Lila
Stuart, Florida
Logan walks out of the bathroom in nothing but joggers hanging low on his hips.
His shoulders are broad, impossibly strong, the kind you feel safe under without even thinking about it.
His chest is defined, firm and solid, tapering into a set of abs that look like they belong on some fitness magazine cover.
His arms are something else entirely, corded with lean muscle, the kind of strength that speaks of control and precision.
Years of gripping controls, flying at impossible speeds, and training until exhaustion have etched every detail into them.
I swallow hard as I take it in. The detail and positioning make it seem like a part of him, an indelible tribute accentuated by the way his body moves.
It’s like Logan has captured the very essence of the loss, of Ryan’s absence, on his skin.
It’s so beautiful, yet so heartbreaking.
He’s not just carrying the weight of Ryan’s death in his heart. He’s shouldering his loss. Forever.
“It’s new,” he says hoarsely, rotating so his back is toward me. “We all got it. Dalton. Townsend. Me. It’ll always be us four even when it’s not.”
I nod. Gently tracing the ink with my fingers. I graze the raised red lines of his scar.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Yes,” he whispers. “But not like it did.”
I don’t know if he means the wound or the memory, and maybe that’s the point.
He turns slowly, eyes catching on mine before dropping lower. His whole body stills as he takes me in.
For a second, he just stares, like he’s not sure I’m real.
Then that smile I’ve been imagining for days begins to spread across his face.
Slow. Deliberate. Devastating.
His jaw pulses, his expression shifting from awe to something darker and hungrier. Logan’s voice is rough when he finally speaks. “Holy shit, Lila.”
Heat blooms across my skin as I step closer. The air between us is charged.
I’m wearing a black lace bodysuit. It’s completely sheer, every inch hugging me like it was made for this moment. The neckline dips into a deep, daring sweetheart, held in place by delicate silk ribbons tied at the nape of my neck. I bought it for tonight. For him. For this.
“I hoped you’d like it.” My voice is soft, teasing. “The back’s even better.”
I spin around, letting the lace and low scoop of the lingerie reveal the arch of my spine and curve of my hips, where the lace gives way to the delicate line of the thong.
Behind me, I hear the sharp inhale of his breath.
When I face him again, I close the remaining space between us until we’re just inches apart. I drag my fingers down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under my touch. My hand pauses at the waistband of his pants.
“I’m hoping you don’t already have plans for tonight…” I lift my eyes to his. “Because I do.”
Logan’s lips are a breath from mine, his voice low and full of promise. “Yeah? What kind of plans?”
I don’t answer.
I kiss him instead. Stealing his breath, and giving him mine. Our mouths move together like we’ve done this a thousand times and still can’t get enough. Logan groans softly, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in until I’m pressed against every hard inch of him.
He walks us backward until the back of his knees hit the bed, and when I give a gentle push, he falls onto it with a grin that’s nothing short of wicked.
I pause at the edge of the mattress, sliding my fingers through my hair, pushing it back so he can see all of me. Then I climb over him, straddling his waist, the sheer lace catching in the light as I settle into place.
His hands land possessively on my hips. I arch my back and tilt my head, letting him drink in the sight of me.
Logan’s gaze burns into mine. His voice is rough with need. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
I smile, tracing the tattoo on his heart. “This is the only one you haven’t told me about,” I say, my voice raspy.
Logan runs his hand over the tattoo, his fingers brushing the ink lightly, like he’s remembering something. His gray-blue eyes flick to mine, hesitant but steady, and then he looks away, exhaling hard through his nose.
“I got this after my first mission flying an F-22,” he says, his voice lower than usual, almost rough.
“It was…intense. I was flying over hostile territory, running recon, and things went south fast. Took some fire. I managed to evade it, but it was close, too close. Like, you-don’t-make-it-home close. ”
He pauses, jaw tightening as his gaze drifts somewhere past me, into a memory. I don’t say anything, just let him take his time.
“When I landed, I was rattled. More than rattled, I couldn’t shake it.
I’d been trained for this, you know? To handle the risks, the pressure.
But that mission…it hit different. For the first time, I felt how thin the line is between living and not.
” His voice is low and husky and I’m not sure if it is from the memory or my current position centered on the hardened length of him.
He swallows and taps his chest, right where the ink is.
“The next morning, I went to the infirmary, just to make sure I was good—physically, I mean. The medic hooked me up to an EKG machine to check my heart. I sat there, watching the lines spike and dip on the monitor. And I realized, that’s it.
That’s life, right there. And as long as that line keeps moving, I’m still here. ”
His voice falters, just a little, before he steadies it.
“That moment stuck with me. When I got home, I got it tattooed. It wasn’t just about surviving that one mission—it was about surviving everything.
Every chance I took when I climbed into that cockpit.
Every choice I made to push through the fear.
Every time I made it home when someone I love didn't.”
His eyes meet mine again, and this time, they’re softer.
“But it’s not just about me anymore. Over the years, it’s come to represent…
all of it. The friends I’ve lost, the people who didn’t make it back.
Reaper. Ryan.” His voice catches on their names, but he powers through.
“It’s a reminder that I have to keep going. Keep flying. Keep living, for them.”
I reach out instinctively, covering his hand with mine on top of his heart. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he locks our fingers together and lets out a shaky breath.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, and I mean it. It’s raw, it’s painful, but it’s Logan. My eyes lock with his and I can’t help but smile despite the heavy topic. He smiles back. An unguarded, real smile that I’m starting to think I’ve never truly seen.
I love this man.
Loving him has nothing to do with the sharp cut of his jaw or the way his eyes burn like storm-lit skies when he looks at me.
It’s not about the way his voice settles deep in my chest or how his touch can unravel me with the slightest graze of his fingers.
Those things—his looks, his presence, the effortless way he carries himself—they caught my attention, but they aren’t what hold my heart.
I love Logan because of the weight he carries and the way he refuses to let it break him.
Because even with the phantoms that shadow his steps, he still moves forward.
I love him for his loyalty, fierce and unwavering, for the way he would lay down his life for the people he loves without a second thought.
I love him for his steady resilience, for the way he fights battles no one sees, for the fact that despite all the loss, all the pain, he still dares to love.
He wipes away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen, his thumb gentle against my skin.
Then his hand drifts lower—slow, purposeful—trailing down my sternum until he cups my breasts through the lace.
His thumbs brush over my nipples, teasing them until they harden beneath the delicate fabric, and then he pinches, just enough to make me gasp.
The ache that follows is sharp and electric, a need that coils tight and low in my stomach.
I lean down and kiss him, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of want into it. He responds immediately, lips urgent, matching the rhythm of my breath.
He shifts under me, keeping our mouths connected as he rolls me to the side, then guides me gently onto my back.
His body follows, hovering over me, one arm propping him up while the other traces the edge of the lace stretched across my skin.
His fingers toy with the fabric at my ribs, the slope of my waist, the hollow just below my breast.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he murmurs, brushing his lips down my jaw, over my throat. “You have no idea.”
I reach up and run my fingers through his hair. “Then show me.”
That’s all it takes.
He dips his head and sucks a nipple through the lace, slow and deliberate, his tongue tracing lazy circles before biting down gently. My back arches, a moan slipping from my lips.
His lips leave a trail down my stomach as he hooks a finger beneath the bodysuit. His eyes flick up to mine, checking always checking—and I nod, barely breathing.
The fabric slips away inch by inch to give him access. He moves with veneration, like I’m something he doesn’t want to rush.
And then his mouth is on my thigh, kissing the sensitive skin there, working his way higher until I forget how to think.
“Logan—”
“I know,” he whispers, voice rough. “I’ve got you.”
And when his mouth finally finds me, when his tongue slides over that aching, desperate part of me, I know he means it.
He’s not just touching me.
He’s claiming me.