Chapter 44 Chapter 43
Logan POV
The second she says, “I don’t want to pretend,” something in my chest snaps.
I’ve taken hits that knocked the air out of my lungs. None of them compare to that.
She doesn’t even say it loud. It’s barely more than a breath, but it lands like a body check straight to the ribs.
I’ve spent years pretending with her. Acting like she’s background noise. Acting like I only see one kind of girl. Acting like I don’t notice every time she walks into a room.
And now she’s standing here in my house, flushed and furious and shaking, saying she doesn’t want to pretend anymore.
“Say that again,” I hear myself ask, because I need to be sure I didn’t imagine it.
She wets her lips, eyes blown wide. “I don’t want to pretend.”
Yeah. That does it.
My hand finds her lapel before I can think better of it, fingers curling hard in the fabric like she’s the only thing keeping me upright.
“Take it off, Harper.”
The words come out deeper than I intend, low and rough and way too honest.
Heat rushes up her neck, into her cheeks, but she doesn’t back away. Her fingers fumble at the buttons of her coat, and I help, knuckles brushing hers, both of us breathing too hard for how little we’re actually doing.
When the coat slides off her shoulders and hits the floor, it feels like more than just fabric dropping. Like something else is shedding too. The last layer of denial, maybe.
She’s just in that soft top and skirt now, close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off her, close enough that if I lean in an inch, I’ll taste her again.
I want to. God, I want to.
“You’re sure?” I ask, quieter than before. “Because this—this isn’t something I can just turn off.”
Her throat works on a swallow. “No. I’m not sure.”
The words sting for half a second—until she finishes.
“But I’m here.”
That’s all I need.
I mutter something that might be a curse, might be a prayer, and frame her face in my hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks. She feels small and strong at the same time, like she could break or break me, and I don’t know which scares me more.
Then I kiss her.
Really kiss her.
Not the half-panicked, half-explosive thing outside the house. This is deeper. Hungrier. Intentionally reckless.
She melts into me instantly, like her body’s been waiting for me to stop fighting this as much as mine has. One of her hands slides up into my hair, fingers tangling at the back of my head, pulling me down, dragging me closer like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind.
Not a chance.
My other hand finds the small of her back, palm splaying there, feeling the curve of her spine as I drag her flush against me. She fits like she’s supposed to be there. Like she always should’ve been there.
Every inhale tastes like her.
Every exhale feels like surrender.
She makes a sound into my mouth—small, helpless, almost surprised—and I have to fight not to lose every shred of control I have left.
“Fuck,” I breathe against her lips. “You’re going to kill me.”
She laughs, shaky and breathless. “You’re the one who started this.”
“Pretty sure you showed up at my house,” I remind her, brushing my nose against hers. “In the middle of the night.”
“Because you left the bar and your friends said you walked home alone,” she says, like that explains everything. “It bothered me.”
I can’t stop the smile that pulls at my mouth. “You were worried.”
“Annoyed,” she corrects. “And confused. And… frustrated. And maybe a little worried.”
My chest does something stupid and hopeful at that last word.
I kiss her again before I say something I can’t take back.
The world narrows. My room, the house, the whole damn campus—all of it shrinks down to the feel of her mouth and the way her body lines up with mine.
I walk her backward, step by slow step, until the backs of her legs bump the edge of the bed. Her knees hit the mattress, and she drops, hands catching my shirt to pull me down with her like I don’t have a choice.
I don’t.
I brace one hand on the bed beside her hip, the other still anchored at her waist, and hover over her for half a second.
She’s sprawled on my sheets, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, eyes shining like she’s lit from the inside.
I’ve seen this bed a thousand times. Never like this.
“Still okay?” I manage, dragging my gaze back up to her face.
She rolls her eyes even as her breath comes fast. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who won’t stop kissing me.”
“Trying to be a gentleman,” I say, voice rough.
She snorts. “That ship sailed when you told me to take my coat off.”
Fair.
“You can walk out anytime,” I say anyway, because if I don’t give her the exit, this will feel like I’m dragging her into my mess.
She glances at the door. Then at me. Then back at the door.
Her fingers fist in my shirt. “I’m not walking out.”
That’s it. The last restraint I’ve been clinging to snaps.
I lower myself onto my forearms, letting more of my weight settle over her, careful but not distant. Her body arches up to meet mine like it’s been waiting, like it’s been craving the contact as much as I have.
When I kiss her again, she opens for me without hesitation, and everything gets hazy at the edges.
Her hands slide under my hoodie, warm palms skating over the skin of my lower back. The contact is electric. My muscles jump under her touch, and a groan rips out of me before I can swallow it.
“Harper,” I rasp against her mouth, “I swear to God…”
“You swear what?” she murmurs, teasing, breathless.
“That if you keep touching me like that, I’m not going to remember any of my reasons to be a good guy.”
Her lips curve, wicked and soft. “Maybe I’m not looking for a good guy tonight.”
Jesus Christ.
I pull back just enough to see her face. There’s no flippancy there, no game—just raw honesty threaded through the heat. It floors me more than anything.
“You really want this?” I ask.
She nods. “I really, really want this. I just… don’t know what happens after.”
“Neither do I,” I admit. “But right now, I can’t pretend I don’t want you.”
The way her eyes soften when I say that almost wrecks me more than her body does.
She reaches up and slides her hands under the hem of my hoodie again, fingers ghosting up over my stomach, my ribs, my chest. I shiver, muscles tightening, every inch of me aware of her.
“Take this off,” she whispers.
It’s not a demand. It’s a request. An invitation.
I sit back just enough to strip the hoodie in one quick movement, tossing it somewhere vaguely in the direction of the chair. The air hits my skin, cooler, before the heat of her palms replaces it.
She runs her hands over my chest like she’s mapping me, eyes following the movement like she can’t decide if she’s more startled or fascinated.
“Wow,” she says softly.
I laugh, a little unsteady. “You good?”
“I’m just—” She swallows. “You’re… a lot.”
I lean down so my mouth is near her ear. “You’re talking like that’s a bad thing.”
Her answering shiver tells me it’s not.
I kiss my way down the side of her neck, slow and deliberate, letting myself feel the way her pulse kicks under my mouth. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails biting, and she lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
“Logan…”
Hearing my name like that, from her, in my bed, does something to me I don’t have words for.
I let my hand drift from her waist to the curve of her hip, thumb stroking absent circles through the fabric of her skirt. She shifts under me, instinctive, restless, like she doesn’t know what to do with all that coiled energy inside her.
I do.
I just have to be careful how much I show her at once.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” I murmur against her skin.
She breathes out a shaky laugh. “Pretty sure I’m getting an idea.”
I pull back just enough to look at her again. Her pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted. She looks undone and perfect and so damn real it scares me.
“I keep waiting for you to push me away,” I say without thinking.
“Why would I do that?” Her fingers slide up into my hair again, gentle this time, like she’s afraid she’ll spook me if she pulls too hard.
“Because you’re smart,” I say. “Because you know my history. Because two weeks ago you were ready to kill me.”
“Still might,” she says, but there’s no edge in it. “Just… not tonight.”
My chest squeezes.
“Tonight, I want to forget,” she whispers. “About Sophia. About Tyler. About what you said and didn’t say. About how much it hurt when you proved you weren’t any different than I thought.”
Guilt punches through me, sharp and ugly.
I press my forehead to hers. “I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking you to let me try to be better.”
She inhales, long and unsteady. “You can’t fix everything in one night, Logan.”
“I know.” I brush my lips over hers, feather-soft. “But I can start with this.”
The kiss that follows is different. Still hot, still hungry, but there’s something else threaded through it now—an apology, a promise, a plea.
She answers every one.
Her hands are everywhere—up my back, over my shoulders, along the line of my jaw. Like she’s memorizing me. Like she’s trying to make sure this is real.
I let my fingers trail under the hem of her top, skimming along bare skin. She sucks in a breath, muscles jumping under my touch, and lifts her hips slightly off the bed.
“Okay?” I murmur.
“Yes,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “More.”
That single word almost floors me.
I swallow hard, every instinct screaming at me to give her exactly that.