“More than okay,” I breathe.
His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra. He hesitates for just a second—one more silent question—and I answer by kissing him desperately, pouring permission into every stroke of my tongue against his.
He unhooks it with practiced ease, sliding the straps down my arms. The fabric falls away, and cool air hits my skin for just a moment before his hands are there, warm and sure, cupping me, his thumbs brushing over my nipples.
I moan into his mouth, and the sound seems to undo something in him.
“Fuck, Tessa,” he groans, his forehead dropping to mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Show me,” I whisper.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my throat, leaving a trail of heat. When he reaches my collarbone, he pauses, his breath hot against my skin. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” I say, threading my fingers through his hair. “Please don’t stop.”
His lips close around my nipple, and pleasure shoots straight through me, pooling low in my belly. My back arches and his arm bands around my waist, holding me steady as his tongue works its magic.
My hands roam over him—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs. I feel him shudder beneath my touch, feel the evidence of his desire pressing against me through our clothes.
“Bedroom?” he murmurs against my skin, his voice strained.
“Yes,” I gasp.
He stands, lifting me with him effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist. I can feel every inch of him pressed against my core, and I rock against him instinctively, making us both groan.
“Jesus, Tessa,” he breathes, his hands gripping my ass as he walks. “You’re killing me.”
“Good,” I whisper against his neck, then bite down gently on the muscle there.
His stride falters for just a second before he recovers, carrying me down the hall with purpose.
He lays me down on his bed with a gentleness that makes my throat tight, despite the urgency thrumming between us. The city lights filter through the window, casting soft shadows across the room, illuminating the desire in his eyes.
Logan hovers over me, braced on his forearms, and brushes a strand of hair back from my face. “You tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Promise me, Tessa. Any time. For any reason.”
“I promise.”
He kisses me again, slow and deep, and I lose myself in it. In him. In the way his body feels against mine—solid and warm and safe but also thrilling, electric, alive.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, hooking into the waistband of my leggings. He pulls back to meet my eyes, asking permission once more.
I lift my hips in answer.
He slides them down, taking my underwear with them, and tosses them aside. Then he sits back on his heels, just looking at me, and the heat in his gaze makes me feel powerful and wanted and beautiful in a way I never have before.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking perfect.”
I reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, and he helps me push them down. When he’s finally naked above me, I take a moment to appreciate him—all lean muscle and golden skin and barely restrained desire.
“Come here,” I whisper, pulling him down to me.
He settles between my thighs, his weight pressing me into the mattress in the best way. I can feel him, hard and ready, and anticipation coils tight in my belly.
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my center, and he groans when he feels how ready I am. “God, Tessa.”
“Please,” I breathe, rocking against his hand.
He works me slowly, carefully, his fingers moving in circles that make my toes curl. Pleasure builds with every stroke, every touch designed to learn what I like, what makes me gasp, what makes me whisper his name.
