Loose grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, dangerous and tempting, and a black baseball cap sits backward on his head, messy black hair spilling out underneath.
His blue eyes—God, those eyes—are locked on me.
Watching. Waiting.
The corner of his mouth tilts into a slow, lazy smile that could level cities.
My heart stumbles, tripping over itself as my gaze sweeps down him in a helpless, greedy drag. I don’t even try to hide it. I can't.
And he knows it.
My cheeks burn, heat blooming under my skin, but I can’t tear my eyes away.
He’s pure temptation, standing there like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s savoring the way I’m falling apart just from looking at him.
A single, breathless word escapes me before I can catch it.
"Wow."
His smile deepens, the kind of slow, devastating grin that says he heard every unspoken thing buried inside that one tiny word.
"Come here," I whisper, the need curling inside me too much to contain.
Logan doesn’t move.
He just watches me with that maddening, smirking patience.
"Baby," he says, voice low, roughened by sleep and something darker, "you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now."
I sit up, sheets pooling around my waist, leaving me in nothing but the oversized T-shirt I slept in.
The shift of fabric draws his eyes like a magnet, his throat working as he drags his gaze slowly back up to mine.
"Maybe I do," I murmur, emboldened by the way his chest rises a little faster.
Maybe I want to.
A low sound rumbles from deep in his chest—something primal, something barely leashed.
In two strides, he’s at the edge of the bed, towering over me.
He reaches out, brushing his knuckles along my jaw, so light it feels like a ghost's touch.
My breath catches.
"You're dangerous, angel," he whispers, voice like a slow burn against my skin.
"And you're..." I trail off, fingers itching to grab him, to pull him closer, to feel him.
Logan leans down, so close his breath skims my lips, and my heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
"Say it," he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine, the intimacy of it wrecking me completely.
"Mine," I whisper, so quietly I don't even know if he hears it, but judging by the way his hand tangles in the hair at the nape of my neck, how his other arm cages me against the bed, he does.
He hovers there, our mouths a hair’s breadth apart, and the tension coils so tight it hurts.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
