Me: My place in thirty.
Jasmine: I’ll be there.
23
Jasmine
I take a cab to Logan's apartment on the West Side. The city is loud with Saturday night energy, with cabs honking and groups of people spilling out of restaurants.
Through the window, a couple walks hand in hand along the sidewalk, leaning into each other, laughing at something only they know. My chest pulls tight. In twenty minutes, I'll be with Logan. Seven days without him has felt like a month.
I've been counting the hours since my flight landed, and I don't care how pathetic that sounds.
Philadelphia was brutal. Not the work — the work was fine. The panels were informative, and I networked with enough corporate lawyers to fill a stadium.
But every evening, when the conference wrapped and the other attendees headed to hotel bars in groups, I went back to my room alone. I ordered room service and sat on the bed with my laptop open and my phone in my hand, and the silence pressed in around me.
I saw couples everywhere that week, and each time, the absence of Logan hit me fresh. I called him every night, but his voice only made the distance worse.
I could hear him, but I couldn't touch him. I could talk to him, but I couldn't curl into his chest and feel his heartbeat under my cheek. By Wednesday, I was sleeping on the left side of the hotel bed out of habit, leaving space for a man who was three states away.
The cab pulls up to his building. I pay the driver and buzz his apartment. He doesn't say anything through the intercom. The door just clicks open.
I take the elevator up. I knock once, and it opens immediately.
Logan is in sweats and a t-shirt. There's an athletic tape wrapped around his right ankle. He looks tired.
“Hi,” I say.
He doesn't answer. He takes my bag from my hand, drops it on the floor behind him, cups my face with both hands, and kisses me.
The week apart collapses in the space between his mouth and mine. I grab the front of his t-shirt and pull him closer. He kicks the door shut behind me and walks me backward down the hallway.
My coat falls off my shoulders somewhere between the front door and the bedroom. His t-shirt comes off in the doorway, and my sweater follows.
He lifts me and sits on the edge of the mattress with me in his lap. I thread my fingers through his hair, reminding myself of how silky it is. Logan’s mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, and then the tops of my breasts.
I pull at his sweats while he unclasps my bra. We’re both breathing hard as we tear each other’s clothes off.
“I missed you,” he says against my skin. “Every fucking day.”
“Show me.”
He flips me onto my back and pulls my jeans down my legs in one motion. His mouth is on my stomach, my hip bones,the inside of my thigh. I arch off the bed and grip the sheets. He hooks his fingers into my underwear and drags them down. Then his mouth is between my legs.
I cry out and grip his head.
I love that Logan is not gentle. Gentle is not what I need today. His hands are rough on my hips, holding me open as his tongue works on me.
I come fast and hard, and he doesn't stop. He keeps going until a second orgasm tears through me.
“Fuck, Logan,” I cry out as my body trembles.
He pushes his sweats down and reaches for the nightstand drawer. I keep my eyes on his hard cock as he rolls on the condom. Then he pushes me with a satisfying deep stroke, and we both groan.
He drives into me over and over again, and I meet every thrust, my nails raking down his back and my legs locked around his waist.
“A whole week without this,” he says. “Never again.”
