ELEVEN
TODD
I waketo warm breath ghosting over the side of my neck, a heavy arm slung across my back, and a muscular chest pressed against mine like we’re puzzle pieces that never meant to fit—but somehow do anyway.
Fuck.
My eyes blink open slowly, hazy with sleep and…yeah. Regret. Definitely that too.
Except…the regret isn’t for what we did.
It’s for how easy it felt to fall asleep wrapped around him like this.
My bare skin is sticking to his in places that shouldnotbe touching, especially not when the sun’s coming up, and I have to face the real world again. And my sweats and boxers? Still tangled around my ankles like I passed out before getting redressed. Which, yeah—checks out. Because Logan wrecked me last night. In every possible way.
And now I’m sprawled on top of him like some desperate, clingy?—
I freeze.
Because when I look down…
Goddamn.
He’s unreal.
Even like this—mouth slightly parted, chest rising slow and steady beneath me, long lashes resting against his cheeks—he looks like a Greek fucking god. And not just the hot ones from the movies. The ones sculptors went crazy trying to capture, with abs carved from stone and those stupidly perfect lips that make you want to kiss them just to see if they taste like sin.
I should not be thinking this.
My dick has other ideas.
Fantastic.
I shift slowly, carefully, trying to get my legs untangled from his without waking him. My breath catches when he shifts in his sleep and tightens his grip around my waist like his body knows I’m trying to escape.
It takes a full two minutes to pry his hand off me without losing my balance. Another thirty seconds to slide off his chest without waking him. And I swear the air in the room changes when I finally stand—and even the universe is holding its breath to see if I’ll make it out before everything goes to hell.
I tug my boxers up first, then yank my sweats up over them, adjusting myself quickly and facing away from the couch just in case Logan wakes up and?—
“Running already?”
His voice is low. Rough. Sleep-filled in a way that shouldn’t make me feel things butdoes.
I freeze halfway through tugging my shirt over my head, the fabric stuck around my arms and shoulders like a trap.
Shit.
“No,” I lie, forcing the shirt down and turning around slowly. “Just…getting dressed.”
Logan’s awake now—definitely awake—propped on one elbow, eyes heavy-lidded and smug, like he knew I’d try to ghost and beat him to the punch by leaving while he was asleep.
His chest catches the sunlight shining in from his window. I run my gaze over the dusting of hair that sort of makes a T on his chest, circling his nipples and running down his abdomen to meet up with his happy trail. The dark hair is soft. I know, because I’ve run my hands over it. My fingers itch to touch him now.
His hair is a mess.
His cheeks are pink from sleep.
And his smirk?
