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And I don’t want to.
I’m sick of tiptoeing around this. Scared of what it will unleash, scared of my reaction.
His thumb pulls my bottom lip away from the hold of my bite.
And we both know—we just know this will answer so many questions… or leave us with more.
It’s the briefest touch of his lips against mine at first. We don’t move. I don’t think I can. It’s a taste, and I want more. It’s only a grazing of skin when he pulls away. I don’t dare open my eyes to look at him because I want to stay here.
“I’ve waited ten years. I’m not wasting another second.” His lips are against my cheek. “Fuck it.”
As his lips find mine again, the world as I know it grinds to a halt.
His kiss is potent, an intoxicating mix of gentleness and insatiable desire. When my mouth parts in a gasp, his tongue moves against mine, hot and skilled. It’s a gentle coaxing, a slow exploration, a whispered promise all rolled into one searing contact. His taste is a heady blend of everything masculine, everything Logan, as his scent envelopes me like a second skin.
His hands on my body are a paradox, tender yet possessive. They glide over me with an intimate knowledge that’s beyond time, mapping a path that feels both new and comfortably familiar. He swallows my moan with a growl rumbling in his chest as his fingers press into my waist, every point of contact igniting.
I slide my hand from his shoulders into his hair, the silky strands contrasting perfectly against the hard planes of his body. I can feel the controlled strength beneath the softness, the power he’s holding back, but his grip is firm, pulling me closer, as if the space between us is a void he needs to eliminate.
“Fuck, you taste better than I imagined.” I throw my head back as he leaves my lips, peppering kisses along my jawline, down my neck, each one a hot brand searing my skin, marking me as his. “How am I supposed to ever get enough of you now?”
I can barely breathe, let alone speak.
A small gasp escapes me as he kisses me again, proving his point.
My lips are probably bruised, but I don’t care.
He’s rooted himself in the marrow of my bones, a seismic shift that somehow has him embedded in my makeup.
Every sound, every gasp, is swallowed by the other. His breath mingles with mine, creating an air that’s uniquely ours, flavored with an intensity that speaks of so many unsaid words. Each glide of his tongue against mine, each nibble, each suck, is a silent confession, an affirmation of his claim on me.
And I know, I’ll never be able to belong to another.
As the kiss deepens, the world around us dissolves, replaced by the intoxicating taste of him. The force of his lips on mine, the rough scrape of his beard against my cheek, sends a wave of fiery heat coursing through my veins. The raw need in his every touch, every breath, sends my heart pounding, my senses spiraling.
Instinctively, he guides me backwards until I feel the edge of the table against my thighs. I'm vaguely aware of the cool surface under my palms as he lifts me up, settling me on the edge, his body pressing between my legs.
In my need to have him closer, I swipe my hand across the surface, not caring about what might break.
Then it happens. The box teeters precariously on the edge before tumbling over. I gasp as the contents spill onto the floor—the journal, its pages filled with haunting images, each a chilling testament of my past, lands open.
It’s only one image. I can’t even see it completely, but I see the bruises. I see the blood. And it’s brutal.
I let out a strangled cry, breaking away from him and all but throwing myself off the table in a desperate scramble to close it. But it’s too late. The damage is done.
As I whirl around, the journal clutched to my chest, my eyes meet his. He stands frozen in place, his eyes riveted to the spot where the journal had landed. His face is pale, the usual warmth in his eyes replaced by a horror I never wanted him to witness.
“Logan,” I whisper, my voice catching on a sob. But he doesn't look at me. His gaze is glued to the floor, his expression one of shock and disbelief. My heart aches at the sight.
With a shaky breath, he finally looks at me. “By some fucking miracle, tell me that’s not you.” His voice is barely a whisper, but it echoes in the silence of the room, bouncing off the walls and stabbing me with each rebound.
But we both know it’s me. I don't need to say it.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out, his hands clenching into fists by his side.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper, my voice shaking. I grip the journal tighter to my chest, as if the worn pages could shield me from his gaze, from his judgement. “Like I’m not the same woman you kissed a minute ago.”
I see my words hit him like a punch to the gut, his entire body recoiling slightly. A moment of understanding flickers in his eyes before he blinks it away, replacing it with determination.
