“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”
With his gaze still cast aside, Logan nods and goes to take a step back toward where Lexi and Bailey are waiting. But rather than letting him retreat, I snatch the fabric of his unbuttoned flannel, halting him in his tracks. Which, technically, is a legal move. I’m touching his clothes, nothim.
Or, at least, I’m hoping that’s how he’ll see it.
Logan frowns for a second, brows drawn together in confusion, as he looks to where I’ve got a hold on him.
“You’re forgetting something,” I murmur, my brow arched.
I take a step toward him, closing the space he just created until there’s little more than inches between us. Dropping my voice low, I whisper, “Don’t pull away. They’re watching.”
His puzzled expression quickly morphs into understanding as his gaze lifts to find mine. My hand cups the side of his face,and I skim my thumb across the apple of his cheek, noting the cracking texture running through his clay irises reminds me of desert flats.
“Kiss me,” I say, the request barely more than a whisper.
There’s only a beat of hesitation before he shifts his weight upward, pressing his lips to mine. I’m sure it’s meant to be a brief, fleeting kiss, just like the first time he did it, but my instincts take over, and I use my hand on the side of his face to hold him there for a few moments longer.
His lips are soft on mine, pliable in a way I wouldn’t mind teasing and testing the limits of, but I know better than to push my luck. Well, more than I already am, which is why I pull back, then press another gentle kiss to his lips.
His lids lift slowly, meeting my gaze while his tongue swipes out over his lower lip, wetting it. The action has my attention dropping back to his mouth, locking in on the slight sheen of moisture where I just kissed him.
And damn if I’m not the slightest bit tempted to do it again.
“Believable enough?” I ask, barely more than a whisper.
He nods and clears his throat before taking a step back, his gaze diverting to the ground once more. There’s a hint of blush creeping over his cheeks now too, and it’s kinda cute.
Innocent, even.
“Just… See you after practice,” he mutters, back to his grumpy self. “Don’t be late.”
Asfate would have it, Logan’s flash drive quickly becomes my most prized possession. Well, not as much as him being my tutor, but it’s the next best thing when I’m gone for two away games over the weekend and into the following week. The PDFs of my assigned text—now changed to a different font—are infinitely easier to read, making my trips to Minneapolis andLansing far more productive on the work front than they’d be otherwise.
In fact, I end up finishing one of my make-up assignments that wayandstudy for an upcoming exam with them. The thing I haven’t used, though? The notes he dictated from Holden and Theo. But with practices being insane this week, and the due date for my assignment looming on Friday, I decide it’s time to give them a listen.
After all, the more times I read or hear the information, the more likely it’ll stick. Which is exactly why I download the files to my phone, intending to listen to them whenever I have a few available minutes—starting with my shower this morning.
“The theory of the self, as stated by René Descartes,”Logan says, the sound filling the bathroom as it pours from my phone’s speaker.“This theory, in part, explores the mind and the body being distinctly different entities. A person could exist, just their mind, and all other things, such as their body or the world itself, could be nonexistent. Descartes sets out to prove—”
Damn.
I never noticed just how much I like Logan’s voice. Then again, I suppose that’s an odd thingtonotice about someone, especially when it’s usually directed at me in irritation or anger.
But as I lather shampoo into my hair, the rich, slightly raspy tone of his voice scratches an itch in my brain. I could get lost in listening to him speak, the smooth cadence of his words putting me into something of a trance, almost wrapping around me like a warm blanket or a satin cocoon.
I continue listening as I shower, rinsing my hair before grabbing for the body wash. My hands move on autopilot, spreading the suds all over my body while my mind focuses on Logan’s shift from Descartes’s theory on the self to John Locke’s.
“Locke’s first hypothesis states that ‘the self’ is directly linked to the human soul, that the soul is what defines oneperson from all others…”
My back connects with the cool shower tiles and my eyes sink closed, allowing the water to pour over me as I listen. A little moan falls from my lips, my head rolling against the wall while my hand slowly strokes my cock a couple times. At some point, it started growing thick and heavy between my thighs, though I’m not sure if it was before or after I wrapped my palm around it.
I do my best to tamp down the desire coiling low in my stomach, though, because somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind, I know this is a horrible idea. Getting off to Logan’s voice while he’s reading me fucking philosophy notes? It’s the definition of insane. But it doesn’t matter. And neither does Locke, Descartes, or anything outside of Logan’s voice.
It’s whatmytheory of self hinges on.
The subtle way he enunciates certain words, picturing the way his perfect, pouty lips would look forming each one. The timbre of his voice, imagining how it would sound whispering sinful, filthy things instead. The gentle intake of breath, wishing like hell I could hear it in my ear.
Those thoughts have me hard enough to cut diamonds and aching for release in no time, my hand picking up speed, jacking my cock from root to tip. I give in to the lust, feeling it drench me like the water from the showerhead, washing away any and all common sense.
