Lila
Hampton, Virginia
“Who makes this big of a mess cooking?” I say to Logan, glancing around his kitchen. “It looks like a bomb went off in here.”
His house is a new build, all clean lines and industrial black finishes, the total opposite of my home.
His kitchen is huge, the high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows only make it feel bigger.
The cabinets are navy blue and the countertops, a clean white quartz complemented by a white-washed brick backsplash.
A large hammered copper farmhouse sink sits under a picture window overlooking his fenced backyard.
A matte black metal hanging pot rack is centered above the oversized wooden island adding warmth to the space.
I never really considered buying a new build, worried it’d be totally void of character, but either this builder knew what he was doing or Logan has incredible taste because it’s lacking nothing.
No corners were cut. It even has crown molding and beautiful trim around the doors and windows.
Logan laughs, dragging the back of his hand across his face and smearing flour along his cheek and jawline. It should look ridiculous. It doesn’t.
It’s annoyingly attractive.
“My grandmother’s from Italy. She taught me how to make pasta by hand and insisted the bigger the mess, the better the taste.” He shrugs, like that explains the state of the kitchen. “Besides, I cooked. And everyone knows the golden rule of dating, whoever doesn’t cook, cleans.”
He nods toward the war zone by the sink, then glances at the flour-dusted floor like he’s proud of it.
Maybe it’s his hair, messy from pushing it back with his wrist, his bare feet, or the confident way he owns the disaster he’s made without a hint of apology.
He’s focused, a little cocky, and completely in control aside from the flour on his face, and somehow that just makes it worse. Or better. I don’t know.
What I do know is that six years is a long time to go without touching someone you never really got over.
And watching him now—moving around like this is all normal, like he didn’t just create an entirely new fantasy for me, one scented with fresh herbs and Italian spices and buried in dishes—has me turning away from him and gripping the counter with both hands just to keep from making it real.
“Golden rule, huh?” I twist to face him, arching an eyebrow and trying hard not to smile.
He grabs a towel and tosses it over his shoulder like some smug domestic god, stirring the sauce like he doesn’t have a clue what he looks like right now.
Except he does.
He’s wearing athletic shorts that hit mid-thigh, leaving most of his muscular legs fully exposed.
His long-sleeve shirt stretches across his broad chest and arms, each move flexing his biceps beneath the fabric.
When he reaches for a pot hanging above the island, the hem of his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of sculpted abs.
He catches me staring.
And smirks.
Then, without a word, he peels off his shirt and tosses it to the floor like it’s nothing.
I swallow.
Because it suddenly feels very, very hot in this kitchen.
A single EKG line that he didn’t have in Vegas is drawn over his heart, sharp and black against his skin.
The dark lines of his other tattoos climb the ridges of his arm and cut across muscle onto his large chest. My gaze drags lower, to the deep ridges of his abdomen, to the V of muscle that disappears beneath the waistband of his shorts.
He’s somehow bigger than when we met, more muscle packed on with age and experience.
“Based on the look on your face,” he says, voice low and smug, “I’d say you like what you see.”
Desire punches through me.
He steps closer, closing the distance between us in one fluid move. Before I can breathe, he lifts me onto the island, stepping between my legs like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. His forehead rests against mine, his breathing as wrecked as my own.
“What are you waiting for?” I whisper, my voice ragged with need.
A slow smile curls across his lips and then he’s kissing me. Hard.
I gasp against his mouth and hook my legs around his waist, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us. His kiss deepens, all tongue and fire. The chaos around us vanishes, flour-covered floor, uncooked pasta, time itself. Gone.
His lips trail down my jaw, then along the curve of my neck.
Each kiss ignites something deep and molten in my core.
When his hands slide under the hem of my T-shirt, I arch into his touch, aching for more.
He pulls the shirt off slowly, careful not to catch my hair in the braid it’s falling out of anyway.
His gaze drops, taking me in, and something carnal flashes in his eyes.
I roll my hips over the hard length of him pressing between my legs, and a low, guttural sound escapes his throat.
I grab his hand, guiding it up my stomach, stopping just beneath the lace edge of my bra.
He doesn’t need more prompting.
“You’re perfect, Lila.” His voice is husky, reverent. Like I’m something holy.
And then his mouth is on mine again, his hand teasing the peaked nipple beneath the lace of my bra until I’m writhing beneath him, desperate and breathless.
“More. Please,” I whisper, not above begging.
He grinds against me with purpose, his hands firm on my waist. I bite his lip, chasing the friction, needing it like air.
When his hand trails down between my hips, teasing the waistband of my leggings, I whimper.
“Logan,” I whimper.
I press his palm against the heat between my thighs, gasping when his fingers flex instinctively. He kisses a path down my throat, his tongue warm and slow and possessive.
He gets my leggings off like he’s done it a hundred times before, smooth, sure, no hesitation. My thong is still in place, but barely.
He brushes his knuckles along the edge of the lace and goose bumps bloom across my skin as his mouth finds mine again. His hands grip my hips, dragging me closer until there’s nothing between us but heat.
I gasp. He swears softly and kisses me harder
And then—
His phone rings. Sharp. Jarring.
We both freeze.
“Shit.” Logan startles, his forehead dropping to mine. “I’m sorry. It could be work.”
He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t let me go. His thumb traces lazy circles along my bare hip as he reaches into the pocket of his shorts with his other hand, pulling out the phone and glancing at the screen.
“James,” he says, voice rough, raw, like his body hasn’t caught up to the interruption. He answers the call but doesn’t stop touching me. His mouth brushes my jaw, then lower, along my throat. He hums distractedly as the voice on the other end starts talking.
I can’t hear the words.
But I feel it.
The shift.
The way his hand stills on my skin. The slow straightening of his spine. That razor-sharp edge settling over him like armor being strapped into place.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
And I know.
“Yes, sir,” he says, his voice clipped. “I’ll be there in thirty.”
Ice spreads through my chest.
He ends the call. His jaw is tight, his eyes unreadable.
“We’re deploying.”
I shake my head, heart racing for a different reason now. “I don’t understand. That’s not new—”
“Wheels up in two hours.”