Logan
Hampton, Virginia
I’m unraveling, and I know it.
I’ve never lost control like this. Not in the cockpit. Not in a fight. Not even after Reaper went down.
But now? Now, I’ve ripped open wounds I swore I’d keep stitched shut and I can’t stop the bleeding.
One minute, it was contained—shoved into the box in the back of my mind, the one I know is there but never touch.
The one filled with things I don’t let myself feel.
Lincoln. Ryan. My own fucking failures. The next minute, the words were out.
And now they’re hanging between us like an execution order.
I look at Lila, and her silence rips through me worse than her tears. I don’t deserve her heartbreak. I don’t deserve her softness. And yet, she’s still here, still looking at me like I’m something worth saving.
And that’s when I lose it.
I push to my feet before she can touch me.
“I can’t do this,” I bite out, my voice fraying at the edges.
My fingers rake through my hair, hard and sharp, like I need the sting.
I pace, tight and restless, like a storm trapped inside my skin.
“I can’t stand here and let you—” My voice cracks.
I grind my teeth against the burn in my throat.
“Let you look at me like that. Like I’m still worth anything. ”
“You are,” she whispers.
And it fucking kills me.
I spin around and close the space between us in a heartbeat—too fast, too desperate. Her scent—vanilla and something softer, sweeter—hits me. Like I’m coming home to a place I’ve never deserved.
“Don’t,” I snap, the word rough and broken. “Don’t try to fix me, Lila. You can’t fix this.”
Her chin lifts, defiant, fierce. “I’m not trying to fix you, Logan. I’m trying to love you.”
Those words crack me wide open.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve got one arm locked around her waist, pulling her to me with a force that borders on reckless.
She gasps, and it’s not fear, it’s need.
A mirror of the chaos tearing through me.
I crush my mouth to hers like I’m trying to drown in her, trying to erase everything else with the feel of her lips, the taste of her tongue.
She doesn’t flinch. She gives back exactly what I need. Fire for fire.
We stumble, her back slamming into the wall, my good hand braced beside her head, the other one useless in its sling. Her breath hitches, her body trembling under my touch, but she doesn’t pull away. She clings to me, even as I come undone.
I drag my hand down her body, desperate to memorize every inch. To feel something other than grief. Other than loss. I curse the sling, the stitches, the pain that dulls everything except this, except her.
Right now, she’s the only thing keeping me from slipping off the edge.
She tilts her head back, lips swollen and parted, eyes locked on mine.
“Logan,” she whispers, voice shaking. “I’m here. It’s okay.”
Her words break me.
My forehead falls against hers as I pull her closer. “I don’t deserve you,” I rasp.
She cups the back of my neck, her thumb stroking my skin. “Just let me be here for you. Please.”
Her lips find mine again, slower this time. Softer. She takes and gives all at once, and I let her. I let her tether me back to this moment, piece by piece.
I hook my arm beneath her thighs and lift her.
Her legs wrap around my waist, her fingers dragging at the buttons of my jacket, then my shirt.
Her hands glide over my chest, across the tight muscles of my stomach, and I lower her back to the floor, just long enough to brush my lips along the shell of her ear.
“Your arm,” she breathes, her fingers brushing the sling.
“It’s fine.” It’s not. But I don’t care. I unclasp the strap with my teeth gritted, hissing as I ease my arm free and let the sling drop to the hardwood. The pain is sharp, blinding for a second. I attempt to shrug out of my jacket, but the shirt is tighter, rigid against the dressing.
“Will you help me?” I ask, voice low.
She nods without hesitation. “Of course.”
She moves behind me, sliding the jacket down carefully, then works the shirt loose, pausing when I wince. “Sorry,” she whispers, guilt laced in her voice.
“Don’t be,” I grunt, breathing through it.
She drapes both over the couch, and when I turn back, she gives me a small, quiet smile before pivoting, her back to me. “Will you unzip me, please?”
I lean in, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck, lingering there before dragging the zipper down the curve of her spine. Her skin is warm, silky beneath my mouth, and I take my time on every inch I uncover.
She turns, dress slipping off her shoulders, down her arms, pooling at her feet. Delicate black lace clings to her curves. She watches me, then slowly pulls the pins from her hair, letting it tumble around her face and down her toned back.
Then she spins, slowly, deliberately, the edge of her smirk challenging me.
I’m undone.
She kneels, her hands going to my belt, my zipper. Her touch is featherlight but scorching. I breathe her name like a prayer, like a warning.
And then she reaches for me.
I stop her.
“No.” My voice is hoarse, nearly shaking. I haul her to her feet, my hand curling around her hip.
She studies me, searching. Then she nods, saying nothing, just taking my hand and guiding me down the hall.
I follow without hesitation.
She walks ahead, and every sway of her hips is a slow kind of torture. My heart’s hammering, every breath ragged. “You’re absolutely incredible,” I say, before I can stop myself.
She spins, grabbing my face and kissing me like she needs me to feel it. I don’t even register falling onto the bed until she’s climbing over me, straddling me, her body warm and demanding against mine.
My hand finds her back, roaming, memorizing. I reach for the clasp of her bra, fumbling with one hand, my jaw tight with frustration.
She notices. Of course she does.
She takes my hand in hers, presses a kiss to my knuckles, and whispers, “Let me.”
She unhooks the bra and lets it fall. I prop myself up on my good arm, dragging her against me. Our mouths meet, slow and deep and consuming.
I kiss my way down her neck, her breath catching the second my teeth graze her collarbone.
“I need you on your back. Now.”
She smirks, wicked and beautiful. “So how does this work?” she teases, motioning to my shoulder.
“I’m still figuring that out.”
She laughs softly, and it cracks something open in me again because even now, she’s giving me light. “We could stand.”
“Standing works.” I get to my feet and pull her with me.
We kiss, tangled and urgent, and I walk her backward until she hits the wall.
I thread our fingers together, bracing them just above her head.
My injured arm snakes around her waist, moving slow but determined.
I find the lace between her thighs, and the second I feel how wet she is, everything inside me burns.
I slide one finger inside her. Then two. Her breath shudders. Her body arches.
“Logan, that feels amazing. Please…don’t stop.”
I don’t. I couldn’t if I tried.
I lower my mouth to her breast, sucking one peak into my mouth, rolling my tongue over it, tasting her skin. I drop kisses lower, across her ribs, down her stomach, and sink to my knees.
The thong comes off with one slow tug.
Then my mouth replaces my fingers.
And for the first time since Ryan died—hell, maybe longer—I forget everything but her.