He keeps doing that thing where he stretches his arm out and brushes my thigh “by accident.” It’s not an accident. Not even close.
FORTY
LOGAN
By the timeI pull into my apartment’s lot, I’m a full step away from feral.
I throw the Jeep in park and fix him with a look. “Out.”
He blinks innocently. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“I’m not,” I grit out. “I’m…taking control, you like that.”
He laughs—low and smug—and hops out of the Jeep. The snow crunches under his shoes. The cold air makes his cheeks pink.
God, he’s pretty.
I come around the front of the car just as he decides to lean back against the passenger door again, like he wants me to pin him there. And yeah—my brain absolutely supplies that image.
“You okay?” he asks lightly, eyes sparkling.
“No,” I say honestly. “Not even a little.”
He steps into my space, hands slipping under the hem of my jacket, his cool fingertips skating over my hips. “Want me to kiss it better?”
“Jesus, Todd,” I breathe. “Get inside.”
He grins and tugs me by the sleeve toward the stairs, half dragging, half teasing. Before he can pull open the door, I grab his wrist and spin him back into me, kissing him hard enough that his back hits the brick wall with a soft thud.
He gasps into my mouth, fingers curling tight in my shirt. “Thought you wanted to go inside.”
“I changed my mind,” I mutter against his lips.
“Uh-huh,” he says, breathless. “Sure you did.”
I force myself to pull back—barely, reluctantly—and he laughs, breath fogging between us.
We stumble the rest of the way into the apartment building, taking the stairs, and I fumble with the keys because he will not stop touching me. By the time the door swings open, he’s got both hands under my jacket and hoodie, fingers skating up my stomach like he’s memorizing every fucking muscle I have.
The apartment is warm, dim, and familiar. It smells like leftover coffee from that morning and laundry detergent and him.
He walks backward into it, still holding my hoodie, pulling me with him. “So…” he says, voice teasing, “what’s the plan?”
I toe the door shut behind us. “We don’t need a plan.”
“No?”
“No,” I say, stepping right into his space again. “We just need a bed. Or a couch. Or any surface really.”
He smirks. “That’s what I thought.”
I kiss him again—slower this time, soft in a way that punches every bit of air out of my lungs—and he melts into it, hands sliding up my chest, curling around the back of my neck.
His voice is a whisper against my mouth.
“I missed this.”
My answer is simple: “I missed you.”
