Chapter 52 Logan #2
Something shifts in his expression—heat and hunger and barely restrained control.
He rinses us both off quickly, and then his hands are on my hips, spinning me to face the wall.
“Hands on the tile,” he says, voice rough.
I comply, heart racing, and he positions himself behind me, one hand sliding up my spine.
“Goddamn, Sloane,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along my shoulder. “So fucking perfect.”
His hand slides around to cup my breast while the other dips between my thighs.
I gasp at the first touch of his fingers, hips bucking back against him.
“That’s it,” Logan says, working me slowly. “Show me what you need.”
I’m already so turned on from his hands washing me that it doesn’t take long before I’m whimpering, grinding back against his hand, chasing the pleasure building low in my belly.
“Logan, please—”
“Please what?” His fingers circle my clit, but he doesn’t give me what I need.
“Make me come,” I gasp.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and then his fingers are exactly where I need them, working me with devastating precision.
I come with a cry, forehead pressed against the cool tile, and Logan holds me through it, murmuring praise against my neck.
Before I can catch my breath, he’s reaching for the detachable showerhead.
“Ever tried this?” he asks, eyes wicked.
I shake my head, still dazed.
“Want to?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
He adjusts the settings until the spray is focused, pulsing, and positions me against the wall again.
“Spread your legs,” he says.
I do, and then he brings the showerhead between my thighs, and the sensation is immediate and overwhelming.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, knees threatening to buckle.
Logan's arm wraps around my waist, holding me steady. “I’ve got you.”
The pulsing water hits exactly where I’m most sensitive, and combined with Logan’s hand on my breast, his mouth on my neck, his body solid behind me—it’s too much.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Let go for me again.”
I come harder this time, crying out, and Logan holds me through it, adjusting the angle of the spray to draw out every last shudder.
When he finally turns off the water and sets the showerhead aside, I’m boneless, barely able to stand.
“Bed,” he says. “Now.”
We stumble out of the shower, not bothering to dry off properly, water dripping on the floor as we make our way to my bedroom.
Logan backs me toward the bed, eyes never leaving mine.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this,” he says.
“About what?”
“About you,” he says, hands framing my face. “About us. About having you like this again, not because you’re trying to find something to make you forget for a minute, but because you want to be with me.”
My breath catches. “Logan—”
“I love you,” he says, and his voice cracks on the words. “I love you so fucking much.”
My eyes sting. “I know,” I whisper. “I love you too.”
He kisses me then—soft and deep and full of promise—and then he’s lowering me onto the bed, following me down.
He settles between my thighs, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, brushing hair back from my face.
“Not too bad yourself,” I whisper.
His mouth curves, and then he’s kissing me again—slower this time, like we have all the time in the world.
His hand slides down my body, between my legs, checking if I’m ready.
“Please,” I whisper. “I need you.”
“Condom?” he asks.
I shake my head, already knowing my answer. “No, I want to feel you. Just you. I’m on birth control.”
He positions himself at my entrance, eyes locked on mine, and then he’s pushing inside—slow and careful and so, so deep.
We both groan at the sensation.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to mine. “You feel incredible."
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Move,” I beg. “Please move.”
He does, setting a rhythm that’s perfect—deep and slow and deliberate.
Every thrust feels intentional. Meaningful.
Like he’s writing a promise into my skin with his body.
“I’m never leaving you,” Logan says, voice rough with emotion. “I don’t care what happens. I don’t care where football takes me. You’re my priority. You’re my person. You’re my end game.”
The words crack something open in my chest.
“End game,” I repeat, pulling him down for a kiss.
He kisses me back like I’m oxygen, and he’s been holding his breath for years.
His pace picks up, hips driving harder, and I meet him thrust for thrust, nails digging into his shoulders.
“God, you’re perfect,” he groans. “So perfect for me.”
The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
“Logan,” I gasp. “I’m close.”
“Let me feel you, baby.” His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit, and that’s all it takes.
I come with a cry, clenching around him.
“Holy shit,” I finally manage.
Logan lifts his head, eyes bright and satisfied. “Yeah?”
He flips us so I’m straddling him, hands finding a place on his chest for balance.
His mouth curves into a wolfish grin, hands gripping my hips. “Ride me. I want to watch you take what you need.”
I lift up slowly, and slide back down, feeling every inch. We both groan at the sensation.
“God, yes,” he breathes, eyes locked on mine. “Just like that, baby.”
I start to move, rolling my hips, finding a rhythm that makes us both gasp.
His hands slide from my hips to my waist to my breasts, touching everywhere he can reach, like he can’t get enough.
“Look at you. So strong. So perfect. So mine,” he says, voice awed.
The word sends a thrill through me.
Mine.
I am his. And he’s mine.
I pick up the pace, riding him harder, chasing the pleasure building in my core.
Logan’s hands grip my hips, helping me move, guiding me, and when his thumb finds my clit, I cry out.
“That’s it,” he urges. “Come with me, baby. One last time.”
I do, shuddering through my release, and the sight of me coming undone pushes Logan over the edge. He sits up, wrapping his arms around me, holding me close as he comes, my name a broken prayer on his lips.
We stay like that for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, hearts racing in sync.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too,” he says. “So fucking much.”
Logan pulls me against his chest, arm wrapped tight around me.
“Hey,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my hair.
“Hmm?”
“I meant what I said earlier. About you being my end game.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “I know.”
“Do you, though?” His eyes are serious now. “Because I need you to really hear this. You’re it for me, Sloane. I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know where I’ll end up. But I know that wherever I go, I want you with me.”
My throat tightens. “Even if Chicago still wants you next year?”
“Especially then,” he says firmly. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Maybe you come with me. Maybe we do long distance for a season while you finish up school. I don’t know. But I know that you’re worth figuring it out for.”
“Together,” I echo, and the word feels like a vow.
“Together,” he agrees.
We lie there in comfortable silence, and I trace patterns on his chest—over his heart, across the planes of muscle, following old scars.
And as I drift off to sleep, safe and loved and whole, I finally believe it.
We survived the worst weeks of our lives.
He loved me in my grief. Through my grief.
And now? Now we get to build something beautiful.
Together.