Chapter 28 Logan
It’s getting late, but I need her to see what she means to me.
I need her to see herself the way I do now—the way I should have from the start.
We slip out into the night, Rose still dressed in the most intoxicating red dress I’ve ever seen, putting the one from the wedding to shame, which is saying something.
I’d spotted it in a boutique window one afternoon, a week ago, and it stopped me dead in my tracks.
I walked straight in and bought it without thinking twice, not knowing if it would ever grace her beautiful form.
I didn’t know if she’d accept it, so I asked Easton to give it to her. I just knew it was hers.
Easton gave me everything about her business—her full folder, all her plans for the center. The more I read, the worse I felt. She’d undersold herself completely. Since then, I’ve lined up a consultant to help with the business side. Whether she takes me up on it is up to her.
But tonight is about something else. Tonight is about reminding her of what she’s capable of.
She figures it out before the cab even stops.
“Logan?” She’s looking out the window.
“Come on,” I say, paying the driver and taking her hand.
She’s trembling, so I pull her close as we approach the entrance, keys already out. The building needs work. A lot, and it will be a while before she can open, but there’s plenty to do in the meantime.
“Easton, that sneaky bastard,” she murmurs as I get the door open and we step into the space.
“There wasn’t time for any real construction. And I wouldn’t have done that without you, anyway. I just wanted you to see it again.”
She goes quiet, eyes wide and misty. I let go of her hand and watch her turn a slow circle in the middle of the room.
The place smells of rust and old wood, faintly of mildew.
Rafters covered in cobwebs, creaking metal that makes me wonder if it isn’t just a little bit haunted.
She looks like she’s in heaven. Like it’s the fucking Ritz.
“I spoke with your previous investors. They feel guilty about what happened, but they’re moving forward with the other center.”
Rose nods. “I figured.”
“I made it clear that if they use anything proprietary—your formulas, your balms, anything you developed—I’ll bury them in lawsuits.”
She gives me a saucy look. “Just another typical, litigious, wealthy prick,” she says teasingly.
“In this case, I don’t mind your criticism.”
She laughs, then sobers. “Thank you for protecting my work. There’s a lot I want to rebuild from the ground up, things I want to change. Working with Easton’s friends these past few weeks has given me some new ideas, but… Logan. I’m grateful. For all of it.”
“I’ll be here every step of the way. If you’ll have me.”
She presses her lips together. Before she can answer, I take her hand and draw her deeper into the building, past the towering exposed brick walls. The back office is closed off from the open floor plan. I find the door and push it open, hit the light.
She goes still in the doorway.
Her degree, matted and framed, centered on the wall.
Her certifications fanned out around it.
A deep mahogany bookshelf stuffed with her books Easton had snuck out of boxes in his apartment—herbal medicine, nutrition, integrative health, dog-eared business plans, a few self-help titles with cracked spines. I’d added a few more.
“It’s a real office,” she breathes. “It feels legitimate.”
“It is legitimate. You are legitimate.”
“Logan—” she stops. Moves through the room slowly, trailing her fingers along the freshly painted wall—a warm ivory against the raw vertical brick beams. A velvet couch, the color of moss, along one wall.
A reading chair with brass feet. A large wooden L-shaped desk with a writing nook tucked into the corner.
Pieces Easton had helped me hunt down, knowing she’d never want anything bought new off a showroom floor.
Things with history. Things with character.
Things that looked like her. “This is incredible.”
She turns to face me. The light in here is low. Her dark hair is loose past her shoulders, makeup worn away, pink lips full and puffy from crying, and she’s somehow more beautiful for it.
The red dress.
“I don’t deserve you.”
She shakes her head, “Logan—”
“But I’m going to work very hard, every day, so that I can.” I close the distance between us.
Having her here doesn’t erase the weeks apart—not yet. There’s still a fissure.
“Baby.” My hand finds her waist and I pull her hard against me. She whimpers. “Baby, can I please have you back?”
Her hands press flat against my chest. Then her fingers curl in, gripping my shirt.
Our lips collide. I’d forgotten how she kisses—like she’s consuming me, like she needs me as deeply as I need her. She presses into me, her fists gripping my lapels, a sharp sound breaking from her lips as I drag her closer, pressing her heated core against my stiffening cock.
She’s always been easy to read like this.
So fucking honest with her body, with all the parts of her.
I get greedy, tracing the curve of her back, mapping the round shape of her hips, the generous handfuls of her ass.
My hands come up to cup her tits, reveling in the weight of them before framing her ribcage. She moans against my mouth.
She tastes like champagne and cinnamon.
We break apart for air, her mouth against mine in ragged breaths. “This is my office,” she says, a little incredulous, unsteady.
“It’s yours. Every inch,” I grunt, flexing my hips into hers.
She reaches between us, cups my cock, squeezing the violent tent between my legs. My knees nearly buckle. “Every fucking inch,” I rasp.
She yanks my tie loose, pulls my face back down to hers. Her other hand attacks my shirt buttons, nails marking my skin. Rose bites along my jaw, teeth grazing my throat.
I run my hands down the length of her thighs and gather the red dress in my fists. “Never wear anything but red dresses again.”
“You like it?” she asks, a half-smile tugging at her lips as she turns back to look at me. “Easton picked it out.”
I’ll tell her later who really bought the dress.
Now, though, I’m feeling darkly possessive.
“I’m grateful to Easton for a lot of things, but don’t say his fucking name right now.
” The words come out rougher than I intend—a growl, almost. I want to tear this one off her.
I want to be the only man who ever sees her in red.
Because she is mine.
I lift her dress over her head, revealing the delicate lace of her black balconette bra—and nothing else. My breath catches as I stare down at the bare apex of her thighs. “Baby, why aren’t you wearing any panties?”
She smirks, shrugging. “Laundry day.”
I laugh, but the sound is rough as I unclasp her bra, letting it fall away. My belt comes undone with a sharp tug, my cock already straining against my briefs, the head nudging at my waistband.
She doesn’t wait, her hands pulling at my pants with frantic urgency, dragging my briefs down with them. The cool air hits me, but her touch is fire—her fingers wrap around my length, warm and tight, and I groan as my hips jerk forward.
She takes her time. Her palm twists slowly up my shaft, thumb dragging a slick circle of pre-cum over the head on every stroke—just enough pressure to make my hips stutter forward, just shy of what I need, as if she’s punishing me for the weeks we’ve been apart.
I slide my hands up her ribcage, rolling her nipples between my fingers, squeezing her full breasts.
God, I missed these. I can’t help but palm them, bounce them a little, mesmerized.
But I’ve had e-fucking-nough of her teasing.
I grab her by the waist, spin her around, and bend her over the heavy wooden desk.
The wood is sturdy, but I’m not sure it’ll survive what I’m about to do to her.
With one hand between her shoulder blades, my knee parts her legs, spreading her open.
She’s dripping. I take a second to drink in the sight of her—everything about this woman is a wet fucking dream, thick and impossibly perfect.
Then I thrust into her in one deep, relentless motion, and she gasps, her body tightening around me. The sensation is almost too much—her pussy clenches around my cock, my fingers digging into her hips as she lets out a sharp cry.
She’s tight. So tight.
I set a brutal pace, one hand sliding around to squeeze her tits, to hold her closer.
I like the angle, but I need more. I need her closer.
I need deeper, so she never lets me go. Wrapping my hand around her right thigh, I lift it, pressing her knee onto the desk to open her wider. She lets out a wail.
“You like that, baby?” I growl, pulling out and thrusting back in. Her ass and pussy gape, begging for more.
I slow my hips, lift her further onto the desk, then trace a finger along my cock before pushing it into her alongside it. I pump my finger in and out before adding a second one, as she rolls her hips against the tight strain.
“What… what are—” she starts, surprised.
I pull my fingers out of her pussy then slide one, slick with her juice, against her asshole.
Since she doesn’t protest, I push in. She inhales sharply at the intrusion.
I work it slowly, then thrust my hips faster.
Finger into her ass, then I thrust my hips, in and out, switching rhythmically between the two.
She gushes around me, and I add another finger to her tight hole. She moans, clenching harder. I drive into her with steady, punishing strokes. My other hand locks on her hip as she writhes, pressing herself against me.
“You’re so close, baby,” I whisper, aiming to fill every inch of her. Her pussy spasms around me, her asshole gripping me like a vice. “You feel unbelievable. I’m never letting you go. Come for me. Come for me.”
“Logan!” she cries, coming with her whole body—arching her back, hips bucking back hard, nails clawing at the desk, as her orgasm rips through her.
Her lifted knee buckles at an awkward angle as she rides the wave.
A helpless, ragged sound tears from her as tremors roll through her, pussy gushing all over the desk.
My grip on her hips tightens as I drive into her wet, raw cunt, until my legs are shaking, and my thighs are slick with her cum. My mind splinters. Everything narrows to a single point—her, only her—as I drive in and finally let go, weeks of wanting her exploding into one shuddering release.
We collapse together, heartbeats frantic, panting, as I drape my body over hers, caging in her small frame.
I help her up, and we tumble onto the couch. Her dress is a red puddle on the floor. I pull her against me, both of us still catching our breath, her skin warm and damp against mine.
“You’re going to have to hang more shelves if you really want to impress me,” she mutters, and I start laughing.
“You can’t fucking help yourself.”
She giggles, and I find her mouth again—soft and slow. “I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you, too.”
I push the hair back from her face. “Move in with me.”
She pulls back slightly. “Don’t you think that’s a little soon?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t want another day without you in my arms. I want to wake up like this. Go to bed like this. I just… Rose, I just want you.”
She hums thoughtfully, then smiles. “Okay. And for the record, I’m fine with somnophilia.”
I go still for just a beat before dragging her back into my lap, face in her neck. Her laughter fills the room until I’m adjusting her body and pushing into her again, finding a new, slower rhythm.
We go another round before we finally head home.
“You’re going to change the world, Rose,” I tell her later, long past midnight, when we finally collapse into bed. “I can’t wait to watch.”