“I am,” I confirm. “The pill. But condom too.”
He nods, retrieving one from the drawer and rolling it on with efficient movements. Then he’s over me again, positioning himself at my entrance.
“Look at me,” he says, and I do, meeting his gaze as he pushes into me with exquisite slowness.
The stretch is both familiar and entirely new—I’ve had sex before, but nothing like this, nothing that fills me so completely. Logan watches my face carefully, pausing when he sees me wince slightly.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
“More than okay,” I assure him, my hands finding his lower back, urging him deeper. “Don’t stop.”
He begins to move, finding a rhythm that has me gasping with each thrust. His control is impressive—even lost in pleasure, he’s mindful of my responses, adjusting his angle when he hits a spot that makes me moan louder.
“That’s it,” he encourages, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”
I’ve never been particularly vocal during sex, always too self-conscious, too in my head. But with Logan, the sounds escape without my permission—whimpers, pleas and moans that sound like they’re coming from someone else. He responds with murmured praise that should sound cheesy but somehow doesn’t, not when it’s growled against my neck as he drives into me.
The second orgasm takes me by surprise, building differently than the first—deeper, rawer. When it hits, it hits deep; and I’m momentarily not in control of my body. I’m dimly aware of Logan’s rhythm faltering, of his own release following mine, his face buried in my neck as he groans my name.
For long moments afterward, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, heartbeats gradually slowing. Logan’s weight should be crushing but feels like an anchor instead, keeping me grounded when I might otherwise float away on the aftershocks still rippling through me.
“Holy shit,” I finally manage, my voice hoarse.
Logan chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest against mine. “My thoughts exactly.” He rolls to the side, disposing of the condom before pulling me against him, my back to his front. His arm wraps around my waist, hand gently spread across my stomach. “You okay?”
“I’m…” I search for words and come up empty. “That was…”
“Yeah,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “It was.”
I should probably feel self-conscious, lying naked in his arms after what we just shared. Instead, I feel a bone-deep contentment that’s entirely new. Logan’s breathing gradually evens out behind me, his arm heavy across my waist, and I let myself drift off, cocooned in warmth and satisfaction.
I awaken the next morning as the blinds leak pale October sun, a soft grid across the duvet. I come awake to Logan’s steady breath at my back and the solid weight of his arm snug aroundmy waist. For a few seconds I just lie there, sore in places that make me smile, wrapped in warmth that feels new.
He stirs, kisses my shoulder. “Morning,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. His hand spreads across my stomach like he wants reassurance I’m really here. “You okay?”
“More than okay.”
His grin is easy, unguarded. Then his phone buzzes on the nightstand. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He glances, flips the screen face-down, and turns back to me.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, softer now. “You matter.”
He nudges my nose with his and kisses me—slow, warm, unhurried. When he pulls back, he cups my cheek. “Stay. I’ll get us coffee.”
He swings out of bed and throws on sweats, broad shoulders stretching as he reaches for the doorframe. Cupboards open down the hall, water runs, the faint hiss of a coffeemaker follows. The smell drifts back, rich and familiar, filling the space until I’m smiling into the pillow.
He returns with two steaming mugs. “Fuel,” he says, handing me one before sliding in beside me. He props himself against the headboard, mug in his big hand, thigh pressed to mine.
The coffee is strong. I sip while his fingers toy absently with my thigh, like he can’t stand not to touch me.
“You’re spoiling me,” I tease.
“That’s the idea.” His grin flares, but then his phone buzzes again. His shoulders tense for a second before he reaches over, flips it farther away, and settles back. “Hockey can wait. You can’t.”
The want in his voice stills the small doubt stirring in me. I notice the careful way he set the phone aside, but I tell myself not every flicker of tension is about me.
He studies me for a moment, then clears his throat. “I need a little treatment on my shoulder. Trainer wants me earlier thanusual.” His thumb traces along my jaw while our eyes lock. “But I want this morning with you first.”
The certainty in his voice dissolves my hesitation.
