Chapter 10 Rose
And then I’m fully awake, because there is a very hard, very insistent pressure against my thigh.
I turn back slowly, everything falling into place. The hurricane, the picture. The drive we have to make today. The dance last night, and the weird tension. The hours it took to fall asleep with all that charged silence between us.
I should have known the lack of a pillow wall was going to bite me in the ass. I have no one to blame but myself. My thigh is thrown over his lap. His hand is warm and sure, holding it in place.
I go completely still. His big hand tightens, spanning my thigh.
He’s awake.
My eyes meet his in the dark, the room lit only by the streetlight outside the motel and the red glow from the clock on the nightstand.
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, neither of us moving.
His eyes are fixed on mine, and the longer the silence stretches between us, the heavier it feels.
Against the pillow, the hard angles of his face have gone still—not soft, exactly, but unguarded.
There’s a slight furrow between his brows, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
I run through all the reasons this is a bad idea.
The picture last night, the uncertainty.
The fucking roller coaster I feel trapped on, his hands on my waist at the bar, then me drunk crying in the shower—except his fingers are still biting into my thigh and my brain keeps short-circuiting before it can finish a single thought.
Logan is an asshole. But that warning bell is growing distant and more quiet.
I’m really attracted to this man. And all the reasons this is a bad idea don’t mean much when we’re both single, alone in the dark of this room.
I’m wet, my core fucking aching. I want him.
I hate that I want him, but I do. I’ve always wanted him.
And I might never get this chance again, to just forget all the noise. To feel him.
On top of that, it’s been a while for me. There’s been no one since my ex, and even then, I don’t think I ever wanted anyone as badly as I want Logan Wells right now.
I want him inside me. Fuck.
My blood is loud in my ears. Everything is pooling low, my whole body narrowing down to the few inches between us, to the burning need in my core.
I’m still dressed. I can get myself out of this.
Maybe if I just—I slide my leg off his lap.
He lets me, but all I succeed in doing is dragging myself against his impressive erection.
It’s rock fucking hard, and my traitorous body, my stupid leg, slides back up, stroking him against me, and he lets out a small grunt and flexes his hips.
He’s hard all over. My palm flattens against his chest. He grips my thigh and drags me up, slowly, until I’m straddling his lap, and the only thing between us is thin cotton.
He doesn’t say a word. Neither of us do.
His big, capable hands hold tight, and they begin to guide me, and I let him, riding against his length.
Slow at first. My hips roll. I find my rhythm, rocking against his hard cock.
I forget to breathe. I push down harder, feeling my wet pussy soak through my underwear, the shape of his cock as it nudges firmly, trying to find a way in through the fabric while he squeezes my hips tightly.
I’m not really an impulsive person.
But right now, the only thing I can think about is getting this man inside of me, fuck the consequences.
I rock against him, and he rasps, “That’s it, baby,” and those words make me whimper, my hips moving faster without permission, and the tether between us fucking snaps.
Suddenly frantic, he’s pulling at my shirt and I lift my arms and let him, then I kick off my pants and underwear, and then my hands are at his waistband, and we’re both naked and there’s nothing between us and I can feel all of him—the heat of his skin, the hard plane of his chest, the faint line of hair leading down—I wrap my hand around his cock.
My fingers don’t meet, and I feel a deep, involuntary clench inside me.
I surface just long enough to breathe, “Condom?”
His voice is rough, ragged. “Don’t have one. But I’m clean.”
I got tested after my ex, and there’s been no one since.
I position him, lift my hips, then sink down slowly, and the stretch pulls the air right out of me—that deep, full ache—and I have to stop, forehead dropping against his chest to breathe through how big he is. When I rock my hips, the friction is almost unbearable.
His fingers dig into my hips, so I sink deeper, then lift. Up and down. In and out. Slow. Deliberate. That torturous push and pull, wringing every sensation, until my thighs are shaking, and I can’t think, and I can’t slow down or stop.
Until neither of us can.
Logan holds me tight as he bucks up into me, hard. I open my knees wider, taking more of him, and the sound that leaves my mouth is an embarrassing, desperate grunt.
The man fucks. It’s fast and hungry. There’s nothing delicate about it.
I dig my nails down his chest, and he grunts and drives up harder, punishing, and I match his pace because I can’t help it, because my whole body is a wild, live wire.
I grip his shoulders and hold on. He shifts his weight and rolls me under him, one of my legs hooking high at his back, and the angle changes everything—deeper, stealing my breath with every thrust.
Then those surgeon’s fingers find my clit, and he doesn’t fumble or hesitate, just presses and moves in tight circles. I squeeze until my walls start spasming, legs shaking uncontrollably.
Nothing has ever felt like this. White spots explode across my vision, and I clench and cant my hips, and he fucks me right through the orgasm, drawing it out until I can feel it in my teeth, my fingertips, the soles of my feet.
My whole body is shaking when his hips fall out of rhythm, and then he’s groaning, low and guttural, and he pulls out, hand whipping his cock in fast, furious jerks as he comes on my stomach in hot, shuddering pulses.
I barely catch my breath before his fingers find my clit again, flat and relentless, and a second orgasm tears through me, fast and messy. Finally, I grip his wrist, and he slows.
Panting, he drops his head to my chest.
I can’t speak. I can’t think. I just lie there, wrecked, staring at the ceiling.
I should have known. I should have known Logan would ruin me.
Goddamn.
I drag my fingers through his hair, at his nape, and he shivers when I touch him, and somehow that feels almost as good as everything else he just gave me.
My breath returns to a steady rhythm. I wait for him to roll away, to put the distance back between us.
Instead, his forehead lifts off my sternum, and he kisses my breasts.
Right, then left, then drawing my nipple between his lips.
It feels good, but there’s something almost reverent in the way he does it.
He kisses my chest again, then exhales long and heavy. Without a word, he gets up and goes to the bathroom. I hear the water run, and he returns a minute later with a towel, still damp from my shower. He washes his cum off my belly, then wipes between my thighs, gentle and unhurried.
After, he climbs back into bed. I’m still lost, never having done this before. Slept with someone I had so much chemistry with—but also, so much baggage. Contention. Who makes me feel like the ground is tilting.
Logan tucks an arm beneath me, drags me across the mattress, and holds me against his chest. Big spoon, little spoon.
He kisses my temple.
“Long day tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
Within minutes, his breathing evens out.
I lie there in the dark, running through a million questions, and keep coming back to the same answer. I close my eyes.
Even if this is all it ever is—it was worth it.