If he wants to play dirty, I can too.
Slipping out of bed, I pad across the floor, feeling the cool air kiss my bare legs.
All I’m wearing is an old oversized t-shirt—soft and worn and hanging dangerously low—and nothing else.
Nothing.
Every step down the stairs, my heart beats faster, anticipation buzzing through me like electricity.
I spot him in the kitchen, his back to me, head bent over the stove.
He’s flipping pancakes, humming something under his breath, shirtless, that damn backwards cap still perched on his dark hair.
The muscles of his back flex with every little move and my mouth goes dry.
Without a sound, I slip into the living room, sitting down on the coffee table directly in front of the couch, facing him.
I stretch one leg out, the hem of the t-shirt sliding dangerously up my thigh, and lean back on my hands, letting my head tip to the side, watching him.
Waiting.
It doesn’t take long.
He turns, plate in hand, and freezes the second he sees me.
His eyes roam over me like I’m the encore he’s been waiting for—worshipped with every breath, devoured with every thought.
Slowly, he sets the plate down.
"Baby," he rasps, his voice wrecked.
"You're killing me."
I smile, slow and sweet, innocence dripping off me even as my heart pounds like a war drum.
"You said to bring my blush with me," I murmur, tracing one hand lazily up my bare thigh.
"Thought I’d bring a little more."
He groans, low and rough, running a hand over his face like it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to lose it right there.
"You keep lookin' like that," he warns, stalking toward me with deadly intent,
"and breakfast’s not gonna be the first thing I’m tastin’ this morning."
Logan’s steps are slow, deliberate and predatory, each one sending a shiver straight down my spine.
His gaze never leaves mine, all heavy heat and wicked promises.
By the time he stops in front of me, my chest is heaving, the thin cotton of the t-shirt doing nothing to hide the way my body’s reacting to him.
He leans down, palms braced on either side of me on the coffee table, caging me in without touching.
I can feel the raw heat pouring off his skin.
Smell the faint trace of his soap and sweat and the scent that’s just him—all wild and warm and devastating.
"You know what you’re doing, don’t you?"
