“Oh, I don’t know, baby…” he says, voice like a challenge wrapped in silk.
He shifts to the other side, mouth brushing my opposite ear now, and lets out another guttural groan—this one slower, dirtier. He drags his breath out like he’s inside me already, and my body shudders in response.
“I think you can beg me better than that.”
My breath catches. The sound of him groaning in my ear—for me—echoes inside my skull like a memory I never had but suddenly need.
He’s still so close. Too close. But he can be closer.
I can feel his smirk against my skin, the dark curve of it like a secret dragging its teeth down my neck. His hand, still cradlingmy throat, tightens just enough to make my pulse stutter. Not in fear—never fear—but in a raw, cloying need.
Logan watches me through hooded eyes, tracking the way my thighs tighten around his hips, the way my hands grip the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
“You’re not begging,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Not yet.”
I swallow hard, every nerve in my body standing on end. “I thought I didn’t need to,” I whisper, trying to match the tease in his tone. “I thought you already wanted me.”
His mouth drifts lower, lips grazing that spot just beneath my ear that makes my knees weak. “Wanting you isn’t the problem, Mac,” he murmurs, and his voice—God, that voice—sinks right into my bones. “The problem is what I’ll do to you once I have you.”
My entire body tightens in response.
His hand slides slowly from my throat, down my chest, stopping just above the place I ache the most. His eyes never leave mine, like he wants to see the moment I fall apart before he’s even touched me properly.
“Say it,” he demands again, barely more than a breath.
I close my eyes, trying to steady myself, but it’s no use. I’m already unraveling beneath the weight of his words. The memory of his moan. The promise of what’s coming.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice shaking, full of desperate truth. “Please touch me, Logan…”
He leans in again, lips ghosting mine. Not kissing. Not yet. Just close enough to burn.
“I knew you could beg better,” he growls, satisfied.
Then his mouth finds mine—hot and claiming—his kiss dragging a moan from somewhere deep inside me. It’s not gentle. It’s not rushed. It’s everything. His tongue tangles with mine, tasting, teasing, completely owning me. My fingers slideinto his hair, tugging him closer, anchoring myself to the only place I want to be.
He lifts me from the counter like I weigh nothing, carrying me upstairs without breaking the kiss. Every step makes my body thrum with anticipation. I can barely breathe.
By the time my back hits the mattress, I’m already undone. And he’s not even close to finished with me.
“You’re mine now,” he says, voice rough, reverent. “You hear me, angel? You always were. But now…” He leans in, lips brushing the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “Now I get to love you, worship you, the way I always should have.”
I nod, completely at his mercy. “I want you to.”
He undresses me slowly, like every inch of my skin matters. Like I matter. His hands are gentle but certain, and his mouth follows, kissing along my ribs, down the slope of my stomach, making me feel seen in a way that almost breaks me.
When I’m bare beneath him, his gaze darkens with heat and something softer—something that roots deep in my chest and refuses to let go.
“You're so beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “Falling apart for me. No one gets this part of you. Just me.”
“Just you,” I whisper back. “Only you.”
My breath hitches as his mouth moves lower, his touch coaxing my body to life with devastating precision. He takes his time—slow, skilled, attentive. Like every sound I make matters to him. Like every gasp is a secret he wants to hear again and again.
When he finally moves over me and sinks in deep, I cry out, clinging to his back as he buries his face in my neck.
“Logan…”
“Say it again,” he breathes, his voice strained with restraint.
