Sloane doesn’t move right away. Just watches me, eyes dark and searching, like she’s trying to read every thought racing through my head.
I set the remote on the nightstand, and the small click it makes sounds impossibly loud.
“Logan,” she says softly.
The way she says my name—breathy, almost reverent—undoes something in my chest.
I turn to face her fully, one hand coming up to cup her jaw. Her skin is warm under my palm, and when I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, she leans into the touch.
“Tell me you still want this,” I say, because I need to hear her say it.
Her eyes flutter closed for just a second. When they open again, there’s something raw there. Vulnerable.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I want you.”
The words hit me like a physical thing.
I lean in and kiss her, and it’s different from before. Deeper. Hungrier. Like we’ve been holding back and finally decided to stop.
Sloane makes a soft sound against my mouth, and her hands come up to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. The blanket falls away as she shifts, straddling my lap in one fluid movement that makes my brain short-circuit.
I grip her hips—those stolen boxers riding low, my T-shirt bunching up—and she grinds down against me, hard and deliberate, no hesitation.
“Fuck,” I breathe against her mouth.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, lips swollen, eyes hazy. “You good?”
I huff out a laugh, hands sliding up under the T-shirt to palm her breasts. “Are you seriously asking me that right now?”
Her smile is wicked, but it melts into a gasp when I brush my thumbs over her nipples, already hard against my palms. “Just checking.”
I roll them between my fingers, applying the pressure I know she likes, and she arches into the touch, head falling back.
“Not so chatty now, are you?” I murmur.
“Shut up,” she breathes, grinding down harder.
I pull the T-shirt over her head in one motion, and then she’s bare from the waist up, flushed and perfect. I lean in and take one nipple into my mouth, sucking hard enough to make her cry out.
“Logan—” Her nails dig into my shoulders as I work her with my tongue, alternating between gentle licks and sharp pulls with my teeth.
My free hand slides down between us, slipping under the waistband of those boxers to find her already wet.
“Jesus, Sloane,” I groan against her skin. “You’re soaked.”
“Your fault,” she gasps, rocking against my hand.
I slide two fingers inside her easily, and she clenches around them, hips rolling to take me deeper. I pump them in and out, curling them just right, and her breathing goes ragged.
“More,” she demands, and I add a third finger, stretching her.
She’s riding my hand now, chasing her pleasure with single-minded focus, and watching her like this—uninhibited, desperate—is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I press my thumb against her clit, rubbing tight circles, and she practically sobs.
“Don’t stop,” she pants. “Don’t—fuck, right there?—”
I don’t. I work her exactly how she needs, fingers pumping, thumb circling, mouth on her breast, until her whole body goes taut.
