Chapter Eighteen
Sawyer
The final road game for the Bellerive Bullets, before they return to the island for another stint of home games, goes much better than any of the ones that came before it.
Something has shifted in Logan, and I’ve been rewinding key parts trying to figure out what changed in him.
But his “I don’t give a fuck” attitude, which did not seem to be working on the road, has flipped from causing mayhem on the ice to scoring goals and making plays.
Bellerive won their first away game of the season by a massive margin against a team that, on paper, they shouldn’t have beaten.
A bright, shining beacon of what the team could be. Hope. Possibilities. Logan must be thrilled, but he hasn’t texted me since I sent a message congratulating him.
My emotions cannot handle how much I love watching him play the game. At first, I used to view each hockey game through the trainer lens. What new moves or training aspects could we add to make him better?
But I don’t need to do that anymore because I know the game so well, and I’ve watched him play in games and practices and during idle times when he’s on the ice for no other reason than that he loves it so much. Watching him isn’t even a conscious choice anymore.
For the first time in my life, I understand how people’s emotions can skyrocket to heaven and then fall into hell with the fortunes of their team. Though, for me, I think it might be Logan’s fortunes that determine my mood.
He played better tonight. The text from King Alexander arrives just before my father’s text.
Finally got his head out of his ass. Much less eloquent, and not really accurate.
Was getting worried Dalton and his naysayers might be right. Alex texts again.
Dalton hated the idea of the team coming here in the first place.
He considered the arena a colossal waste of taxpayer dollars, and he hasn’t truly been wrong.
Bellerive didn’t need a professional sports team, and the tropical island definitely didn’t need a team that played in freezing temperatures.
For so many reasons, it had been ludicrous.
Everyone knew that Alex pushed the idea so hard to get a rink for his beloved wife, so it was a small miracle he got enough people on his side to make it work.
Of course, Alex can be persuasive when he’s motivated to win, which is a lot like another guy I know.
My phone buzzes in my hand with a text from a familiar number. Though it’s not the text I was expecting to receive.
Invite me over.
My skin heats as I stare at the words, and my heart jumps to life. For the last month, we’ve danced around each other during training sessions, after home games, and to see Logan’s text sitting on my screen is a jolt to my senses.
I was sure Logan wouldn’t change his mind, even though I’ve been sorely tempted to change mine.
If I hadn’t made a deal with myself to stop caving to the needs and desires of men at my own expense, I would have told him I didn’t care about the timeline anymore.
Some sessions I was one more brush of his hand, skimmed contact of our bodies, from throwing away my resolve.
Maintaining any professionalism between us has been a slow, painful torture that has had me leaving every session on edge, desperate for a way to release the escalating sexual tension.
I should text him back and ask if he’s sure, or maybe I should clarify what he means or wants.
You should come over.
The text turns blue on my phone before I consider the full implications of what I’ve done. With one message, I’m starting an affair with the star player of the Bellerive Bullets.
I drop my phone onto the couch, suddenly realizing that my sleep shorts and my braless tank top might not be how I want to greet him.
Then the doorbell sounds, and I check the time on my phone. I’m an idiot. Of course he’d be almost here when he texted. Classic Logan. If he’s caving, he knows I’m a sure thing. He plays to win.
Screw it. I’ll answer the door just like this.
I leave my phone on the couch, and I go to the front entrance.
When I open the door, I leave my hand stretched along the edge.
Backlit from the house, my paper-thin fluorescent yellow sleep outfit is probably close to transparent.
Provocative confidence that feels familiar and foreign settles over me.
Did I used to be like this? Or do I just wish I had been?
A slow smile spreads across Logan’s face. He doesn’t even try to hide how his gaze travels over me, taking in my outfit, lingering on my breasts that have puckered either from the night air or him—probably both.
“Waiting for me?” he asks.
“For you to come to your senses?” I ask, matching his cocky grin. “One hundred percent.”
He steps across the threshold, and one of his arms eases around my waist, drawing me flush against him. He peers down at me, but emotions are flickering across his face in a pattern I can’t quite decode.
“Tell me what you’re agreeing to, Logan.”
“We’re not hiding. But we’re casual, even if it’s just you and me. End of this season, we’re done. No matter what. I can’t waste your time.” He swallows after the last line, as though it’s the hardest for him to reconcile.
I nod, even though my stomach sinks at the finality of what we’ve agreed. We’re not a good long-term fit, but I’ve never been the type to have meaningless sex.
Out with the old and in with the new, I guess.
He walks us back another step, his hand never leaving the small of my back, keeping me secure against him. With his foot, he kicks the front door closed. Then he leans back to lock it before his other hand slides into my hair, and he searches my face.
It’s criminal how much I love looking at him. There’s something about his build paired with his minty smell and connected to the way his eyes often seem hungry for the sight of me that breaks through all the barriers around sexual desire that I tried to erect after Dalton.
When I left Dalton, I wasn’t sure if or when I’d be ready to trust another man with my body. Seemed impossible a few short months ago.
“I got the terms of our agreement right?” he asks.
“You did.”
“Does that mean I get to kiss you now?”
“It means you get to kiss me anytime you want until the end of the season.”
He lets out a low groan, and I expect him to sweep me into his arms, devouring me whole. But he doesn’t.
Instead of giving into the fierce desire, he rubs his nose gently against mine, and he draws us closer in the tiniest increments, his hand tightening in my hair, as though he’s waiting for me to change my mind. Given the back-and-forth that we’ve had so far, I can’t blame him.
His breath hitches, and my breathing matches his, quickening with anticipation.
“I’m going to savor this first one,” he murmurs, his minty-fresh breath skimming across my cheek a millisecond before we connect.
His lips are soft, exploratory, as though we’ve got all the time in the world, and he’s going to map every curve and angle of this first time. Lock it into his memory for later.
God knows I’m locking it into mine.
I’ve never been kissed with such intention, such reverence, as though the person I’m with can’t believe they get to do this, but also very clearly feel entitled to the full experience.
It’s a kiss that sends heat to every peak and valley of my body, escalating my desire, which already felt insanely high.
“Please,” I whisper against his lips, and I don’t even know what I’m asking for, but he does.
He changes the angle of the kiss, tightening his grip on me, dipping his tongue into my mouth.
Kisses with tongue have never been my thing, but I realize as he’s kissing me that every other guy was doing it wrong.
This. This is the right way. Exploring. Mapping.
Discovering uncharted territory. I grip the back of his head, wishing I could just do this with him forever.
But god, if a kiss is this good, I can’t even imagine what else the rest of the night will hold.
I push his suit jacket off his shoulders, and it falls to the ground.
Before I can continue stripping him, Logan’s hands slip under my tank top, one sliding along my back and up to the nape of my neck, holding me in place while the other spans my lower back as he kisses me again.
The skin-to-skin contact is so good and not nearly enough.
I tug his dress shirt out of his pants, fumble for the buckle on his belt, pop open the button, and I draw the zipper down. It’s impossible to get close enough fast enough.
“Doc,” he rasps, one hand still on my nape and the other down the back of my shorts, gripping my ass. “I’m savoring. I get one shot at a first impression, and I’m not rushing anything.”
“You’re doing great so far,” I say, almost panting with want.
“We’re just getting started,” he says, and I push his dress pants down to pool at his ankles.
“I’m not sure we need to savor everything the first time,” I say, kissing his neck.
He plants his hands just under my ass and urges me into his arms. With a little jump, he’s got me wrapped around him as he starts to walk. “Where?”
“Down that hall,” I say, pointing to the one that leads to the primary suite. Then I lick a line up his neck, the way I’ve been thinking about for weeks.
He chuckles and then shifts so that he’s somehow got me cradled in one arm while his other hand is back in my hair, leading me into another kiss. His strength is apparent all the time, but never quite like this.
Every man should go to the Logan Bishop school of kissing. I’ve never wanted anyone this badly after a single kiss. Stripping him naked and riding him until he both of us come apart in the best possible way consumes my thoughts.
When we get to my room, he flips on the lights, and when I try to reach around him to flip them off, he says, “I’m savoring, which means I need to see what I’m eating.”
“You don’t have to—”