the memory of the dream. The slick sound of skin-on-skin is swallowed by the water rushing around me.
I come with my hand fisted so tight I see stars, a low groan ripped out of me, my forehead slammed against the wall.
The shame hits the second after.
I hate this. I hate that it’s him. I hate how fast I lose control, how easily I get off to a stupid dream. I hate that my body wants it so damn bad.
I rinse off fast, desperate, like the water can wash him and the dream down the drain. But I know it can’t. It never fucking works.
I stand under the water until the buzzing under my skin finally stops. Then I get out, towel off, and pull on a hoodie and sweats.
The floorboards creak under my feet as I make my way down the hall, my nose twitching at the unmistakable smell of something burning.
I drag a hand through my wet hair, hoping the kitchen’s empty when I turn the corner.
But of course it’s not.
I pause when I spot Logan standing by the stove, and naturally, he’s not wearing a shirt.
He’s in nothing but plaid boxers and ankle socks, shaking a pan that’s clearly smoking, humming casually like he knows what he’s doing, but it’s clear that he absolutely doesn’t.
I stop in the doorway, desperately trying to act like I didn’t just spend the last ten minutes trying to forget what it felt like to touch him—even if it was only in a dream.
His back is turned to me and he hasn’t seen me yet, which means I have exactly three seconds to take him in before I force myself to look away. I let my gaze wander over his broad shoulders and tanned back, still golden from the summer.
Logan scratches the back of his neck, and his boxers dip lower on his hips.
I press my hand to my face, dragging it down as I shake my head before stepping fully into the kitchen.
“Do you ever wear a shirt?”
He glances at me over his shoulder when he realizes he’s not alone, and he tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Turning you on, am I?”
I ignore him, even though my stomach twists, and reach for the first shirt I can find—a crumpled team tee from the laundry pile—and toss it at him. It hits his shoulder and slides to the floor.
He laughs, but doesn’t even bother to pick it up as he flicks the burner off. “Didn’t think anyone else was up.”
“Hard to sleep through the smell of burning,” I say, moving toward the coffee maker, starting a new pot.
I try to keep my eyes on the mug, the counter, the coffee dripping slowly into the pot, but my brain refuses to cooperate.
It keeps noticing things, like the stretch of his back when he turns back to the stove again, the faint crease running down his back where he slept.
The way his hair is sticking up on one side, flattened on the other.
The red mark on his shoulder. The exact place I bit him in my dream.
Fuck. Knock it out.
He reaches up for a glass, the muscles in his arm shifting under skin that should really be covered by a T-shirt. He fills it with water, takes a long drink, and glances over at me.
I nearly drop the mug when his eyes find mine, worried he’ll figure out I was looking at him.
“You’re awfully twitchy this morning,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Bad dreams?”
“Just didn’t sleep well.” I pour the freshly brewed coffee into the mug, hoping the movement looks normal enough to hide the way my pulse is still jumping.
“Weird. You usually sleep like you’re dead. It’s freaky.”
I shrug and take a slow sip. The coffee’s bitter, scalding, and still not strong enough to wash out the image of him from earlier, of me jerking awake, still half in that dream, with my heart pounding and the sticky evidence of the dream on my crotch.
“Want breakfast?” he asks, nodding toward the pan.
“Not for whatever’s in there,” I say, my nose scrunching at the smell. “Smells like charcoal.”
He checks the pan, frowns, then laughs quietly. “It’s not burnt. It’s just… crispy.”
“Right.” I take a sip. “Because that makes it sound better.”
He grabs a towel, tosses the pan into the sink with a hiss of steam, and shrugs. “You’re welcome to take over if you think you can do better.”
“I can,” I say, pushing off the counter. “Move.”
He grins as I make my way over to him and shifts aside as I grab the pan, scraping out the black bits and running it under the water before placing it back on the stove.
I move to grab a bowl and crack a few eggs into it, plus a few pieces of bacon and a handful of grated cheese. When the pan starts to heat up, I quickly add a spoon of butter, hearing the sizzle, which lets me know it’s ready for the eggs to go in.
Logan leans against the counter beside me, watching me. “God, you’re such a control freak,” he says. “You can’t even let me make breakfast without supervising.”
“Because I don’t want food poisoning,” I say, pouring the eggs into the pan.
He huffs out a laugh, and I keep my eyes on the pan, trying to pretend he’s not right there. But I can feel him, especially since he’s close enough that his arm grazes mine every so often.
“I thought cooking was easy for you. Why do you look so serious?” he asks with that teasing tone that snaps me out of my thoughts.
I shoot him a glare. “I’m gonna throw this spatula at your head if you keep talking.”
He scoffs, wagging his brows. “Kinky.”
I shake my head and focus my attention on breakfast, moving the pan around to cover the bottom with the eggs.
“What the hell is that smell?” Ryan asks as he appears in the doorway. I glance over my shoulder, seeing his messy hair sticking up in every direction. He rubs one eye with the back of his hand, blinking against the light as he steps into the kitchen.
“Logan attempted to make eggs,” I mutter, turning my attention back to the stove to fold over the omelet.
“That tracks,” he says with a chuckle. “Burnt food and a side of nipples. Good morning to me.”
“Aw,” Logan says with a grin. “Just say you missed me.”
I hear the sound of Austin trudging down the stairs a few seconds later.
“Why does it smell like burnt ass in here?”
Logan rolls his eyes. “Jesus. You guys are so fucking dramatic. It’s just eggs.”
Austin scoffs. “Pretty sure eggs aren’t supposed to smell like that, man.”
“They were fine,” Logan says, crossing his arms over his bare chest, that I definitely don’t glance at as I plate up the omelet. “Then Hayes came over like the control-freak he is and took over.”
Ryan pours coffee into a mug and tops it off with enough milk to make it practically beige. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say going near a stove was your first mistake.”
“Rude,” Logan says. “I have skills.”
Austin barks out a laugh. “Name one.”
“Sex,” Logan fires back, grinning.
My brain flashes straight to the dream—his hands, his mouth—and I have to look away fast.
“Fair enough,” Austin replies with a chuckle. “Can’t really argue with that. It’s not like I’ve got proof otherwise.”
Ryan groans. “Jesus, can we not talk about Logan’s sex life before breakfast?”
I take a long sip of coffee. “You’re lucky you don’t share a wall with him,” I say dryly. “You don’t have to listen to the moaning until all hours of the night.”
Logan grins, meeting my eyes. “See?” he says, flashing me a wink. “Even Hayes agrees I’m good at sex.”
The coffee goes down wrong, catching in my throat. “What? I—no, that’s not—” I cough, heat crawling up my neck. “That’s not what I said.”
He just chuckles, completely unaware of the chaos in my head. “Pretty sure you did.”
I shoot him a glare. “Your hearing’s broken.”
Austin leans back, eyeing us warily. “Is this foreplay I’m witnessing?”
Logan just chuckles without even sparing a glance my way. “Relax, man. Hayes isn’t my type. Too broody.”
Austin lets out a chuckle as he cuts into half the omelet and starts inhaling it like he hasn’t eaten in days. Ryan pushes off the counter, muttering something about needing a shower, and disappears upstairs.
Logan sits across from me, bending his head as he digs into what’s left of breakfast, and my gaze catches on him before I can stop it.
The way his jaw flexes when he bites. The slow movement of his throat when he swallows. The line of muscle that shifts beneath his skin when he reaches for a glass of water.
I grip my mug tighter and rip my eyes away, busying myself with washing the dishes.
Fucking hell. What is wrong with me?
He’s my teammate. My roommate. A guy.
It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.