He’s squirming.
And Ilike it.
Logan’s always been so in control. Confident. Even when he lets me touch him, there’s something coiled just under the surface—as though he’s giving me power, but only because he wants to. Because he lets me.
But not now.
Right now, he’s fidgeting like he can’t breathe right, and the fact that I’m the one making him feel that way… yeah, it does something to me.
A few rows back, Eli is chatting with Daniel about something, and Coach’s voice rumbles low over someone’s Spotify playlist. No one’s paying attention to us.
The perfect cover.
So I shift slightly, pretending to adjust my sweatshirt, and drape my hoodie across both of our laps like I’m settling in to sleep. Logan stiffens, but doesn’t stop me.
Good.
Underneath the fabric, my hand finds his thigh.
His breath catches.
I don’t go any further. Just rest my palm there, pretending it’s nothing. Casual. Innocent.
It’s not.
His legs tense beneath my touch, and his fingers curl tight around his armrest, like he’s doing everything in his power not to twitch.
“You okay over there?” I murmur, pitched low enough that no one else will hear.
His jaw tightens. “Peachy.”
I trace a slow, lazy circle with my thumb against the inside of his thigh.
“Still think you’ve got the stamina to take things further?” I ask, echoing his words from the other day after one of our hard late-night practices. My tone is light, almost teasing, but I can feel the way his body reacts. Can see the flush creeping up his throat, even in the dark.
Logan turns his head, eyes glittering in the dim light. “You’re playing dirty.”
I smirk. “I like to win.”
And I do.God, I do.
Because watching him squirm like this—watching himlosethat control just a little—makes something low in my gut twist in the best possible way. Maybe I don’t always want to be the one surrendering. Maybe I want to see what it’s like when I’m the one calling the shots. When he’s the one falling apart underneath me.
His breath hitches again when I shift my fingers just enough to brush the inseam of his jeans.
We’re not going to do anything here. Not really. But I want him thinking about it. Want him aching for it.
He leans closer, voice tight. “You keep this up, and I’m going to make you pay for it later.”
I grin. “Promise?”
He glares, but he’s breathing faster now.
And when his thigh presses into my hand, holding it against him, instead of away from it, I know I’ve already won.
His thigh shifts again, just slightly, but it’s enough for me to feel it—him.
Hard.
