I’m not sure what I was expecting, but he was pissed at me when we got back to the room. I barely drink, and it caught up with me fast—fine, I was being dramatic and acting childish. Whatever. Fuck him. He’s probably sleeping around with my sister, even while she has a boyfriend, even while he’s here, putting his hands on me, dancing with me.
I walk to my side of the bed. There aren’t enough pillows to build a wall, but I’m wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, and we’re grown-ass adults. I can handle sharing a bed.
He says nothing while he gets up and closes the bathroom door. I crawl in and pull the sheet up to my shoulder, facing the window, my back to his side of the bed. The rain is loud against the glass. I watch the water streak down in the dark and wait, and eventually the door opens again, and the mattress dips and shifts as he settles in behind me.
I’m sleeping in a bed with Logan Wells.
I don’t know how much time passes, but we listen to the rain battering the window and eventually fall asleep.
Chapter 10: Rose
Asound pulls me awake. The room is dark, the rain still loud against the glass. The clock reads 3 AM. Another sound, the scratch that woke me, and I turn my head—a tree branch scraping the window. The wind has picked up. The storm is getting worse.
And then I’m fully awake, because there is a very hard, very insistent pressure against my thigh.
I turn back slowly, everything falling into place. The hurricane, the picture. The drive we have to make today. The dance last night, and the weird tension. The hours it took to fall asleep with all that charged silence between us.
I should have known the lack of a pillow wall was going to bite me in the ass. I have no one to blame but myself. My thigh is thrown over his lap. His hand is warm and sure, holding it in place.
I go completely still. His big hand tightens, spanning my thigh.
He’s awake.
My eyes meet his in the dark, the room lit only by the streetlight outside the motel and the red glow from the clock on the nightstand.
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, neither of us moving. His eyes are fixed on mine, and the longer the silence stretches between us, the heavier it feels. Against the pillow, the hard angles of his face have gone still—not soft, exactly, but unguarded. There’s a slight furrow between his brows, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
I run through all the reasons this is a bad idea. The picture last night, the uncertainty. The fucking roller coaster I feel trapped on, his hands on my waist at the bar, then me drunk crying in the shower—except his fingers are still biting into my thigh and my brain keeps short-circuiting before it can finish a single thought.
Logan is an asshole. But that warning bell is growing distant and more quiet.
I’m really attracted to this man. And all the reasons this is a bad idea don’t mean much when we’re both single, alone in the dark of this room. I’m wet, my core fucking aching. I want him. I hate that I want him, but I do. I’ve always wanted him. And I might never get this chance again, to just forget all the noise. To feel him.
On top of that, it’s been a while for me. There’s been no one since my ex, and even then, I don’t think I ever wanted anyone as badly as I want Logan Wells right now.
I want him inside me.Fuck.
My blood is loud in my ears. Everything is pooling low, my whole body narrowing down to the few inches between us, to the burning need in my core.
I’m still dressed. I can get myself out of this. Maybe if I just—I slide my leg off his lap. He lets me, but all I succeed in doing is dragging myself against his impressive erection. It’s rock fucking hard, and my traitorous body, mystupidleg, slides back up, stroking him against me, and he lets out a small grunt and flexes his hips.
He’s hard all over. My palm flattens against his chest. He grips my thigh and drags me up, slowly, until I’m straddling his lap, and the only thing between us is thin cotton.
He doesn’t say a word. Neither of us do. His big, capable hands hold tight, and they begin to guide me, and I let him, riding against his length. Slow at first. My hips roll. I find my rhythm, rocking against his hard cock. I forget to breathe. I push down harder, feeling my wet pussy soak through my underwear, the shape of his cock as it nudges firmly, trying to find a way in through the fabric while he squeezes my hips tightly.
I’m not really an impulsive person.
But right now, the only thing I can think about is getting this man inside of me, fuck the consequences.
I rock against him, and he rasps, “That’s it, baby,” and those words make me whimper, my hips moving faster without permission, and the tether between us fucking snaps.
Suddenly frantic, he’s pulling at my shirt and I lift my arms and let him, then I kick off my pants and underwear, and then my hands are at his waistband, and we’re both naked and there’s nothing between us and I can feel all of him—the heat of his skin, the hard plane of his chest, the faint line of hair leading down—I wrap my hand around his cock. My fingers don’t meet, and I feel a deep, involuntary clench inside me.
I surface just long enough to breathe, “Condom?”
His voice is rough, ragged. “Don’t have one. But I’m clean.”
I got tested after my ex, and there’s been no one since.
