Chapter 14 Rose
I wake to knocking. Groggy, I push up to a seat and check the clock. Just past three.
After talking to my dad, I’d come back here thinking I’d finally get started on all that hibernating I’ve been fantasizing about.
Another knock. I debate ignoring it. Whoever’s on the other side is persistent, though.
When I swing open the door, my stomach does this complicated twist. Part of me lights up—he came, just like he said he would. The other part of me remembers Pearl’s messages, still splintering beneath my sternum.
I keep the door tight in my palm, squeezing the handle. “Hi.”
His eyes sweep over me. “Hi.”
I hate how put-together he looks. He’s not my usual type—I go for the artists, the creators. Musicians, a filmmaker once, a bartender for almost two years. Men who smelled like sweat and weed. Men whose apartments had broken dishes and no curtains, and always ran out of soap.
Not this. Not whatever Logan has going on, this clean, assembled, just-shaved look. He smells good. I don’t want to think about how good.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, finding something interesting on the floor.
He frowns. I can see it out of the corner of my eye, but I refuse to look up.
Then he just pushes past me.
“Hey!” I stumble back. He puts a hand around me to shut the door, then turns to look around the room. His jaw tightens.
“What the fuck is this?” he says, low.
“What?” I ask in confusion.
“This room.” He looks at the bed shoved against the wall, the narrow strip of floor between them. “It’s a closet.”
I thought the same thing, but instead of agreeing with him, I straighten my spine and pull away from him. “I have more than enough space.”
He’s looking around with his mouth dropped open, shaking his head.
“What?” I ask, since he’s still not saying anything.
His lips press into an angry line. “Nothing.” Then he takes me in, and his expression softens. “I missed you.”
I cross my arms. “Really? Couldn’t tell with the way you practically ran from me when we got here.”
His shoulders fall. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”
“You’re the one who keeps pushing for transparency.
You’re the one who suggested we—” I pause, catching on the words.
Unable to voice the stupid, mature decision we came to.
The one that made so much sense at the time and makes so little sense now, with him standing two feet away in my tiny room, my hurt feelings all jumbled up.
“I just had a lot on my mind. I’m sorry. But it wasn’t about you. It wasn’t about us.”
“There isn’t really an us, Logan,” I say, taking a seat at the edge of the bed.
He fidgets. It looks wrong on him somehow—he’s still the same tall, clean, well-dressed billionaire doctor type, that one undone button signaling he’s on vacation. But something is off. This is his world, not mine. He fits into it, except in here, in this tiny room, with me, he’s out of place.
“Look, I’m sorry I was a little off when we arrived. I just had—”
“A lot on your mind. Yeah, you said.” I look up at him. “Did you tell my sister I smelled bad?”
“What?”
I feel like a child. Like I’m whining to the teacher. But the text exchange is poking at me like a bruise I can’t stop pressing, and I’m just really tired of feeling small in this group. Of being laughed out of Pearl’s orbit.
“She showed me your messages. You said I was exhausting. You couldn’t wait to get out of the car because I smelled bad. Like garlic and BO.”
“Jesus fucking—”
“You know, for the record,” I say, feeling that vulnerability harden in my chest. I walk toward the bathroom, dig out the offending balm, and shove it into his chest hard enough that he has to grab it.
“Arnica is great for bruises. It disrupts inflammation, gets the blood moving. Galangal, garlic vine—also anti-inflammatory, good for injuries. Beeswax protects the skin. Did you know beeswax has been used medicinally for over six-thousand years? I was in a plane crash, Logan. I really didn’t give a shit what I smelled like. ”
Tears well in my eyes, and I know I’m overreacting. But everything about this man makes me feel like I’m on a roller coaster, and I just can’t take it anymore. I turn away, blinking hard.
“Baby—”
“Don’t baby me,” I snap.
He exhales. Runs his hands through his hair. Then, without asking, he takes the balm and sits down on the edge of the bed. He unscrews the cap. Sniffs. Makes a face. “Yeah, this was it.”
I hate the amused look on his face. The slight pink tinging his ears, the curve of his perfect lips.
“Glad we solved that mystery.” I reach for the jar, but he holds it just out of reach, and when I lunge for it, he wraps both arms around my waist and pulls me in.
“I’m really sorry she showed you those messages.
That was monumentally shitty of her.” He presses his nose against my chest, taking a deep inhale.
Even with him seated, I still feel like he towers over me.
“But I’m an asshole for sending them. We had just gotten on the road.
It was the morning after the flight, we barely started driving together.
I was pissed off, we weren’t exactly getting along yet, and I took it out on you, said something stupid and mean.
” He pauses. “That’s not an excuse. I just want you to know where I was at when I texted her. ”
I look down into his eyes, wanting to have a reason to hold on to my anger. But I wondered when the messages were sent. And I could have just as easily said something mean about him to Easton.
It still hurt to read, though.
“Pearl said—”
“I don’t want to hear her name right now.” His arms tighten, and something in his voice makes me go quiet. “I’m sorry about the messages. Let me make it up to you.”
My nerves crest. “... How?”
He doesn’t answer. His hands find my waist, and then he’s pulling my shirt up and off before I’ve decided anything, before I’ve had a chance to keep one last piece of myself away from him.
There’s something deliberate in the way he moves, and something urgent underneath it. His fingers find my nipple and roll it slowly until it stiffens and aches. He pinches, just shy of too much, and I arch my back.
“I’m still mad at you,” I whisper.
Like last night, he doesn’t use his words.
His other hand hooks my waistband, yanking my leggings down in one rough motion.
The fabric scrapes against my skin, then he grips my ass and flips our positions, bringing my back to the mattress.
I’m bare beneath him in seconds, the cool air of the room making me shiver.
He doesn’t give me time to react—just drops to his knees, lifting one of my legs over his shoulder.
Looking up at the pristine white ceiling, I almost laugh. How did we get here? “You really hurt my feelings,” I say anyway. “And I don’t know what we’re doing, where this is going—”
His mouth is on me, stealing all thought, tongue dragging up my inner thigh, stopping just short of where I’m already wet for him.
“I can’t keep—oh, Logan, please,” I beg, needing him to touch me there.
He doesn’t move. Just breathes against me, waiting, until I stop trying to finish the sentence.
Then the tips of his fingers find my entrance, slipping in just barely, then retreating, until I’m rocking my hips toward him.
His thumb grazes my clit once and withdraws.
It’s not enough. I’m on fire. I’m soaked.
“Dammit, Logan, either talk to me or fuck me—” Abruptly, he reaches for my balled-up underwear and shoves it in my mouth, cutting off my words.
“Argue later.”
Then his hands are on my ass, and he lifts me like I’m nothing, tossing me higher onto the bed like I’m his to rearrange.
I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, but he ignores me.
Instead, he lowers his head to take my nipple between his teeth—sharp enough to make me gasp, the sound muffled by the fabric still stuffed in my mouth.
He kneads and squeezes, licking and sucking on my tits like he’s a starving man. I lift my hips up in demand, but he takes his time, savoring every inch like I’m something precious.
My whimpering grows more frantic, but he pulls away without warning, snatches a pillow, lifts my hips and shoves it under my ass. I feel like a mannequin the way he maneuvers my body.
He positions himself lower, between my thighs, the bright room a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.
When he looks up, his gaze locks onto mine, dark and intense, as if this moment matters just as much to him as it does to me.
Without breaking eye contact, he lowers his head and drags his tongue along my slit in one slow, devastating stroke.
The muffled sound I make draws his attention. “You gonna be a good girl and stop arguing with me?” he murmurs.
A thrill runs through me. The fabric in my mouth is irritating, and I could spit it out if I wanted. I shake my head and call him an asshole. He hears it, though, and smirks before shaking his head in mock disappointment.
My thighs try to close. His hands stop them.
He grips my knees and forces them back open, draping them over his shoulders. With one hand he exposes my clit. His mouth descends. He sucks hard, tongue working in tight, relentless circles, and when two fingers curl into me and drive deep, I arch completely off the pillow.
I’m so wet his fingers make obscene, squelching noises, pumping in and out.
He doesn’t vary the rhythm to tease—he finds exactly what makes me shake and stays there, fingers driving, tongue flicking with that intense, unbroken focus, until the pressure builds past the point where I can form a single coherent thought.
Logan groans, his mouth widening like he’s trying to consume me whole. His free hand presses flat against my stomach, holding me in place. My inner walls begin to spasm.