He doesn’t answer. His hands find my waist, and then he’s pulling my shirt up and off before I’ve decided anything, before I’ve had a chance to keep one last piece of myself away from him.
There’s something deliberate in the way he moves, and something urgent underneath it. His fingers find my nipple androll it slowly until it stiffens and aches. He pinches, just shy of too much, and I arch my back.
“I’m still mad at you,” I whisper.
Like last night, he doesn’t use his words. His other hand hooks my waistband, yanking my leggings down in one rough motion. The fabric scrapes against my skin, then he grips my ass and flips our positions, bringing my back to the mattress. I’m bare beneath him in seconds, the cool air of the room making me shiver. He doesn’t give me time to react—just drops to his knees, lifting one of my legs over his shoulder.
Looking up at the pristine white ceiling, I almost laugh. How did we get here? “You really hurt my feelings,” I say anyway. “And I don’t know what we’re doing, where this is going—”
His mouth is on me, stealing all thought, tongue dragging up my inner thigh, stopping just short of where I’m already wet for him.
“I can’t keep—oh, Logan,please,” I beg, needing him to touch methere.
He doesn’t move. Just breathes against me, waiting, until I stop trying to finish the sentence. Then the tips of his fingers find my entrance, slipping in just barely, then retreating, until I’m rocking my hips toward him. His thumb grazes my clit once and withdraws. It’s not enough. I’m on fire. I’m soaked.
“Dammit, Logan, either talk to me or fuck me—” Abruptly, he reaches for my balled-up underwear and shoves it in my mouth, cutting off my words.
“Argue later.”
Then his hands are on my ass, and he lifts me like I’m nothing, tossing me higher onto the bed like I’m his to rearrange. I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, but he ignores me. Instead, he lowers his head to take my nipple between his teeth—sharp enough to make me gasp, the sound muffled by the fabric still stuffed in my mouth.
He kneads and squeezes, licking and sucking on my tits like he’s a starving man. I lift my hips up in demand, but he takes his time, savoring every inch like I’m something precious.
My whimpering grows more frantic, but he pulls away without warning, snatches a pillow, lifts my hips and shoves it under my ass. I feel like a mannequin the way he maneuvers my body.
He positions himself lower, between my thighs, the bright room a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. When he looks up, his gaze locks onto mine, dark and intense, as if this moment matters just as much to him as it does to me. Without breaking eye contact, he lowers his head and drags his tongue along my slit in one slow, devastating stroke.
The muffled sound I make draws his attention. “You gonna be a good girl and stop arguing with me?” he murmurs.
A thrill runs through me. The fabric in my mouth is irritating, and I could spit it out if I wanted. I shake my head and call him an asshole. He hears it, though, and smirks before shaking his head in mock disappointment.
My thighs try to close. His hands stop them.
He grips my knees and forces them back open, draping them over his shoulders. With one hand he exposes my clit. His mouth descends. He sucks hard, tongue working in tight, relentless circles, and when two fingers curl into me and drive deep, I arch completely off the pillow.
I’m so wet his fingers make obscene, squelching noises, pumping in and out. He doesn’t vary the rhythm to tease—he finds exactly what makes me shake and stays there, fingers driving, tongue flicking with that intense, unbroken focus, until the pressure builds past the point where I can form a single coherent thought.
Logan groans, his mouth widening like he’s trying to consume me whole. His free hand presses flat against my stomach, holding me in place. My inner walls begin to spasm.
“That’s it, Rose,” he murmurs against me, his voice vibrating through my skin. “You’re being such a good girl. Come for me.” His fingers move faster, his tongue pressing harder, lips sucking relentlessly. Then he shifts, curling my legs tighter around his head, and I shatter—my thighs clamping around him, hips jerking, the orgasm tearing through me with violent force.
“Logan,” I choke out through the fabric, “I’m coming—” He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, not until he works me through every tremor, until I’m shaking and spent.
Then he sits up, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, eyes on mine.
He leans over me and pulls the underwear out of my mouth. I suck in a breath.
“Say my name again.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, lips brushing mine.
“Logan.”
I have this strange urge to cry. I don’t know what to do with all of it—the years of build-up, the heat and attraction, but also the constant, simmering tension whenever we’re near each other, like there’s this current that’s always connected us, and now we’re here, igniting it.
Climbing off the bed, he undresses without hurrying, unbuttoning his shirt with the same quiet focus he gives everything. Undoing his belt, dropping his slacks. I watch his forearms flex with each motion. He doesn’t look away from me once. There’s something almost unbearable about that—being seen completely, no part of my reaction going unregistered.
His chest is broad and firm, more tan than I realized. Lean, but dense with quiet strength, muscles carved to perfection. I can’t look away.
When he crawls back over me, I grab his jaw and pull him down, and I taste my release on his face before his mouth crashes against mine.
