Chapter 35 #2
He kisses a line from my collarbone to my jaw, his hands finding my hips and holding me there with a tenderness that’s almost too much.
I lean my head back, let the hot water drench my face, and continue to work him in my soapy hand as he stiffens in my grip, the column of his cock slick and perfect and made just for this.
It’s almost overwhelming how much I like seeing him lose his mind for me, the way his careful mask cracks open and there’s just raw, shivery need.
“Fuck,” he says, teeth bared in almost a snarl, and I realize I could push him right to the edge, here and now, and he would let me, and isn’t that the most insane thing?
Every other boyfriend I ever had wanted to be in control, to orchestrate the experience from start to finish.
But Logan—he gives his body over like it’s a love letter, trusting me not to tear it up.
I kneel, letting the shower rinse away the suds as I slide down his body. I look up once, just to see, and he’s bracing himself on the tile wall, watching me with intent so singular it makes my stomach swoop.
I take him in my mouth, slow and deep, letting the water sluice over us as I suck him.
He tastes like salt and soap, a little like victory, and a lot like home.
I love the sounds he makes—sharp intakes of breath, that guttural moan when I hollow my cheeks around him.
His hands tangle gently in my wet hair. For someone so driven by logic and control, he surrenders so fucking beautifully.
Every time I take him deeper, his grip tightens, his hips jerking forward with a need he usually tries to hide.
I let him, take as much of him as I can, and he chants my name, a staccato of disbelief and prayer.
“Audrey—fuck—I’m close—” His voice is harsh, desperate, but he still waits for my cue.
I look up, hand stroking him as my mouth laves the head. “You can come,” I say, smiling like a demon. “I want you to.”
He groans, head thumping back against the tile, and I swallow him whole, using my tongue and hand in perfect sync.
The logic of his body is so simple, so elegant—each tremor and stutter a code I can crack.
He comes with a shudder that vibrates through his entire frame, his hands clinging to my shoulders for dear life.
I swallow it all, triumphant, and when I pull off, his eyes are dark and his breathing heavy.
“You’re a menace,” he says, voice still hoarse and ruined.
“I learned from the best.”
He pulls me up and crushes his mouth to mine, the taste of him on my tongue, and for a long moment we tremble together, bonded by chemistry and salt and heat.
Then Logan kisses my eyelids, my forehead, my cheeks, every gesture aching with love so profound I can’t believe anyone ever called him cold.
He shuts off the water and wraps me in a towel, drying me off as though it’s his sworn duty.
I close my eyes, letting each careful touch sink past skin into territory that’s all too vulnerable.
He kneels to dry my calves, my feet, as if the rest of me isn’t shaking and boneless, and then he lifts me—again—literally picks me up, bridal-style and carries me across the cold marble to the bedroom.
He spreads me on the bed like a feast, the towel lost somewhere between the marble and the mattress. Then he kneels at the foot, slow and deliberate, hands braced on my thighs. I shiver, more from anticipation than cold, as he kisses up the inside of my left leg.
By the time he reaches where I want him most, he’s already got me trembling again.
The tip of his nose brushes me, inhaling, my every nerve ending tuned to what comes next.
He parts my thighs wider, hooking them over his shoulders, and then just—waits.
Lips hovering, hands stroking my knees, enjoying the suspense as much as the meal.
He licks me, gentle, exploratory, and it’s almost too much because I’m still sore, still wrung out, but it slides past pain into raw, miraculous pleasure.
He knows not to rush, knows my body better than I do at this point.
He lavishes me with attention, the kind that says, This is mine.
I am keeping it. I am protecting it. I will never take it for granted.
I clutch the sheet in both hands, every muscle in my body pulled tight as he draws circles around my clit with the tip of his tongue—never the same pattern twice, always just enough pressure. He watches my face, eyes hooded and greedy for feedback.
This time it’s not about coming hard or fast. He draws it out, grazing the insides of my thighs with his knuckles, sucking my focus away from the gnawing ache in my core and up into the beyond.
I want to sob. I want it to last forever, this slow, reverent worship, but the anticipation starts to fracture me, a fine trembling that builds until all I can do is clutch the sheets and try not to lose my mind.
Logan drags the flat of his tongue slowly up through my folds, lapping every drop, zig-zagging deliberately before he closes his lips around my clit and just..
. holds there. Sucks, lightly, and lets the vibration from his hum buzz through my bones.
Want becomes want-again, and I ride the wave of it, bucking into his thorough, measured ministrations, unable to be still.
Every time I get close—right at the edge—he backs off, switching to kisses, nuzzling the inside of my thigh, then returning with a new pattern.
He does it again until I can’t see straight.
Eventually the tremble becomes a quake, and my legs lock up around his head, and then I’m arching off the bed with a choked, wordless sob as the orgasm crashes through me, leveling everything in its path.
This one lingers—an aftershock that drags out into tiny convulsions, so intense I can barely breathe.
Logan doesn’t stop, just slows his tongue, holding me down through the shudder, gathering every last spasm and licking me clean.
When I finally collapse back to earth, he crawls up beside me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes bright with something between pride and adoration.
“You’re a monster,” I gasp, voice nothing but static.
He grins, wicked and blissed-out. “And you love it.”
“I do,” I admit, pulling him into a kiss, tasting myself on his lips.
He rolls us so I’m under him, his body heavy and perfect on top of mine. He doesn’t rush this time—not even close. Everything is slow, meticulous, as if he’s assembling a cathedral from our bodies alone.
He enters me with an exhale, slow and deliberate, never looking away from my face. I feel every millimeter, the stretch and burn somehow more intense when it’s this careful. His hand cradles my cheek, thumb brushing my jaw as he rocks into me with torturous patience.
It’s not animal—no slamming, no teeth—just a steady, powerful claiming, over and over until I can’t remember what it was like to be untouched.
He’s so big and I’m so full, so exquisitely stretched, I can’t do anything but wrap my legs around him and hold on for dear life.
“Not yet,” he murmurs when I start to shake. “Stay with me.”
“Logan—”
“I’ve got you. Just feel.”
I feel. I feel everything—the slide of his body against mine, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the way he fills me so completely there’s no room for anything else.
My mind goes quiet. No anxiety, no self-doubt, no running commentary about my thighs or my stomach or whether I’m doing this right. Just sensation. Just us.
“There you are,” he whispers, and I realize my eyes had drifted closed. I open them to find him watching me with an expression of such raw tenderness that it cracks something in my chest. “There’s my girl.”
“I’ve been your girl since you complimented my algorithm, and even after you blocked my kiss with your hand.” I laugh, a sound that turns into a moan as he shifts angles. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
He smiles—soft, private, just for me—and picks up the pace. Still gentle, but deeper now, hitting a spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
“I love you,” he says. “I love your brain and your laugh and the way you explain things with your hands. I love that you eat pizza crusts first and argue with podcasts out loud. I love that you came back from Sweden even though I gave you every reason not to.” He thrusts deeper, and I gasp.
“I love that you’re here. In my bed. In my life. I never thought I’d have this.”
“Logan—” I’m crying now, tears sliding down my temples into my hair. Not from sadness. From the overwhelming fullness of being seen. Being known. Being loved exactly as I am.
“Come for me,” he whispers. “One more time. Let me feel you.”
I shatter. Quietly this time, a gentle undoing rather than an explosion. He follows moments later, spilling into me with a groan, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling in the space between us.
For a long time, we just lie there. Still connected, still tangled together, the sweat cooling on our skin. His weight is comforting rather than crushing. I don’t want him to move.
Eventually, he does—rolling to the side, pulling me with him so my head rests on his chest. His heart beats steady under my ear. Strong and sure.
“Hey, Audrey?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t think I want to live here anymore.”
I lift my head to look at him. His expression is thoughtful, distant.
“Is that because we didn’t get to have sex in all the rooms?”
He laughs. “It would probably take a few days to literally do that. There are a lot of rooms.” His smile fades into something more serious. “But no. That’s not why.”
“Then why?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on my shoulder.
“This house belongs to my family. It’s been in the Whitman name for generations.
Every room has a memory attached to it—most of them not good.
” He exhales slowly. “I bought it because I thought I was supposed to. Because it was expected. Because owning the family home was supposed to mean something, prove something.”
“And now?”
“Now I realize I don’t have to prove anything to them—never really did.” He turns to look at me, and his eyes are soft in the moonlight. “So I want to start fresh. Somewhere that’s just ours. No history, no expectations, no ghosts. Just you and me, building something new, something that’s ours.”
My heart is doing something complicated in my chest. “Logan...”
“I know it’s a lot. I know we’ve only been together for a few months. And I’m not trying to pressure you into anything, I just—”
“Is this your way of asking me to move in with you?”
He stops. Blinks. “I... yes? I think so? I had a whole speech prepared, but I seem to have skipped to the end.”
“You had a speech?”
“I had bullet points. And a PowerPoint deck. Dominic said the PowerPoint was overkill, but I wanted to present the financial advantages clearly, along with a cost-benefit analysis of cohabitation versus maintaining separate residences, and a proposed timeline for—”
I kiss him. It’s the only way to stop the word avalanche.
When I pull back, he’s dazed. “Was that a yes?”
“That was a ‘shut up and let me answer.’” I sit up, looking down at him—this ridiculous, wonderful, utterly impossible man who built a chatbot just so he could practice talking to me, and made spreadsheets and PowerPoints and just asked me to move in with him using a cost-benefit analysis. “Yes, Logan. I’ll move in with you.”
“Really?”
“Really. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“We find a place together. Not your house, not my apartment. Somewhere new. Somewhere that feels like us from the beginning.”
His face transforms. That rare, unguarded smile breaking through like sunrise. “I would love that.”
“Good.” I settle back against his chest, grinning like an idiot. “You can show me the PowerPoint tomorrow.”
“It’s very comprehensive.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of researching available properties.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
His voice goes quiet, almost shy. “For being my home.”
The last word lands in my chest and stays there, warm and solid.
Home.
Not a house in Lincoln Park with three stories and manicured hedges. Not an apartment in Pilsen with creaky floors and noisy neighbors. Home is this—his heartbeat under my ear, his arms around me, the future stretching out ahead of us like an open road.
“You’re my home too,” I tell him. “You have been for a while now.”
“Since when?”
“Since you looked at me across the lab and I knew—I just knew—that you were going to matter.” I press a kiss to his chest. “I was right.”
“Your predictive accuracy is impressive.”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I close my eyes and let sleep pull me under.
For once, I’m not trying to figure anything out. Not running probability calculations on whether this will last, not building contingency plans for when it falls apart, not bracing for the moment he realizes I’m not worth the trouble.
I’m just... here. In his arms. In our future.
Turns out the one thing I couldn’t solve was myself. And the answer wasn’t solving at all—it was letting someone see me unsolved and staying, anyway.
No ghosts. No history. Just us.
I don’t need to understand why it works. I just need to let it.