I grin, already pushing open the door. “I expect you to follow me, rockstar.”
He does.
The air shifts around us as we step inside. The floorboards creak in welcome.
I flick the lamp on. Warm yellow light spills across the old couch, the coffee table still littered with old mail.
“Want something to drink?” I ask, even though I don’t really want to be apart from him long enough to pour a glass of anything.
“Only if it’s your lips,” he says under his breath, making me turn with a laugh and a warning look that’s not really a warning.
But before I can say anything clever, he’s right there, stepping into my space again, brushing my hair back behind my ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he says softly. “And I’m not rushing it. Not tonight.”
God, and he says I’m dangerous.
The air between us hums—alive, heavy with something old and aching. It crackles like lightning caught in a jar, a pull so fierce it drags the breath from my lungs. Logan stares at me like I’m a wish he never dared to say out loud. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back, fighting a storm inside his chest.
But I don’t want restraint. Not with him. Not now.
“I missed you,” I whisper, even though the words feel too small.
His voice is low, rough. “I never stopped.”
I don’t even hear him move.
One second, I’m catching my breath in the charged silence between us, and the next—Logan’s hand is on my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing. He sets me down on the kitchen counter, the cool surface kissing the back of my thighs. My heart thunders, loud and uneven, and my pulse skitters as he steps between my legs, caging me in with his arms on either side.
His eyes, dark and liquid fire, drag across my face like he’s memorizing every flicker of need, every shift in my breathing.
Then that voice—low and velvet-wrapped sin—slips through his lips and straight into my bloodstream.
“I don’t think you’re ready for me, baby…”
The words steal every ounce of oxygen from my lungs.
He leans in, nose brushing the curve of my jaw, his breath warm against my skin. “I don’t think I can touch you until I have you begging me.”
My thighs squeeze against his hips without permission. That smile—that wicked, cocky, filthy smile—spreads slow across his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Like he’s savoring it.
“Maybe…” His voice drops to a growl, lips hovering just shy of my ear, “maybe you don’t want to hear what I sound like when I cum deep inside you.”
I let out a sharp breath—more a gasp than anything—but he’s not finished. Not even close.
“Fuck, baby…” he groans, and this time he doesn’t hold back. His breath turns ragged, chest heaving slightly, and he moans—low and drawn-out, mimicking the sound of pleasure like it’s a memory, like it’s already happened in his head a thousand times. His hips twitch against the counter, and I feel the full force of his desire between my thighs.
My body arches toward him on instinct, like it knows something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
He pulls back just enough to look at me—and the look on my face must give me away. My lips are parted. My pupils blown wide. My skin flushed. And his hand, God, his hand comes up, fingers curling lightly around my throat.
He can feel it. My heartbeat. Wild and frantic against his palm.
“Say it,” he rasps.
“I do,” I breathe out, dazed and drunk on him. “Oh my god, Logan. I do. I want to know.”
A dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, pure, male satisfaction.
