Chapter 35
Audrey
“Ican walk, you know.”
“Debatable.” Logan adjusts his grip on me as he shoulders open the door to his apartment. “Your legs were shaking in the library. You could barely stand.”
“That’s because someone decided to turn his Victorian mansion into a sex obstacle course.” I kick my heels off as soon as the door closes and they clatter to the floor.
“You started it. Under the table. With your hand.”
“I started a little light teasing. You escalated to... whatever that was in the library.”
“You’re complaining?”
“I’m observing.” I press my face into his neck, hiding my grin.
I feel so thoroughly fucked and filthy. I never expected sex with Logan would turn into this, but I loved every second of it.
Like the ‘dirty little slut’ I am. “For the record, I’m not complaining.
I may never walk normally again, but I’m not complaining. ”
When we reach the bathroom, he sets me down on the heated floor and turns on the massive shower with more showerheads than necessary. I’ve been practically living here for weeks, and I still haven’t figured out what they’re all for.
“Too hot?” Logan runs his hands under the stream and gestures for me to check.
“It’s perfect.”
He guides me under the spray, and I groan as the water hits my shoulders.
Every muscle in my body is screaming—the good kind of screaming, the kind that comes from being thoroughly, comprehensively wrecked.
I tip my head back and let the water run over my face, washing away the sweat and the mascara and whatever else is smeared across my skin.
Logan steps in behind me, his chest warm against my back. For a moment, he just holds me—arms wrapped around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder, both of us breathing in the steam.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hi yourself.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a very attractive truck.” I turn in his arms, looping my hands behind his neck. “A truck that apparently has stamina issues. As in, too much stamina. An unreasonable amount.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.” I reach up and push the wet hair from his forehead. Without his glasses, with water streaming down his face, he looks younger. Softer. Like the boy he must have been before the world taught him to hide. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
Even after everything we just did, he still blushes when I compliment him. “I’m adequate.”
“You’re beautiful. And I’m not going to stop saying it until you believe me.”
“That could take a while.”
“Good thing I’m not going anywhere.”
He kisses me then—slow and sweet, nothing like the desperate hunger from before. Just connection. Just us.
When he pulls back, he reaches for my shampoo on the shelf. “Turn around.”
I turn. His fingers sink into my hair, working the lather through my curls with a gentleness that makes my throat tight.
No one’s washed my hair since I was a kid.
But now, there’s something unbearably intimate about it.
About letting someone take care of you like this.
About trusting them with the small, tender things.
“Tip your head back.”
I do, and he unhooks the removable shower head and rinses me, his hand guiding my neck in precise increments so the soap doesn’t get in my eyes.
I love the way Logan approaches even this like a micro-experiment—attention-to-detail bordering on maniacal, but always in service of making me feel as good as possible.
The kind of service you can’t buy, can’t even ask for, not really.
When he’s done, he reaches for the conditioner and scrunches it into my hair gently—exactly the way he’s seen me doing—and then traces his fingers over my scalp, massaging slow, steady circles. I’m a puddle.
Logically, I know what conditioned hair is supposed to feel like, but I swear he’s managed to make even that into an act of worship.
He’s careful not to tug, uses just the right amount of pressure, always pausing to confirm I’m comfortable before moving on.
I want to laugh at myself for getting emotional over what is, essentially, a luxury spa treatment in a billionaire’s shower, but mostly I just want to keep standing here forever.
“You’re purring,” he observes.
“Maybe. I’ll neither confirm nor deny. You’re good at this.”
“I researched techniques.”
“You researched hair-washing techniques in case I ever let you wash my hair?”
“I research everything. It’s a coping mechanism.” His hands still for a moment. “Is that weird?”
“It’s very you.” I turn to face him again, water streaming between us. “But no, it’s not weird. It’s sweet. Deranged, but sweet.”
“You keep using that combination of words.”
“Because it keeps being accurate.”
He leans in, lips brushing mine in a way that’s feather light but loaded, and even the gentle affection has every nerve ending under my skin sparking.
For a man who just railed the sense out of me against an antique desk, he’s infuriatingly good at switching gears—tender now, infinitely patient, like he’s memorizing the angles of my face for the next time he needs them, which is probably always.
I taste the warm, mineral tang of water on his lips, feel the strange disconnect of being so clean and so thoroughly ruined all at once.
He lets the kiss stretch out, lazy, hands coasting over my shoulders and back.
When he draws away, he takes the showerhead again and rinses my hair with unhurried care, the water temperature somehow dialing up to exquisite rather than scalding.
I close my eyes as he moves my head, his voice a low hum.
“Almost done. Don’t move.”
There’s a pause, then he sets the showerhead back into its holder.
“Would you… can I wash you? Is that—allowed?” There’s a rawness in his voice, almost-bashful reverence, like he’s not sure if the words are ridiculous or profound.
Something inside me aches at the question. It’s how he asks. Not because he expects it, but because it’s an earnest privilege.
“You can do whatever you want with me,” I say. “Always.”
His breath leaves him in a single exhale. He lathers the soap until the foam is dense, then smooths the suds over my shoulders, down my arms, systematic and thorough. Even his worship is algorithmic—he maps every square inch of my skin as if the act itself is a sacrament.
I am so much softer than I ever allowed myself to be, so much more undone by his care than I would admit aloud. If I hadn’t just come apart so many times, I’d melt here, under his hands, into the white marble tiles and never reassemble.
He kneels, washing my legs with gentle but possessive hands. When his fingers brush the marks he left on my thighs—bite marks, bruises, the evidence of his desperation—he makes a low sound in the back of his throat.
“I got carried away.”
“I liked it.”
“I should have been more careful—”
“Logan.” I catch his wrist, urging him to stand so I can lift his hand to my mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm.
“I wanted it. All of it. Every mark you left is proof that you wanted me badly enough to lose control.” I meet his eyes.
“Do you know how long I spent feeling invisible? Feeling like no one would ever look at me and just... want?” I swallow hard.
“I spent my whole life believing I had to earn people’s attention.
That if I were smart enough, useful enough, if I could just solve enough problems, then maybe I’d be worth noticing.
” I shake my head. “And then you looked at me like I was the only thing in the universe worth seeing. Not because of what I could do for you. Just because I existed. You still do.” I meet his eyes.
“That’s not something to apologize for.”
His expression cracks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits quietly. “The... after part. I know how to research techniques and optimize performance metrics. But the soft stuff—the taking care of someone, the making them feel cherished—I don’t have a framework for that.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
“I’m washing you. That’s just hygiene.”
“You’re washing me like I’m precious.” I step closer, pressing my body against his. “You’re touching me like you can’t believe I’m real. You’re looking at me like—” I stop, swallowing hard. “Like I matter.”
“You do matter. You matter more than anything.”
“Then you’re doing fine.” I kiss him softly. “Better than fine.”
“I just don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t,” I whisper, pulling his hands back to my skin.
They resume their path down my body—slower now, reverent. When they reach between my thighs, I gasp, still sensitive from before. He pauses.
“Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”
“It’s not. Just...” I shift against his hand. “Gentle. Go gentle.”
He does. Soft, careful touches. And despite everything—despite being wrung out and exhausted, despite having lost count of how many times I came tonight—I feel heat building again. A slow ember rather than a wildfire.
I’m not the only one affected. I can feel him hardening against my hip.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I can’t seem to—you’re just so—”
“Don’t apologize.” I wrap my hand around him, and he hisses. “I want you again, too.”
“You can’t possibly—”
“I can. I do.” I stroke him slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure.
He groans quietly as my grip tightens and strokes a little harder. His forehead drops to my shoulder. “You’re going to kill me,” he says, but the sound has no protest in it. Just awe. Maybe a little fear of his own capacity for wanting.
“Not kill. Just—keep you.” I’m greedy, greedy in a way I never let myself be before him, and now it’s all I want. To see him undone, to know I’m the only thing on earth that can do it.