Logan
Stuart, Florida
Lila’s lace bodysuit leaves absolutely nothing to my imagination—and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s soaked, the evidence of her arousal darkening the fabric when my fingers finally slide down and press against her.
My brain short-circuits at the sight of her like this: writhing, desperate, begging.
This image—her spread out beneath me, wearing black lace and looking like sin incarnate—is the one I’ll cling to when I’m deployed, when the world goes cold and distant.
Her body is pure perfection—soft, feminine curves wrapped in grace and strength. She’s tiny, but she’s unbreakable. The way she holds herself makes it impossible to forget who she is.
Her long, dark hair fans out across the bed like a halo. Her skin glows, smooth and warm under my touch, and I can’t stop myself from staring at her collarbone, the curve of her neck, the dip just above her chest. Places I’ve kissed a hundred times, and still they ruin me.
And then there’s the way she looks at me…like I’m hers. Like she sees something in me worth keeping.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
And somehow, she loves me.
I slide my tongue along her inner thigh, teasing just shy of where she wants me most, and she lets out this frustrated little noise that makes me grin against her skin.
“Logan,” she gasps.
“Say it again.”
She blinks. “What?”
“My name.” I press a teasing kiss to the inside of her thigh.
She leans forward, propping herself on her elbows. Her jaw tightens, but her lips curve into that same downright dangerous smile that wrecked me earlier. “Possessive looks good on you.”
I finally give in, burying my mouth between her legs and dragging a long, slow stroke of my tongue over her making her cry out.
“Logan.”
There it is. Breathless. Desperate. Mine.
I grip her thighs and hold her right where I want her, tongue working in slow circles. She’s already falling apart, writhing under me, hand clenching in my hair like she’s barely holding on.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I whisper against her. “Let go for me.”
And she does—hips bucking, body arching, her orgasm ripping through her like a wave. Her moans echo off the walls, and I don’t stop until she’s panting and shaking beneath me, eyes wide with pleasure. I crawl up over her, kissing her hard, deep, letting her taste herself on my tongue.
She’s barely recovered when I feel her palm sliding along the front of my joggers, her touch light, her intentions clear. My whole body tenses as she slips her hand beneath the waistband and wraps her fingers around my dick, stroking slow, torturous passes that nearly make me lose it.
“Lila,” I warn, catching her wrist before she can take it further.
I pull away just long enough to kick off my joggers and boxers. Her eyes follow every move I make, her lips parting as I tear open the condom and roll it on. She licks her lips, her gaze heavy and full of promise.
As I move to settle above her, she stops me with a kiss and a whisper against my mouth. “Do you want to take this off me?”
“No,” I growl, pushing the fabric aside instead. “I like you in it.”
I catch both of her wrists and raise them over her head, our fingers laced. Then I thrust into her in one slow, deep stroke.
“Fuck,” I groan, head dropping to her shoulder.
Her nails rake down my back, and I start to move, grinding into her like I want to leave a part of me inside her.
She meets every thrust with a desperate rhythm of her own, arching under me, and I still—just for a second—because holy hell, we fit. We always have. I thought it in Vegas. Thought it and hated myself for it. She was supposed to be a one-night stand. A beautiful mistake I’d never see again.
But she isn’t.
Being inside her, being with her, it’s not just sex—it’s everything.
It’s returning after years of wandering.
It’s warmth and light and peace I didn’t know existed.
When I’m with her, the noise in my head fades.
The weight on my shoulders lifts. She makes everything better just by existing.
She’s the steady to my chaos and she looks at me like I’m whole.
And when she smiles? It’s better than any flight, any mission, any high I’ve ever known. It wrecks me and saves me all at once.
She’s home.
“Come back to me,” she whispers, her voice cracking around the words, fear laced with heat.
I rest my forehead against hers. “I’m here, sweetheart.” And I mean it. In every way.
I kiss her, our tongues clashing with wild, unspoken emotion. Her nails rake down my back like she’s trying to pull me deeper, closer—but I’m already as close as I can get. I drive into her with everything I have, every thrust a vow I don’t know how to say out loud.
“Faster. Please,” she pants, nails digging in.
I obey, slamming into her harder, deeper, and she cries out again—louder this time. There’s no holding back now. Just the two of us, tangled in heat and sweat and months of unresolved tension finally snapping like a rubber band pulled too tight.
“Touch yourself for me,” I rasp. “I want to feel you come around me.”
She reaches between us, fingers moving quick, her body tightening under mine.
“That’s it,” I whisper, lips brushing her ear. “Come, Lila.”
She shatters a second time. “I love you,” she cries out as she clenches around me.
“I love you,” I echo, and then I’m gone. I come hard, emptying into her, my movements slowing, my entire body collapsing into hers.
I hold myself over her for a beat, needing to see her—needing to see what we just shared reflected back in her eyes. “You’re it for me, Lila,” I say, brushing her hair from her face. “This. Us. You own me.”
She smiles through the tears, her eyes shining. “I’m yours, Logan.”
She’s this impossible mix of tranquil and turbulent. The fire and the landing strip. My storm and my shelter.
We lie there tangled in each other, skin against skin. I brush the damp hair from her forehead and kiss her gently as everything else slips away until there’s nothing left but her.