Lila
Hampton, Virginia
Logan’s tongue has me teetering on the edge of oblivion.
The scrape of his stubble is the perfect contrast, just enough friction to make my nerves spark, to push me closer to a release I can almost taste.
He keeps changing his rhythm, just enough to drive me wild, teasing me with the promise of an orgasm he refuses to let me claim.
“Stop fighting it and come for me, sweetheart.” His voice is rough and commanding, spoken against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh like a spell.
My legs quake, and then I’m gone.
Undone.
The orgasm crashes over me in waves. My body shudders with the force of it, a cry tearing from my throat as his fingers take over, dragging the pleasure out until I’m trembling under his touch.
“That’s one,” he murmurs, rising to his full height with a cocky smirk and that unmistakable gleam in his eyes.
For a heartbeat, he looks like my Logan.
The one I remembered. The one I dreamed about. The one I never stopped wanting.
“I plan on repeating that at least a few more times tonight.”
“My turn.” I say it softly, but there’s heat behind the words as I run my fingertips across the hard lines of his chest, each ridge a testament to the strength beneath my hands. His breathing is steady but shallow, the rise and fall betraying the tension humming under his skin.
My mouth follows the trail my fingers took, kissing over heated skin, savoring him. He exhales slowly, the sound full of restraint, his hands clenching on my waist, but he doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t guide me. He just waits, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the universe that matters.
I’ve imagined this moment so many times—fantasized about tasting him, touching him, seeing him come apart beneath me—but none of those daydreams come close to this.
I follow the path of the deep V disappearing beneath his boxer briefs. My fingers slip beneath the waistband, and I slowly drag them down, revealing inch by inch of the man who’s haunted my memories for six long years. When I see him fully, my breath catches.
I have to consciously stop myself from staring. From gaping. From climbing on top of him immediately. The sheer size of him sends a rush of heat through my body, settling low in my core, pulsing with need.
My hands move back up, stroking over taut thighs and firm hips. When our eyes meet, I swear the world falls away. His gaze is dark, ravenous, and locked on me like I’m something precious he’s afraid to break but desperate to devour. That look sends a shiver down my spine.
I press my palms to his chest and push him back onto the bed, taking control—not just because I want to, but because I need to remind him he’s here. With me. Not trapped in the past.
A slow, knowing smirk curves his mouth.
He opens it, probably about to say something cocky.
I don’t let him.
I climb over him, straddling his hips, my skin flush against his.
The heat between us is molten, the air so thick it practically crackles.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I lean down, brushing a kiss over the tattoo that stretches across the sculpted muscle of his shoulder—an F-15 in perfect detail, inked in shades of shadow and smoke.
“I’ve thought about this since Vegas,” I whisper.
Logan’s eyes flicker, the pain in them momentarily replaced by something teasing. “My tattoos?”
“Tracing them.” My voice is a breath against his skin as my fingers follow the lines of the jet, wings wrapped around his bicep, its tail slicing down his forearm.
A missile cuts across his arm in a stream of smoke that intercepts a shattered sword.
And tucked within the swirling linework, so small it’s almost invisible, are the words Semper Donatus.
The weight of it sinks into me before he even speaks.
My hand shifts to his chest, fingers brushing the EKG line etched over his heart. His pulse hammers beneath it, wild and unsteady.
“Tell me about them,” I murmur, rocking my hips against him slowly, grounding him to this moment, to me.
He stiffens, just for a second. Then he points to the Latin script. “Semper Donatus,” he says, voice hoarse. “It means always given.” He swallows hard. “The sword’s broken because of what’s left behind. The part of me that’s still standing after…”
A breath. A name, barely audible.
“Reaper.”
The ache in my chest tightens. His pain is a living thing, clinging to him. “I can’t let go,” he whispers. “So I carry him with me. In pieces.”
His mind is slipping. I see it in his eyes—the way they drift, the way the air is charged with memory.
But I don’t let him go.
I press a kiss to his throat, his jaw, his lips, soft at first, then deeper, more demanding. “Come back to me.”
I guide his hand to my breast, needing him to feel me, to be here. His fingers pinch and tease my nipple, and my breath hitches, pleasure coiling low again.
Then I slide down between his legs, gathering my hair over one shoulder.
He hesitates, like he’s about to stop me, but he doesn’t.
The moment my tongue touches him, he gasps, his control faltering. I only get a few strokes in before he growls, low and guttural, and pulls me back up, dragging me over his body with urgency.
“I need you,” he rasps against my mouth.
In that moment, those three words are everything. More powerful than a confession. More vulnerable than love.
I kiss him fiercely, then whisper against his lips, “I’m yours.”
He stills. The words settle into him like a vow.
I reach for the drawer, pull out a condom, and roll it on with maddening slowness. He groans through gritted teeth, his hands gripping the sheets like if he touches me, he’ll lose it. I straddle him again, hovering just above, teasing, testing how much longer he can hold out.
“You’re right,” he hisses. “You’re mine.”
Time fractures.
He thrusts into me with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs. Every movement is rough, desperate, devastating. His hand grips my hip like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, like he’s trying to ground himself in my body.
I lightly kiss the bandage on his shoulder. His throat. His mouth. Then pull back to look at him.
His storm-gray eyes are open wide, and for a fleeting second, I see everything.
Love. Hate. Pain. Pleasure. Guilt. Joy. Fear.
So much fear.
And it destroys me.
Because even as he’s inside me—claiming me, consuming me—he’s still somewhere else. Still haunted by what he’s lost. Still convinced he doesn’t deserve what he’s holding.
His moan rips through me. I feel his fingers between us, coaxing me closer, and then I fall, shattered and whole all at once.
One last thrust, and he follows me into the dark, our mouths clashing as we fall over the edge together.
For a heartbeat, the world disappears.
There’s only us.
I hold him like it’s the last time I’ll ever get to.
But it isn’t.
He’s mine two more times, each time more desperate, more consuming, until our bodies collapse, tangled and exhausted, the weight of everything we can’t say still lingering in the quiet.
***
The first rays of sunlight filter through the blinds, painting streaks of gold across the room. I stir, reaching out instinctively, but my hand meets cool sheets.
My heart stutters.
I sit up, clutching the sheet around me.
Logan’s by the door, attention fixed on the impossible task of getting dressed without using his injured arm.
His service dress shirt hangs unbuttoned, the fabric gaping to reveal hard planes of chest and the ridges of his abs.
The coat dangles from his good arm, the other sleeve useless, and the weight of his duffel drags one shoulder down.
He’s not looking at me.
“You’re leaving,” I say, my voice raw and cracking with sleep. It’s not a question.
His shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t turn around. “Yeah. We’re spinning up in a couple hours.”
I scramble out of bed, grabbing my discarded sweatshirt from the floor and pulling it over my head. It hangs down to mid-thigh and has temporarily become the armor I’m wearing into this battle. “So that’s it? You weren’t even going to wake me?”
“I didn’t want to make this harder than it needs to be,” he says, finally turning toward me.
His face is a mask, icy and detached.
The one he wears in the cockpit.
A Viking.
But his eyes betray him. They’re dark and haunted, swirling with something I can’t quite reach.
“Harder for who? For you?” I snap, stepping closer. My heart is pounding, but I don’t care if he sees the hurt in my eyes. “Because it’s already hard as hell for me, Logan. Watching you shut me out. Watching you self-destruct.”
“I told you, Lila. I’m not the man you think I am,” he says, his voice sharp and biting. “Last night should never have happened. It was a mistake.” He leaves my room, heading toward the front door.
The words hit me like a slap. My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, I can’t speak. Then I rush after him. “A mistake?” I echo, barely above a whisper.
He stops in the hallway, turning toward me, but avoids my eyes, his jaw clenched tight. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have stayed. I shouldn’t have—” He stops himself, his right hand is a fist clenched at his side. “I shouldn’t have let myself use you.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say, my voice trembling with anger. I step closer, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t you dare stand there and act like last night didn’t mean anything.”
“It didn’t,” he snaps, his voice rising. “It was just sex, Lila. Just a way to forget, to feel something other than this—” he claws at his chest— “fucking pit inside me.”
I recoil like he’s slapped me. “You’re lying,” I whisper. “I know you, Logan. I know you wouldn’t say that unless—”
“Unless what?” he interrupts, his eyes flashing. “Unless I’m broken? Guess what, Lila. I’m fucking broken. I’m not your hero. I’m not going to sweep you off your feet and make everything better. I’m a damn mess, and you deserve better than this. Better than me.”
“Stop it,” I plead, tears welling up in my eyes. “Stop trying to push me away because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m fucking lethal, Lila. You don’t want me. I ruin everything I touch, and I’m not going to ruin you.”
“You don’t get to make that choice for me!” I shout, the tears spilling over now. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle, or what I want. I chose you, Logan. I chose us.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have,” he says, his voice cold and final. “Because I can’t give you what you want and I sure as hell can’t be what you need.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. I stand there, trembling, as he struggles to tighten his sling, his pain evident in how he moves. His face is hard, unreadable, but his eyes, his eyes, are screaming everything he won’t say.
“You deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved,” he says quietly, his voice cracking just slightly. “Who can actually say the damn words aloud. And that isn’t me.”
“Logan, you do love me—”
He laughs bitterly. “I don’t though. Don’t you get it? I don’t love you.”
I wince.
His eyes betray him. The splintered sorrow streaking across his face. “Goodbye, Lila.” His voice breaks on my name, but he doesn’t look back. He adjusts the strap of his duffle bag on his uninjured shoulder, turns, and walks out the door, leaving me standing there. Shattered.