To worship it, to relearn it.
To make it mine again.
His hips arch, pressing into my waiting palm while his teeth sink into my lower lip, biting down hard enough for me to gasp out in pain. And from the low, appreciative hum he makes before layering his mouth over mine again, that may have been the point.
But that’s fine. If he wants this rough and punishing, I can take it.
I’ll take whatever he throws at me as long as it means he’ll forgive me. That we’ll finally put all of this pain in the past and find our way forward.
My fingers move to his belt, looking to work it open and let him have his way with me, here and now. But the second I get the buckle undone, he breaks away.
“Fuck, Lo,” he pants before clearing his throat. “What are we doing?”
“Do you wanna stop?”
“That would be the smart thing to do.”
My heart sinks to my stomach, and I pull back, meeting his gaze. I know he’s right. I know we need to talk more, to figure things out, but—
“I don’t wanna be smart right now,” I whisper. “I just want you.”
He stares down at me, a flash of hesitation in his eyes, and for a brief second, I think he’s going to say no or walk away. But then he links his fingers with mine, pulls me off the balustrade.
“Then take me to your room.”
Thirty-One
Camden
Logan catches me off guard by shoving me back against the elevator wall, his mouth finding mine again before the doors can even slide closed. I barely have the chance to brace for the impact—be it from the collision with metal, the jolt of the elevator ascending, or the desperation and hunger in his kiss. I find my bearings quickly, though, wrapping my arms around his waist and hauling him tighter against me while we devour each other.
His tongue rolls and mates with mine while his hands tug my shirt free from my pants, only to slip up my chest to the collar, where he makes quick work of loosening the tie knotted at my throat. The buttons go next, the first two flicking open with ease, but he must get impatient when he fumbles with the third, because he suddenly grabs both sides and yanks them apart instead.
I chuckle against his lips at the sound of them pinging against the metal walls, but it’s quickly swallowed down when he dives in again, kissing me with a furious kind of passion. The kind that can only come from months of longing and yearning finally coming to a head.
His hands slip between us, gliding over my newly exposedstomach, then up my sides, before he moans against my mouth.
“God, your body is even better now. How is that possible?”
“Hockey,” I whisper with a laugh as his lips move to my throat. “Lots of hockey.”
“Maybe my hatred for the sport was misplaced after all, especially if it’s the reason for my newest obsession,” he rasps before he scrapes his teeth over my jaw, nipping at the short stubble there. An appreciative little hum leaves him, and he murmurs, “You should’ve let this grow out sooner.”
The elevator dings before I can respond, but Logan doesn’t care; he’s too busy grabbing my hand and dragging me out of the car toward his room. My lips trace a path over his throat as I wait behind him to get the door open, which only causes him to fumble with his keycard. And while his blundering is endearing in the most Logan way, it also pumps the brakes on the emotions running high and fast, forcing me to take a step back andthink.
Because I know I shouldn’t be doing this—shouldn’t bring sex back into the equation when we haven’t talked this through. In doing so, I’m opening myself back up for the same pain and heartbreak he imparted on me last year; the kind of longing ache that doesn’t go away, just becomes more tolerable as time passes.
Yet, even with my head screaming at me to walk away, to leave for my own room before I can do something I’ll regret—or worse, something I won’t—I can’t bring myself to stop this. I can’t reason with myself enough to pull away and find some semblance of self-preservation.
Maybe because I know having him again, even if only for a single night, is better than not at all.
Which is why, when Logan grabs me by the tie to drag me through the threshold…I let him.
His mouth finds mine once again as the door slams closed behind us, allotting the freedom to tear fabric from each other’sbodies with reckless abandon. We leave a trail of clothing like breadcrumbs as we stumble deeper into the suite, only to be completely naked by the time we reach the bed.
The ache behind my sternum is more pronounced as I shove him back onto the mattress, but I put whatever mental block up I can muster. I push down the pain, lock up the hurt and discomfort. Shove away the voice shouting at me to run while I still can, and instead focus on being present in the now.
My gaze rakes over his body hungrily, noting the subtle differences the passing time has made, but somehow finding almost every part of him is exactly as I remember it. Same freckle just above his left hip, same long, lithe torso.
