Page 44 of Logan
He kisses me like a man sealing something sacred. His mouth moves over mine with an urgency that isn’t just desire but a vow, unspoken but burning all the same. His body presses into mine, and the urgency comes roaring back, but this time it’s threaded with something deeper than want.
It’s promise.
Logan kisses me like he’s trying to rewrite every bruise the years have left on us, replacing them with something that’s only ours.
His hands move slowly at first, reverently, as if I’m breakable. But beneath the care, there’s that hunger, that unrelenting pull that’s always been between us the wildfire we never learned to put out. It’s in the way his fingers glide along my ribs beneath my shirt, in the way his lips linger at the base of my throat, tasting me like a man starving.
“You’re still the only thing that ever made me feel whole,” he murmurs against my skin, the words vibrating through me.
A shaky breath escapes me, my chest tightening with something that feels dangerously close to surrender. “Then don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
The blanket rustles under us as he shifts, settling between my thighs. The worn fabric cradles us like it remembers exactly who we were the last time we were here. Above us, the stars blur into the canopy of leaves, a fractured patchwork of silver light, but I can’t focus on anything except the solid weight of him, the warmth radiating from his body, and the way every touch sends heat spiraling through me.
Clothes slip away between kisses, each piece discarded with the quiet finality of something we no longer need to carry. His mouth worships me, slow, deliberate, like every freckle, scar,and curve is a page in a story he’s determined to read all over again.
When he finally pushes into me, it isn’t frantic. It’s deliberate, controlled, like a man who’s waited too damn long to come home and refuses to rush the moment he finally crosses the threshold.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing along my jaw in a feather-light caress.
I do.
His eyes hold me with the same unyielding grip his body has, like he needs to watch me unravel to believe he’s the one putting me back together.
We move together in a rhythm that feels older than us, one that’s been building quietly through every year apart. It’s not just sex—it’s confession. It’s forgiveness. It’s the truth we were too young and too stubborn to speak before.
When I finally come undone, it’s not with a scream but with his name spilling from my lips like a prayer, whispered into his mouth.
He follows, his body tightening, his breath breaking, burying himself so deep it feels like he’s stitching us back into the same skin.
For a long time, neither of us moves. His chest is pressed to mine, our hearts beating in a syncopated rhythm that feels like it could carry us through anything. He kisses my forehead, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth as if each one is a silent I love you he’s too overcome to say out loud.
“Still think I’m sweet?” he asks, his voice rough with emotion and the faintest trace of teasing.
I smile, my fingers threading through the back of his hair, tugging lightly. “Only when you’re naked and confessing your feelings.”
He laughs then, low and genuine, the sound wrapping around me like the warmest thing I’ve ever known. I feel it everywhere—in my chest, in my bones, in the pulse between my thighs that still remembers his touch.
And just like that, lying there on that old blanket under the stars, I realize something with sharp clarity.
This isn’t a memory.
It’s the start of the rest of us.
Not the end of a chapter. The beginning of one we’ll write together.
Chapter Twenty
Logan
I guess that's what you get
It's true what they say
As soon as you stop looking, it's right in front of your face
Cause there you were and there I was and here we are, I tell you what
