Chapter 13
Reese
The elevator opens directly into Logan's penthouse. He's standing by the coffee table, still in dress pants and his white shirt from this morning's meeting. The shirt's untucked, wrinkled. There's a coffee stain near the third button.
"Hi," I say, stepping out before I lose my nerve.
"Hi."
We stand there, me by the elevator, him by the couch. The distance feels deliberate, like we're both afraid to move.
"How was the meeting?" I finally ask.
He sits heavily on the couch, forearms on his knees. "Jessica brought a lawyer. Very official. Conference room at the team offices."
I move closer but stop at the armchair across from him. Not ready to sit beside him yet.
"Tell me."
"She tried to reach me." He stares at his hands. "Called the team office three times. Left messages with PR. Sent letters to the practice facility. Even tried DMing me on Instagram."
"And?"
"Nothing got through. PR admitted there were—" He makes air quotes. "'Gaps in protocols.' Corporate speak for someone fucked up. Or someone decided I didn't need to know."
"Why would they do that?"
Logan's laugh is bitter. "Three years ago, I was the golden boy bringing in jersey sales. Maybe they thought they were protecting the brand."
"But you gave her your number?"
"The team number. Standard operating procedure—never give out your personal cell." He rubs his face with both hands. "I was so fucking careful about protecting myself that I made it impossible for the mother of my child to tell me I had a son." The self-disgust in his voice is raw and ragged.
"Why did she come to the gala?"
"She said Tyler's getting older. Asking questions about his dad. They're struggling financially—she cut back work hours to be with him. Then she saw the announcement about my speech on responsibility." He looks up at me. "She said it felt hypocritical."
I study his face, looking for the tells I've learned. His jaw ticks. His fingers drum against his thigh. Everything about him radiates genuine anguish.
"She told me about him." His voice goes softer. "Said he has my eyes. That dimple I got from my mom. He's smart. Observant. And he loves hockey even though she never encouraged it."
"When's the paternity test?"
"Results by Wednesday. But I know he's mine. I saw him at the gala. That was my face at three years old."
"And after?"
"I’m going to meet him Thursday at the Children's Museum. Jessica thought neutral ground would be better."
"That sounds reasonable."
"Yeah." He's quiet for a moment. "Three years, Reese. First word, first steps, first day of preschool. Three birthdays. Just—gone."
The crack in his voice on 'gone' is what does it. This is a man genuinely mourning memories he'll never get back.
I move from the armchair to the couch, still keeping space between us but close enough that he knows I'm here.
"When I was sixteen, I saw my dad hit my mom," he says suddenly. "She'd disagreed with him about something at dinner. He backhanded her."
I stay quiet.
"I got between them. Told him if he ever touched her again, I'd kill him. I was bigger than him by then. It changed us." His hands clench. "He never did it again that I saw, but I started noticing things—how she'd go quiet when he raised his voice when he was drinking."
He looks at me, fear naked in his eyes. "What if that's in me too? What if Tyler sets me off and I—"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"The fact that you're terrified tells me everything."
"I've already hurt him. Three years without a father."
"That's not the same as violence."
He's quiet. Then: "Will you come Thursday?"
"Logan—"
"I know what I'm asking—custody battles, Jessica, a confused three-year-old. Jessica's bringing her life. I want to bring mine."
"Okay."
His head snaps up. "Really?"
"Really."
He reaches for me, hand cupping my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone and I lean into it.
"I thought I'd lost you," he says. "When you left the gala—"
"I needed time."
"I know." His other hand frames my face. "I'm sorry. For the mess—"
I stop him by pressing my mouth to his. The kiss starts soft, testing. Then his tongue touches mine and I grab his shirt, pulling him against me. I’m done with the distance.
He pulls me onto his lap and I straddle him, my skirt riding up. His hands slide under the fabric, gripping my ass with his strong hands. I grind down and feel him already hard through his pants.
"Reese," he says against my mouth. "Can we—"
"Yes." I pull back. "I hate the distance."
He stands, lifting me. In his bedroom, he sets me down but doesn't immediately reach for me.
He looks at me with a question in his eyes—making sure. I’m sure.
Instead of answering, I pull my shirt over my head. His eyes flash. I reach for the coffee stain on his shirt, touching the spot before working the buttons.
We undress each other slowly. When he unhooks my bra, his hands tremble. When I push his boxers down, his cock springs free, thick and hard, the head already glistening.
On the bed, he covers me with his body, weight on his forearms. He pauses and looks in my eyes.
"What?" I ask.
"Making sure you're real."
“I’m real. Let me show you.”
I roll my hips up, his length sliding through my wetness, coating him. "Feel real enough?"
"Fuck." He drops his head to my shoulder. "You're soaking."
"Can’t help it."
He slides down my body, spreading my legs wide, hooking them over his shoulders. The first touch of his tongue makes me arch off the bed. He groans against me, the vibration making me gasp.
"You taste incredible," he mutters.
He knows exactly what I want—his tongue circling my clit softly in a slow steady rhythm while he carefully puts one, then two fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes my hips buck up. I grab his hair, pulling when he hits the perfect pressure.
"There," I gasp. "Right there, don't you dare stop."
He doesn't, adding a third finger, stretching me while his tongue works faster. I can hear how wet I am, obscene sounds as his fingers pump into me. I squeak. My thighs start to shake.
"Logan, I'm—"
He sucks my clit into his mouth gently, and the feeling swells, and swells until I come hard, my whole body locking up, thighs clamping around his head as I cry out. He works me through it until I'm pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive. “Oh, my god, boy. Oh, my god.” We both giggle.
He kisses back up my body, and I taste myself on his tongue—tangy and intimate.
"I need to be inside you," he says, voice wrecked.
"Please."
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly. I feel every thick inch spreading me open, stretching me to accommodate him. We both groan when he bottoms out.
"Missed this," he says, forehead pressed to mine. "Missed you."
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Show me."
He starts to move, slow at first, letting me adjust. Then harder, snapping his hips forward. The sound of skin slapping fills the room. I dig my nails into his back, leaving marks.
"Let’s go, I want you." I encourage.
"Fuck." He shifts angle, hitting deeper. "You're so fucking tight."
"More," I gasp. "I need more."
He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, nearly bending me in half, and the new angle makes me cry out. He's so deep I can feel every bit of him.
"That's it," he grits out, sweat forming on his brow. "My god, you feel incredible."
I'm making sounds I've never made before—desperate, needy whimpers as he pounds into me. It’s like listening to a person I barely know. The bed protests beneath us, headboard hitting the wall.
"Touch yourself. I want to feel you come on my cock."
I reach between us, rubbing my clit, and within seconds I'm there, my second orgasm crushing into me. My pussy clenches down hard around him.
"Fuck, Reese." His rhythm falters. "I'm gonna—"
"Come inside me," I gasp. "I want to feel it."
He groans, thrusting deep one more time before I feel him pulse, flooding me. His face contorts with pleasure, jaw clenched, abs contracting as he empties himself into me.
We stay joined, both panting. When he finally pulls out, I feel his cum leak out of me. He collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest.
"Thursday," he says after our breathing slows.
"Thursday."
"Together?"
I press a kiss to his chest where his heart pounds under my palm.
"Together."
He reaches to pull me against him and I meet him halfway.
The Chicago Children's Museum pulses with Thursday morning energy—school groups in matching t-shirts, toddlers darting between exhibits, parents sipping travel mugs of coffee while trailing behind small explorers.
I twist my fingers together, scanning the crowded entrance hall for Logan.
My heart beats a nervous rhythm. Meeting a boyfriend's child is significant enough; meeting a child he just discovered he had three days ago feels monumental.
Logan spots me from near the ticket counter, his face lightening with relief as he waves me over.
"Hey," he says, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. His voice is tight with nerves. "Thanks for coming."
"Of course. I had some PTO built up." I squeeze his hand, noting how his palm is damp with sweat. "Are they here yet?"
He nods toward the dinosaur exhibit. "Jessica texted. They're by the T-Rex."
We move through the museum, past a water table where preschoolers splash with gleeful abandon, beyond a bubble station where iridescent spheres float toward the ceiling. Logan walks stiffly beside me, his shoulders set in a rigid line.
I stop him and turn him toward me touching his chest, "Breathe," I murmur, and I wait until he exhales like he'd forgotten how. “You got this,” I tell him. His eyes light up.