Chapter 4
HANNAH
My body still trembles against the cool stone as Logan kisses his way back up from between my thighs. His stubble scrapes my sensitive skin, and I shiver despite the warm air.
My thoughts scatter, reduced to pure sensation.
Heat pools fresh between my legs, which should be impossible considering I just came hard enough to forget my own name.
But his hands are sliding up my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts, and apparently, I cannot trust my own body anymore.
Seems my mind is on vacation while my body certainly is not.
"Fuck me, Logan."
"With pleasure."
His cock presses hot and thick against my thigh, and I reach down to wrap my fingers around him. He's steel wrapped in silk, already slick at the tip. When I stroke him once, twice, his breath catches, and his hips jerk forward.
"Fuck, Hannah. I love your hands on me."
I guide him between my legs, and he slides inside me in one smooth thrust that makes us both groan. The sound bounces off the cave walls, multiplying around us. I'm already so wet from his mouth that he fills me completely, stretching me in the best possible way.
"God, you feel perfect," he says, pulling back and driving in again.
The rhythm we find is different from last night on the beach. Less desperate, more connected. We know each other's bodies now.
Logan braces one hand against the rock wall behind my head as he thrusts.
This is far from comfortable, but what the heck, I'll take it.
My skin feels electric, hypersensitive to the rough scrape of stone at my spine, but none of it matters compared to the thick, hot stretch of him filling me over and over. God, his cock.
"You're so wet for me, Hannah. So fucking desperate for my cock."
I won't even bother denying it. I want him. Want the way he makes me feel like my skin is too small to contain everything building inside me. My hands find the muscles of his shoulders, his back, his nape, and I rake my nails along his skin.
Every time my palms glide over him, his cock twitches inside me.
"Harder, Logan. I can take it."
Logan responds immediately, hips rutting against mine with enough force to push me up the rock. The rough stone scrapes my back, but I don't care. I arch into each thrust, chasing the pressure building low in my belly.
My inner walls clench around his cock, slick and swollen, every ridge and vein dragging against every inch of my depths.
"That's it," he says, voice strained. "Take what you need from me."
Heat builds between us. When he drapes my legs over his shoulders, allowing him to go deeper, I cry out, sounding almost like an animal.
I can hear how soaked I am, the obscene wet sounds of him pounding into me, and God, it only makes me wetter.
He thrusts in hard then pulls out completely. My pussy hangs wide open, wet, but empty. I crane my head up eyes wide wondering what happened. But he immediately plunges back in hard. Then repeats this again, and again. Each time he enters stars and white light flash across my innervision.
"Are you close, sweetheart?" His thumb finds my clit, and he teases it in tight strokes. "Come for me again, Hannah. I want to feel you fall apart around my cock."
Sparks of pleasure skitter down my legs, and I burst into a million pieces. Heat sweeps through me, radiating ecstasy outward.
Every single part of me tingles with bliss.
Logan follows seconds later, groaning into my neck as he thickens and pulses inside me, flooding me with thick ropes of his cum. I feel every spurt, every throb, my thighs tremble around him.
The cave suddenly feels intimate in a way it didn't before, like we've claimed it somehow. Like, it's home.
"We should probably head back before someone calls the cops after those sounds I made," I finally say, even though moving is the last thing I want to do.
He laughs, pulling back to look at me. "You're right. I promised you dinner, and I keep my promises."
Getting dressed is hilarious after the intensity of what just happened.
We untangle our clothes, hold the rock walls, and prop each other up while trying to fit our feet into uncooperative openings.
My clothes stick to damp skin, and let's just say, sand is everywhere.
Our fuzzy, dopamine-drenched brains don't help, either.
"Vespa's going to be interesting," he says, eyeing my still-unsteady legs.
"I'll manage."
The ride to his house passes in a comfortable haze.
My arms circle his waist, chest pressed to his back, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm not thinking about anything beyond this moment.
The wind whips my hair back, the ocean stretches endlessly beside us, and Logan's body is warm and solid between my thighs.
I could get used to this.
The thought appears before I can stop it, and I push it aside immediately. I'm on vacation. This is fun. That's all it needs to be.
His beach house sits back from the water but close enough that I can hear waves breaking against the shore. It's smaller than I expected—one story with a wide porch that wraps around the front, painted white with blue shutters that have actually seen weather.
"This is it," Logan says, cutting the engine. "Home, sweet home."
I follow him up the steps and through the front door, and stop short in the doorway. The inside is nothing like the bachelor pad I was expecting. The living room flows into the kitchen with no walls between them, and big windows let in late-afternoon light.
There's a surfboard propped against one wall, books scattered on a coffee table, a couch with pillows that look like they've been slept on.
"You want something to drink?" Logan asks, already moving toward the refrigerator.
"Water's good."
He hands me a glass and starts pulling things from the refrigerator—vegetables, herbs, something wrapped in butcher paper. "Hope you like fish. Caught it this morning before I picked you up."
"You fish, too?"
"Island life. You learn to do a little of everything. Plus, fresh is always better than whatever they ship in on the supply boat."
I perch on a stool at the counter and watch him work. He rinses the fish, pats it dry, and starts chopping vegetables.
"So what's the plan when your week is up?" he asks, not looking up from the cutting board. "Back to the fluorescent lights and spreadsheets?"
"That's the plan." The words taste bitter. I'm so not looking forward to going back. "Same job, same commute, same cubicle with the flickering overhead light that drives me slowly insane."
"Sounds awful."
"It is awful. But it's also steady and practical and all those things I'm supposed to want.
" I take a sip of water, watching him slide chopped onions into a hot pan.
They sizzle, filling the air with something that makes my mouth water.
"The thing is, I actually like numbers. I like the work itself.
It's everything else I hate—the office politics, the backstabbing, the way my boss treats me like I'm disposable. "
Logan looks up from the stove. "What would you do differently? If you could."
"I don't know. Work for myself, maybe? Pick my own clients, set my own hours." I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "Listen to me. Classic vacation syndrome—spend five minutes on an island and suddenly think I can change my whole life."
"Why is that classic? Maybe your life needs changing."
The simplicity of his response catches me off guard. No lecture about being practical or realistic. Just the suggestion that maybe, sometimes, vacation clarity is actual clarity.
"What about you?" I ask. "Running a bar on a tiny island—can't imagine that was the most stable career choice at the beginning."
"Probably not." He flips the fish, and it smells incredible.
"But it's not just my stability I'm thinking about.
Shore Thing employs twelve people year-round.
Eli's been with me for years. He gave up his mainland job to work for me.
Maria, in the kitchen, has three kids. Our security guy, Boris, sends money to his parents every month.
If I screw this up, it's not just me who pays for it. "
"That's a lot of responsibility."
"Yeah, it is." He plates the fish and adds roasted vegetables and garlic. "But, y'know, I'd rather carry that weight doing something I love, than spend forty years in a job that slowly kills me."
That hits closer to home than he probably realizes. I take the plate he hands me, and we move out to the porch where two chairs face the ocean. The sun is setting, painting the water gold and pink.
The last time I watched a sunset, it was reflecting off office building windows.
"This is incredible," I tell him after the first bite. The fish is perfectly cooked, flaky, and sweet, and the vegetables taste like they were grown in actual soil instead of a factory farm.
"Thanks. Cooking's one of those things you pick up when there aren't a lot of options, and fancy restaurants are a forty-minute boat ride away."
We eat and talk as the sky deepens from gold to orange to deep purple.
The conversation flows the way it has all day—easy, natural, punctuated by laughter.
He tells me about the time Eli got stung by a jellyfish.
I tell him about my coworker who steals lunches from the office refrigerator and labels them with other people's names.
So the next day, I added extra chili flakes to my dinner, knowing full well he couldn't handle his spice.
Safe to say, he had to take the afternoon off.
"You're funny," he says, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his stomach. "I bet you don't get to be funny at work."
"Funny doesn't exactly fit the corporate culture. Neither does happy, or creative, or human."
"That's exactly why I did everything I could to leave my old job. I just woke up one day and thought, I didn't want to do this for the rest of my life."
"Same. Every day, I stare at my bills and grocery list on the fridge for extra motivation. Nothing gets me out of bed faster than poverty and hunger."
He laughs, and the sound makes something warm unfurl in my chest. When was the last time someone really listened when I complained about work? Not just waiting for their turn to talk, but actually hearing me?
My grandparents, maybe, but they always looked forward to my monthly visits, so I didn't have the heart to make those hours about me anymore.
The plates sit empty between us, and neither of us moves to clear them. The ocean rolls in steady, hypnotic waves, and God, the air feels so nice and clean.
I don't want this to end.
The whole day, the way I feel in my own skin when I'm with him is a version of myself that I'd forgotten existed.
My pulse speeds up, but not in a good way. I'm supposed to be here for a week.
A fling, remember?
Fun, just fun, uncomplicated, and easy to walk away from. Just a recharge.
But sitting on his porch, eating food he cooked, talking about real things instead of just flirting—this doesn't feel like a fling. This feels like something I could get used to. Something I could want to keep.
And that terrifies me.
Because it's been two days. Two days! Normal people don't reorganize their entire lives based on a vacation romance with someone they've known for forty-eight hours.
Normal people have fun, take some pictures, and go home with good memories.
Even if a crush and some physical pleasure were part of the deal.
But maybe that's the problem. Maybe I don't want to be a normal person.
I shake my head, trying to clear the thought. This is vacation talking. Island magic. The combination of ocean air, good sex, and escape from real life. It's not sustainable. It's not real.
"You got quiet," he says, his voice soft in the growing darkness.
"Just thinking." I force a smile. "The fish was really good. Thank you."
He studies my face for a moment, but doesn't push. Instead, he stands and starts clearing the plates. "Stay tonight."
I can list at least five reasons why it's a bad idea. What staying means or doesn't mean. Normally, I would err on the side of caution, but not today.
"Yes."
Logan smiles, slow and warm. "I was hoping you'd say that."