Chapter 52 Logan
LOGAN
Sloane rides home with me, deciding that we’ll come grab her car tomorrow. The second we’re in my truck, she’s…different.
Not soft, exactly—Sloane Rhodes isn’t built that way—but the sharp edge is gone. The anger has burned out and left something warmer behind it, like embers.
She shuts the door, exhales, and then turns her head toward me with a look that makes my stomach drop.
Not because she’s mad.
Because she’s amused.
“Stop staring,” she says.
I blink. “I wasn’t.”
She lifts one brow like she’s watching me lie and grading the effort. “You were. Like I’m gonna evaporate.”
My mouth opens. Closes.
Because yeah—kind of.
I start the engine and pull out of the lot, keeping my face neutral like I’m not internally combusting.
Sloane watches me for a few seconds, then makes a thoughtful little hum. The kind she does when she’s about to be a problem on purpose.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says sweetly.
That’s never true.
I’m halfway to the first stoplight when she unfastens her seatbelt.
My head jerks. “What are you doing?”
She shrugs like she’s adjusting a purse strap. “I’m uncomfortable.”
“In a moving vehicle.”
“Yes.”
“Sloane.”
She ignores me and scoots across the seat—casual as anything—until she’s in the middle, pressed closer. Her thigh brushes mine. Then her hand lands on my leg.
High. Warm. Heavy.
Right on my fucking thigh like she’s claiming real estate.
I inhale so sharply it’s embarrassing.
Her gaze flicks to my face, and the corner of her mouth turns up. “Hi.”
I grip the wheel tighter. “Hi.”
She’s looking at me like she’s proud of herself.
Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I swallow. “Seatbelt.”
She taps my thigh with her fingers like she’s soothing a nervous animal. “In a minute.”
I glance at her hand, then back at the road, then back at her hand like it might start a fire.
Sloane leans in a little, voice low and smug. “You’re tense.”
“That’s because you’re unbuckled.”
“That’s because you’re thinking too hard.”
I let out a breath through my nose, trying to regain any shred of control. “You can’t just—do this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m driving.”
Her smile widens, slow and wicked. “So drive.”
I make a sound that isn’t a laugh. Isn’t a groan. Isn’t anything useful.
And because my brain hates me, it supplies the exact memory of her hands on me the night before—her mouth, her voice, the way she looked when she decided she wanted something and didn’t apologize for it.
My grip shifts on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.
Sloane’s thumb rubs the tiniest circle into my thigh. Like she’s petting a storm.
I look straight ahead. I try to remember how stop signs work.
“You’re doing it again,” she murmurs.
“Doing what?”
“Staring.”
“I’m literally staring at the road.”
She hums like she’s unconvinced, then lifts her hand just enough to slide it higher—barely an inch—before settling it again.
My entire body goes rigid.
And she watches my reaction like she’s collecting data.
I drag in a breath. “You’re playing with fire.”
She tilts her head, eyes bright. “Maybe I like fire.”
I glance at her, just for a second, and immediately regret it.
Her face is closer than it should be, and her eyes flick down to my mouth like she’s remembering exactly what it feels like.
My pulse trips.
Sloane’s voice drops to a whisper. “Eyes on the road, Brooks.”
I choke on air. “They are.”
“Your eyes, yes,” she says, entirely too pleased with herself. “Your brain? Debatable.”
I laugh, short and helpless, because she’s not wrong. “My brain hasn’t been functional around you since high school.”
We hit a red light, and she turns fully toward me, still in the middle seat, still with her hand on my thigh like it belongs there.
Her expression softens for a heartbeat—just enough that I see the real thing under the teasing.
The girl who’s been surviving.
The girl who’s letting herself want.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, like it costs her something.
My chest tightens. “For what?”
“For…not making me feel stupid,” she says, and her fingers squeeze my thigh once. “Even when I act a little crazy.”
I shake my head, softer now. “You’re not crazy.”
Her mouth curves, but her eyes are serious. “I tracked your location.”
I smirk. “That’s not crazy. Plus, I’m the one who shared it with you in the first place. That’s…possessive.”
She snorts. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” I say, sending her a wink. “Gets me all kinds of hot and bothered.”
“Pretty sure that’s more so to do with my hand being close to your dick.” Then she leans in like she can’t help herself and presses her lips to my jaw, gently nipping me. She pulls back, satisfied. “So…about this make-up sex.”
I blink, stunned. “I wasn’t—”
Sloane’s responding smile is flat-out lethal. “Liar.”
The light turns green.
And I drive home with her hand still burning through my jeans, knowing that I’d give this girl anything in the world if I could.
—
Sloane
We make it back to the house without any issues, Logan seeming to at least have a little focus on the road.
Once we pull into my driveway, the mood sombers just a little bit. We grab our stuff and head toward the house, Logan grabbing my hand right as we make it to the door.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “Better than okay.”
His eyes search mine, looking for cracks, for grief, for the girl who spent months barely holding herself together.
But that girl is still here—she’ll always be here—she’s just not drowning anymore.
“I need to shower,” Logan says, mouth twitching, as we walk inside. “We were in the gym for two hours, and I was interrupted before we hit the showers.”
I look at him—really look at him. The tight shirt stretched across his chest. The flush still on his cheeks. The way his eyes darken when I don’t immediately respond.
“Want company?” I ask, dropping my bag next to the couch and kicking off my shoes.
His breath catches. “You sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Logan’s eyes go dark, his shoes are tossed to the side, his bag falls with a loud thunk, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is slow and deep and full of everything we’ve been through—grief and healing and love and hope.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Shower,” Logan says, voice rough. “Now.”
I take his hand and lead him down the hall, heart pounding.
In the bathroom, I turn on the shower while Logan strips off his shirt, and I try not to stare at the expanse of his chest, the cut of his abs, the way his muscles shift.
“See something you like?” he asks, catching me looking.
“Always.”
His eyes flare, and then he’s on me, hands pulling my hoodie and sports bra over my head, mouth finding mine again.
We shed the rest of our clothes quickly, desperate to feel skin on skin, and then we’re under the spray together.
The water is hot, steam filling the small space, and the second we step under it, Logan pulls me flush against him.
I shiver despite the heat—not from cold, but from the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m everything he's ever wanted.
“Hi,” he murmurs, one hand cupping my jaw.
“Hi,” I breathe.
His other hand slides down my back, over the curve of my hip, fingers splaying possessively. “God, I love you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper.
He kisses me again—slower this time, deeper—and I lose myself in it. In him. In the way his hands map every inch of me like he’s memorizing the topography of my body.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both panting.
“Let me take care of you,” he says, reaching for the body wash.
He works the soap between his palms, the scent of my coconut body wash filling the steam-thick air, and then his hands are on me.
He starts at my shoulders, fingers kneading the tension I didn’t realize I was still carrying. The game. The season. The year. All of it held in the knots of my muscles.
His hands slide down my arms, soaping every inch, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrists.
When his hands move to my collarbones, tracing them with reverent fingertips, I shiver.
“Cold?” he asks, mouth curving.
“Not even a little,” I breathe.
His hands continue their path—over the swell of my breasts, cupping them gently, thumbs brushing over my nipples in a way that makes my breath catch.
“Logan—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, lowering his head to press kisses along my neck. “Let me worship you. You deserve to be worshipped.”
His soapy hands slide down my ribs, counting each one like they matter, then over my stomach, tracing the lines of muscle I’ve built from years of training.
When his hands reach my hips, he grips them firmly, pulling me closer, and I can feel exactly how affected he is.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice wrecked. “Every single part of you.”
His hands continue lower, down my thighs, behind my knees, even my ankles—like no part of me is unworthy of his attention.
When he rises back up, his hands slide up the backs of my thighs, over the curve of my ass, squeezing gently, and I gasp.
“Your turn,” I manage, voice shaky.
I take the body wash from him, working it between my palms, and then it’s my turn to explore.
I start at his chest, hands splaying wide over the hard planes of muscle. I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palm.
I take my time, soaping every inch of his torso—the ridges of his abs, the V-lines that point downward, the trail of hair below his navel.
When my hands slide lower, wrapping around his length, he groans, head falling back against the tile.
“Fuck, Sloane—”
I stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, the way he pulses in my hand, the way his breath stutters when I twist my wrist just right.
“You’re going to kill me,” he grits out.
“Good,” I whisper, and his eyes snap to mine—dark and wild and barely controlled.
His hand catches my wrist, stilling my movements. “Not yet,” he says, voice strained. “Not like this. I need to be inside you when I come.”
“Maybe I want it to start right here,” I whisper.