The kiss deepens, but slowly. Carefully. Like he’s afraid I might break.
I won’t break.
I’ve been broken before, and this—this—is the opposite of that.
His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and I part my lips, letting him in. He makes a sound low in his throat, and the careful restraint starts to crack.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m not going to shatter, Logan.”
“I know,” he says, but his hand is trembling slightly against my face.
“Then stop holding back.”
Something in his expression shifts, and he kisses me again, deeper this time.
I slide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and into his hair. He groans against my mouth, and the sound sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
His hands move to my waist, careful but sure, and he pulls me closer until I’m halfway in his lap. The popcorn bowl tips over, forgotten, kernels scattering across the couch. Beatrice leaps down with an indignant meow and disappears down the hall.
I’m focused on the way his mouth moves against mine, the way his hands feel on my body—firm but gentle, possessive but safe. The way every touch feels like a question, and every response from me is a resounding yes.
He breaks the kiss to trail his lips along my jaw, down my neck, and I tip my head back, giving him access. His breath is hot against my skin, his stubble rough in the best way.
“Tessa,” he murmurs against my throat, and my name has never sounded like that before—like a prayer, like a promise.
“Logan,” I breathe, and his arms tighten around me.
I shift, straddling his lap fully now, and his hands slide to my hips, holding me steady. Our eyes meet, and there’s a question in his. He’s still asking for permission.
I answer by kissing him again, pouring everything I can’t say into it. Every ounce of gratitude, every bit of desire, every fragment of hope I’ve been too afraid to acknowledge until now.
He responds in kind, one hand moving up my back, pressing me closer. The other stays at my hip, his thumb brushing small circles against the sliver of skin where my shirt has ridden up.
That tiny touch—skin against skin—sends electricity through me.
I pull back, breathless, and reach for the hem of my T-shirt.
Logan’s hand covers mine, stopping me. “Wait,” he says, his voice rough. “Tessa, we don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I want you.”
He searches my face, looking for any hint of doubt. But there is none.
“Okay,” he says softly.
I lift my shirt over my head and drop it to the floor.
Logan’s eyes darken as they trace over me—the curve of my waist, the simple black bra that’s suddenly the only barrier between us. His hand comes up slowly, fingertips barely grazing my ribs, and even that featherlight touch makes my breath hitch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice rough with want.
I’ve heard those words before. But they never sounded like this—reverent, awed, like he can’t quite believe I’m real. They never felt like this—safe and desired all at once.
“So are you,” I say, reaching for the hem of his shirt and tugging insistently.
He helps me pull it off, and then we’re skin to skin, and it steals the breath from my lungs. His chest is warm and solid beneath my palms, muscles shifting as he moves. His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the fabric, and I arch into the touch with a soft gasp.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.
