Page 71 of Here We Go Again
Rosemary smiles like she wishes she could stop, but her mouth keeps spreading across her entire face, lighting her up from the inside out. “You’re so gross.”
Logan overtly wipes her pizza-grease fingers down the front of her overalls.
“Seriously disgusting. Is this really how you’ve seduced all those women?”
She’s not thinking about all those other women right now. She’s only thinking about Rosemary on this bed, in this hotel room where they’re completely alone. Logan opens her legs, so her knees are bracketing Rosemary’s knees, and she bends down so her mouth is pressed against the shell of her ear. “Rosemary.” All three syllables, her lips brushing the earlobe until Rosemary shivers like she did on that rooftop in Santa Fe. She scrapes her teeth along that anxious tendon and growls, “Can I please kiss you again?”
Rosemary abruptly grabs Logan by the waist, and Logan half expects Rosemary to push her away.
She pulls her forward with a violent tug instead, just like in the hospital parking lot, and Logan loses her balance. She tumbles awkwardly onto the bed, and there is a chaotic moment of limbs and confusing intentions until Rosemary’s pink mouth finds hers. And then there’s those soft lips and that hot tongue, claiming and consuming and kissing like it matters more than anything else in the world.
Logan has kissed dozens of people, but somehow kissing Rosemary feels like the first time, every time.
Maybe because none of those other women she kissed were ever really kissingher. They were kissing an idea of her. A warm body across a crowded bar. Long legs and big breasts. A pair of willing hands and an eager mouth. A rumored good time. An ex of an ex, or a friend of a friend, who would fuck you behind the bleachers at aRoller Derby bout, or go down on you in the bathroom at a Thorns game, and wouldn’t care if you ghosted after.
Those women never chose Loganfor Logan.Because they didn’t know Logan. She never let anyone truly know her.
But Rosemary fucking Hale. Rosemaryknowsher, knows the absolute worst parts of her—her recklessness, her assholishness, her selfishness, her indifference—and she’s kissing her anyway. Rosemary kisses her like she wants her. Singularly. Individually. Rosemary kisses like they’re thirteen, not watching each other change into pajamas at every slumber party. Like they’re fifteen, enemies who are incapable of staying away from each other, constantly stuck in each other’s orbits.
Like they’re twenty-eight and seeing each other for the first time in a decade.
Like they’re rewriting the history of their first kiss.
Logan is completely unspooled, unmoored, as Rosemary kisses her deeper.
There is a heady push and pull between them, like tug-of-war with their bodies. Logan loves it, and she grabs Rosemary’s hips and rolls them over, so Rosemary is on top of her, straddling her, pinning her to the hotel duvet.
It’s a graceless fumble of hands. Rosemary’s: in Logan’s hair, gripping the front of her T-shirt, sliding down over her breasts, sliding up under the shirt, cool fingers on her stomach.
Logan’s: on Rosemary’s hips, on Rosemary’s thighs, higher and higher until fingers find the edge of cotton underwear beneath her dress. So many other people, and Logan has never been this turned on by only the friction between their clothes and a mouth on hers.
So many women, but Logan has never kissed any of them the way she’s kissing Rosemary. Because she knows Rosemary at her worst, too—condescending and controlling and so terrified of being flawed—and she still wants to kiss her. Individually. Singularly.
Logan’s pretty sure she’s always wanted to kiss Rosemary. Thepantyhose and the heels, that puckered mouth and those tongue clicks. That supercomputer brain and that anxious tendon and the thoughtful way she approaches everything. She made an entire binder for this trip because she cares about Joe so fucking much, and Logan is pretty sure that if she let her, Rosemary would care about her that way, too.
“Virginia fucking Woolf,” Rosemary gasps and she rips her mouth away. She drops her forehead onto Logan’s shoulder and tries to breathe, and Logan laughs. It comes out high-pitched and girly, the way she used to laugh, back when none of her laughter was ironic.
Rosemary is still on top of her, breathing heavily. Her face is flushed, her mouth puffy, her hair messy, and Logan wonders what it would feel like, to make Rosemary completely lose control.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ROSEMARY
She feels completely out of control.
Her body doesn’t feel like hers; it feels like a sentient being that’s come to life for the first time and completely hijacked her brain. Every inch of her crackles with electricity and she’s overwhelmed by a deranged urge to physically weld herself to Logan.
It’s uncharted territory. She’s terrified. She’s… aroused? She’s mostly confused.
At least Logan looks equally ruined. She’s still beneath Rosemary, and her pupils are huge, even as her eyes have become heavy-lidded, only half-open. Logan’s mouth is curled into a lazy smile that’s so goddamn sexy, Rosemary would scream if not for Joe on the other side of the wall.
Has she ever found someone sexy before? And why ohwhydoes the first person have to be Logan Maletis?
Logan lifts one of her extraordinarily deft hands and traces her fingertips softly down Rosemary’s bare arm. That touch turns her into a shivering, mewling mess.
“There are other things I could do to you,” Logan says in a raw voice. It’s not the asshole voice, and it’s not her gentle voice. It’ssomething new, something Rosemary has awoken from her. That thought makes her ache everywhere. “Other dead queer authors whose names I could make you shout at the ceiling…”
That offer is enough to bring Rosemary’s brain back online, to make her remember where she is and what she’s doing and why she absolutely cannot do it.
