Текст книги "Perfectly Damaged"
Автор книги: E. L. Montes
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
chapter 23
Logan
“How was work?” Jenna asks, climbing into my truck. She places her duffle bag on her lap, buckles the seatbelt, then leans over and kisses me. “What’s the smile for?”
I nudge my head toward her lap. “What’s in the duffle bag? Carrying deadly weapons or something?”
“Ha. Ha. Funny,” she mocks. “No, I have my weekend stuff. It’s better than dragging around my suitcase.” She shrugs. “And I may have something for you in here.”
“Lingerie?” I grin, wiggling my brows.
“I didn’t know you were into wearing that kind of stuff. If I’d known, I would’ve purchased you a blue, skimpy lace number to bring out your eyes.”
“All right, smartass.”
She laughs. “You set yourself up for that one.”
“This is true.” I pull out of the parking lot and begin our drive to the lake house.
“It’s nothing big, just a little something you can use in the future,” she says as she unzips the black bag and starts rummaging through it. I reach a red traffic light and look over. Jenna hands me a clear plastic bag. I quickly peek in. Arching a brow, I meet her smile. “Gift bags and wrapping paper?”
She nods.
“You got me yellow gift bags and wrapping paper,” I clarify.
She nods again.
“Well, aren’t you the major wiseass.”
Her laugh bounces around my truck. “Well, it does benefit me.”
I steer with one hand, my other finds its way to hers. I bring our entwined fingers to my mouth and graze her soft knuckles against my lips. “Why yellow?” I mumble against her skin, my eyes on the road.
“It’s my favorite color.”
“Is that so?” I ask.
“Yep. It’s bright and pretty and cheerful.” She sighs. “It reminds me of the sun.” Jersey Girl pauses. Squeezing her hand around mine, she whispers, “I spent most of my life in the dark. Yellow allows me to visualize the light. Even if it’s just an image I paint in my head and not reality, I’ll take it.”
I press my lips firmly against her hand. Jersey Girl will probably never know this, but yellow will now and forever be my favorite color too—because I want her to be happy. I want her to be surrounded with brightness in her life. I want her to fight through the darkness and find her light someday.
* * *
Jenna
We’re walking hand-in-hand into the lake house when a chorus of applause goes off. I tear my eyes away from Logan and see Santino, Charlie, Bryson, and Blair are all in the living area. Everyone, except for Blair, is smiling and clapping. “It’s about damn time!” Santino hoots.
“You guys are dicks,” Logan states. He shakes his head, smiling good-naturedly, and guides me up the stairs. More whistles and cheering trails up when the door to Logan’s room closes behind us. “Sorry about that. If I’d known there was going be an audience, we would’ve stayed at my place,” Logan says as he walks across the room and places our bags on the ground.
“It’s okay.” I look down and fiddle with the edge of my white camisole. I’m suddenly nervous. I desperately want to continue what we started in my room yesterday before my father intruded, but I know we have to get past a few things before that can happen.
“So, what do you want to do?” he says, removing his boots. “Want to go out by the dock? In the lake?” He goes on, stripping off his T-shirt, “I’m gonna hop in the shower, wash off this sweat and sawdust. You’re more than welcome to join me,” he jokes with a broad smile. But we both know there’s seriousness hidden behind the humor.
“I’d like to talk.”
His grin weakens. “Is everything okay?”
I cross my arms, hugging myself. “Yeah. I… I just figured you probably have a lot of questions for me and I want to answer them all.”
“We have plenty of time for that. I don’t want you to feel pressured to spell out everything at once.”
“Logan, I’ve kept things from you for so long. I don’t want to keep anything from you anymore. Can you honestly say you don’t have any questions for me? About my disorder, my triggers, what started all of this?”
He bows his head, twisting the cotton fabric of his white T in his hand. “I do.”
“Well, I want to answer anything you might find confusing.” I walk over to Logan and place my hand against his face, showing him the sincerity in mine. “In my opinion, the hardest thing anyone can do is accept someone else and all of the baggage that comes along with them. And you did that for me.”
“Because I care for you.”
“And I will never understand why. But the least I can do is be honest with you from here on out. It’s challenging for me to tell you everything. I’m embarrassed about most of it, but I trust you and I know you won’t judge me.”
“I won’t.”
I smile. “I know. So take your shower. I’ll wait for you by the dock. Okay?”
He nods, lowers his head, and lightly caresses my lips with his before turning and stepping into the bathroom.
* * *
I’m sitting by the edge of the dock, admiring the sunset, the crisp scent of the lake, and the light warm breeze crashing against the tall tree branches, when I hear footsteps from behind. There’s no need to turn around. I catch a whiff of his fresh shower gel before he takes a seat beside me.
Logan scoots close enough so that the sides of our thighs are pressing against one another, and our feet are swinging in unison. He takes my hand in his, securely weaving his fingers between mine. “Let’s talk,” he says.
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the beginning. Why did this happen to you?”
I shake my head; my gaze focuses on our hold. “I will never know why, Logan. But I can tell you when and how it started.”
“Okay. Let’s start there.” He brings our hands up to his mouth, gently kisses the back of my hand, and then places them back down on his thigh. I think it’s his way of safeguarding me, of expressing in his own little way that no matter what I disclose to him today, it will never change his feelings toward me. A restful breeze whips by and instantly I’m okay.
Breathing in and out as calmly as possible, I begin. “It was senior year of high school. My grades weren’t all perfect, so I was desperately trying to study my ass off so I could ace my SAT score. I wanted to be like Brooke.
“God, she managed to make everything seem effortless: school, getting into college, sports, and boys. Anything. You name it, she did it well. Nothing was difficult for her, which made my parents proud—especially my mother. I just wanted my mother to recognize me once in my life. Even before I was diagnosed with psychosis, our relationship was rocky.
“I think maybe she knew deep down I’d end up like this. I don’t know. I was in therapy when I was younger, starting when I was about ten. I suffered from depression as well as lack of social skills, which freaked my mother right out. So maybe she knew.” I shrug. “Anyway, back to senior year. I focused on trying to bring my grades up. They weren’t bad—more than average, really—but not perfect.
“I spent months studying: at home, the library, even at Eric’s place. I barely slept. I was a living, breathing zombie—if that’s even possible. I became obsessed with academics just so I could be on the receiving end of that look of pride on my mother’s face, just like she had given Brooke so many times before. Not even my talent impressed her. She never understood my art. It’s funny. You know how some people say you’re your biggest critic?” I chuckle, knowing that was never the case for me. “My mother was always mine.”
I picture the me from four years ago, at seventeen: the scared girl I’ve tried to rid from my brain as she struggled, trying to comprehend why this disease chose her. I stretch and tighten my fingers around Logan’s. My throat throbs with fear before I gain the courage to continue.
“It was a Sunday morning. I was in my bedroom, studying. The SAT exam was the next day and I was under a lot of stress. It was beautiful outside. Eric wanted to spend the day outdoors, but I just wanted to be locked in my room with no distractions. It’s how I spent most of my summer that year and most of the beginning of the school year. Eric and I had gotten into a minor argument—nothing big, more of a disagreement.
“I didn’t care. I just wanted to study. So there I was in my room with my nose in a book when I heard my name being called. It was so clear and loud. I looked up at the door, but there was no one there. I brushed it off as nothing and went back to studying. After a few seconds I heard my name again. I quickly looked up, searching around the room, but I was completely alone.”
“What did the voice sound like? Like someone you knew?” Logan asks.
“No. It was a male voice I’ve never heard before. When I heard my name for the second time, I got out of bed and searched around my room. I opened the door to look out. No one was there. I closed it and then walked over to my bedroom window. I thought maybe the gardener or my father was in the yard. But from what I could see, there was no one.
“I sat back on the bed, confused but easily distracted by the way my mind was racing with how much more I had to do. There were just so many notebooks and textbooks and highlighters and pens and scraps of paper. To say I was overwhelmed would be an understatement. Then the voice came again. It was closer this time, so close I actually felt it coming from behind me. It said, ‘You’ll never be good enough for her.’ I remember it like it was yesterday—how the goose bumps rose on every inch of my skin, the fear lodged in my throat, the sound of my breathing, its spastic rhythm matching my heartbeat. I finally found the courage to look behind me, but there was nothing there, only the headboard.”
Logan lets out a deep breath. “That must’ve been fucking scary for you. Especially at seventeen.” He shakes his head. “How long did you deal with the voice in your head before you were diagnosed?”
“Voices. It started as one voice and then it multiplied. They were getting louder and it was distracting. I couldn’t focus on school. It was difficult to keep up with a conversation. It was very scary. I just wanted them to go away, but it kept getting worse, to the point where they were telling me to kill myself. And then I had a breakdown with Eric.
“The voices were telling me he was seeing someone else. I didn’t know what was real or not. I didn’t know the difference between my own thoughts and the voices at that point. Everything began to blend together, and it drove me nuts. Finally, after three weeks of living through hell, I contacted Brooke, who was away at college. I was hysterical over the phone with her.
“She couldn’t understand a word I was saying. She was going to call our dad, but I begged her not to. So she did what any loyal big sister would: she drove the five-hour trip from her university to be by my side. When she got home, I told her everything that was happening to me, and she encouraged and finally convinced me to tell Dad. He took me to get assessed. I had several evaluations done, and that’s when I was diagnosed. At first they thought it was schizophrenia, but as my depression worsened, I was reexamined and my diagnosis was changed to schizoaffective.”
I look over at Logan, expecting a reply or comment or something. He meets my gaze, and his hand reaches up and caresses my face. “Within the last four years, was there ever a time when you didn’t hear the voices?”
I nod. “The first two years were very difficult for me. I didn’t want to believe I was sick in the head. Eric and I had split up, Brooke was away at school, my mother grew more and more distant, and Dad was working on expanding the company. I’d never felt more alone in my life. I went to a local college because that was all I could handle, and my father felt it was best to stay close to home. The new medication I was taking at the time was making me zone out. It stopped the voices, but I felt dead. I had no feelings—highs or lows—and I didn’t care about anything or anyone.
“So I stopped taking my medication. I lied to everyone, including my psychiatrist. They all thought I was still on my meds. I started to feel alive again, awake. I was able to focus more. But it only lasted a week. After that, the voices came back along with paranoia. I thought everyone was out to get me, that no one took my best interests to heart, and that they were all crazy and I was the sane one. And I definitely didn’t want to continue on with the medication. I hated the way I felt and the person I was becoming. I didn’t feel like me anymore.
“One day, I was told—by the voices—it would be best if I were dead, that it would be better for everyone who had to waste their lives taking care of me. And I thought they were right. I hated that Brooke drove back home every weekend just to be with me. I hated that Dad began to work from home on the weeknights that Charlie couldn’t stop by because he was afraid to leave me alone. And I hated that I managed to drive my mother further away. So I did what the voices asked me to do.”
“You tried to kill yourself?” Logan looks shocked, pained.
I nod.
“Jersey Girl,” he lets out shakily, and I can tell that the news of how I attempted to take my own life is hitting him hard. And with those two words he mourns for the girl I was. They’re an apology for the past, a thank you for the present, and a plea for the future.
“I know. Trust me, I know, Logan. I was at a really low point in my life.”
“How did you do it?” He cringes for even asking.
“I stabbed myself. I took a big knife from the kitchen and I just jabbed myself in the middle of my stomach—it’s what the voices instructed me to do.” I lift my shirt just beneath my breast, revealing the three-inch scar. The scar is located where it’s mostly hidden when I wear the thick strand of my bikini tops—which is probably why he’s never noticed it before. Logan traces a finger over the clumpy skin, which is barely noticeable against my tan.
I roll my shirt back down, suddenly embarrassed by showing myself in the first place. I keep my eyes down as I continue my story, my voice lowering. “It went pretty far in. I remember it burned; it was a sharp burn, hurt like hell. But I wanted the voices to go away, so I twisted the knife deeper. And then I remember collapsing. I’d lost a lot of blood, but Brooke…” The ghost of a smile tugs at my lips. “I guess she was my guardian angel that day since she’s the one who found me on my bedroom floor, covered in my own blood.”
Logan brings both hands to my face and forces me to look at him. “You are never going to do that again.” I nod, agreeing with him. “I’m serious, Jenna. If you ever feel that way again, if you ever feel the urge to harm yourself, come to me. Okay? I’d lose my fuckin’ mind if I ever lost you.”
“I’ll try,” I say truthfully. That’s a promise I can never truly keep. When I’m triggered, pulled under and dragged into a dark place, it’s difficult for me to come out of it. He presses his lips to my forehead, and then brings my head to lie on his shoulder.
“After Brooke found me, I was taken to the ER,” I go on. “I was evaluated and placed on suicide watch in the psych ward. Then my parents felt it was best to send me away for a few months.”
“You were taken to Brandy Mental Health?”
I shake my head. “No. My parents never told me about my grandmother. So I’m sure keeping me far away from Brandy was for a good reason. I was taken to a small, private ‘rehabilitation’ retreat, as my parents called it. They told family and friends I needed a break from all the stress of school and such.” I roll my eyes. “But honestly, I didn’t fight it. I let them take me there and I signed the admissions paperwork.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew I was burden to all of them, so I didn’t fight them on it. And at that point I was desperate to get better. The therapist at the retreat told my parents that because I was aware of my illness and willing to work on getting better, my chances of recovery were high.”
“I don’t understand the recovery process,” Logan states, confusion evident in his tone. “I’ve heard of people who recover from drug and alcohol abuse and self-harm. How does someone recover from a mental illness?”
I draw small circles in the palm of his hand, allowing the comfort and calm to wash over me as I talk about my illness with him. “I know it’s hard to believe. The word recover is sort of a misnomer. Someone who’s recovering isn’t miraculously cured. Just like an addict, sometimes when things get rough, it feels uncontrollable and they relapse. Think of it that way. I could relapse at any time.
“But with the proper treatment, good eating habits, and exercise—and most importantly a support team—there’s a strong chance I can beat this. I’ve read stories of some people who were able to stop taking medication altogether without suffering from the hallucinations or delusions. And I did. For about a year, actually.”
Logan shifts. I lift my head and meet his gaze. His eyes brighten with hope. “You were able to cope and deal with it without medication?” I nod in response. “Well, that’s good, right? I mean that means you’ll be able to again. Right?” he urges.
I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
His brows crease then relax with understanding. “You relapsed.”
“I did. Ten months ago, when Brooke died. It was difficult for me. See, before I only suffered from hearing voices. But I had my first hallucination about a month after her death.”
“Of what?”
“Her.”
Logan pulls his head back. “Brooke?”
“Yeah.” I lower my head, ashamed. “My therapist said it had to do with the tragic loss. For most individuals, the loss of a loved one is an excruciating pain and they grieve, eventually moving on. But someone who already suffers from psychosis, someone like myself, tends to deal with things differently. Not everyone with my condition would have had the reaction I did. People with psychosis all have different triggers and such. But for me, I couldn’t accept the fact that she was gone.
“Brooke was everything to me. She was my rock. She kept me on my toes. She cared for me, and never once did she make me feel like I was different. She always encouraged me, told me I could be a famous artist or a politician or a teacher. Whatever I wanted to be in life, in her eyes I was capable of being it. When others saw the glass half empty, she saw it three quarters of the way full. She was one of those annoying people who was always quirky but happy.” I laugh, tears welling at the rim of my eyes.
“If you told her an image was ugly, she’d look at you as if you were nuts and show you how beautiful the picture truly was by pointing out details, the nuances in the color, the shading, the texture, the meaning behind it. Showing you that flaws could be stunning and intriguing and mind-blowing—that was Brooke. At the end, you’d be inspired by the portrait and even more by her. That’s just the person Brooke was. That’s the person who was taken away from me, and I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I hated myself and everyone around me because I couldn’t understand why she was taken away. Why wasn’t it me?” Logan thumbs over my moist cheeks, wiping away the tears as I force my next words out. “The world needs more of her and less of me.”
“Don’t say that, Jersey Girl. You deserve to be here. Whatever happened to Brooke was out of your control. There was nothing you could do. You hear me?”
I shudder, tightly clamping my eyelids closed. As much as my father and Charlie said it wasn’t my fault, there’s always something nudging at me that it was. Like maybe I could have saved her somehow. The thought reopens old wounds, and I burst into hard sobs. Logan pulls me into him, consoling me as I let it out.
And I do.
* * *
It’s past midnight. Logan fails at TV surfing as he nods off in bed. He’s seated up against the wooden headboard. I’m lying beside him, my head on his lap, looking up at him. His fingers gently comb through my hair, pausing midstride when he dozes off, then continuing when he comes to and flashes his eyes open.
After I cried my eyes out—when I thought there was no possible way I could shed another tear—Logan and I continued to sit by the lake. No words were spoken after that. None were needed. Logan had comforted me the only way he knew how: by holding me. His arms curled around me, his gesture silently reminding me that he wasn’t going anywhere.
We didn’t leave until it began to rain. Then we had dinner with the rest of the crew. It was a nice distraction from the haunted thoughts fighting for my attention.
When outside partiers began to trail indoors, Logan and I snuck into his room. For the past two hours, we’ve done nothing but lie here. Since Logan’s room is located by the front of the house, the music and noise from out back is very distant.
I watch him doze in and out as I continue to trace his features. My eyes scroll over his, admiring the thickness of his lashes. They’re not long, but they’re dark enough to bring out the metallic cerulean hidden behind his hooded eyelids. I suck in air as my stare drops to his stubble-covered jawline, which could quite possibly be chiseled directly from granite. My gaze dashes to his full, soft lips. As quickly as it came, the air dissipates from my lungs, as I think of exactly how those lips taste. Although I’ve only fully felt them twice against mine, I’d recognize the owner of those lips on any given day.
Immersed in every inch of his rugged aspect, I try to memorize all of it, imprinting each and every fine detail of his features, and vault it deep within my head. A place where I can lock away the perfect image of the man—
Suddenly it hits me all at once.
I hope that there’s a moment in everyone’s life when everything around them just stops. There’s no movement whatsoever, yet you feel…
Every. Single. Thing.
All of the emotions traveling through every cord, fiber, and thread of your existence—every muscle, aching. You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to drop to your knees because you feel the weight deep within your chest. It’s too difficult to bear, but you won’t let it go.
You can’t let it go.
Because deep down you know without it you’re nothing.
Lifeless.
This is madly, passionately, and without a doubt falling in love.
With every part of me, I’m falling in love.
And now that I have it, I just want to grip on to it for dear life. Because I know once it’s gone, I’ll be back to where I started: in a tomb, feeling numb. Before Logan, I thought if I stripped away any chance of feeling at all, I could keep myself from getting hurt. But I’d rather feel every single emotion, where it pains me so much to love, than feel nothing at all.
Logan makes me feel alive.
I’ve fallen in love with this man, this man that looks past my imperfections and accepts me.
I want to give him all of me. I’m in love with him. I am truly, without a doubt, deeply in love with Logan. It’s a feeling I thought I had experienced before with Eric. A feeling I thought I knew. But I never really knew this feeling. What I have for Logan sits deep in my chest, rooted at the center of my heart, submerged and hidden for no one else but him. It’s within my soul.
If I die today, my soul will forever be his.
So many emotions twirl deep within me. Tears filled with the love I have for this man obscure my vision. I’m unable to control it any longer. Sitting up, I lean in, shutting my eyes as I kiss him. The tears collect along my lashes and drip down my cheeks. Logan sucks in a breath as he awakens. It doesn’t take him long before he registers what’s happening and his lips respond, perfectly united with mine.
It’s a kiss unlike any we’ve ever shared. It’s sensuous yet obsessive and urgent. Though he’s taken off guard, he doesn’t pull away. His lips naturally mold to my mouth as if kissing me is the most natural thing in the world. He tenderly sucks on my bottom lip, gently tugging my flesh between his teeth. I lose control. I need to be near him, closer. Never breaking contact, I position myself across his lap, straddling him.
In the dark lit room, his hands find their way up and frame my tearstained face. He brushes his thumbs along my moist cheeks, but when he realizes I’ve been crying, he tries to pull away. I force our lips to hold. I don’t want to lose his touch. “Why are you crying?” he mumbles against my mouth, his fingers gripping at my face.
“Because of you,” I hum against his lips. “Because of you… I love you, Logan.” Tears sting the corner of my eyes. I shut them tightly and dig my nails into the flesh of his shoulder blade, pulling his chest against mine.
He groans at my confession. Dropping his hold from my face, Logan grips my thighs and grinds me against him. I whimper as I feel his immense hard-on. The two thin cotton layers of our pajama bottoms are the only things interfering with what we both clearly desire.
Logan slightly lifts my shirt. His fingertips taunt the flesh of my hipbone, lingering, but he doesn’t attempt to go farther up. He’s trying not to lose control within our kiss. Our tongues savor this moment in slow, long licks. He tastes sweet and salty, and I want more. A strong pull, a tug deep below my waist, pushes me closer to him.
I want to feel his skin against mine.
I want to experience his touch.
I want his lips on every inch of my flesh.
My nails rake through his hair. My breathing grows rapid; I try to catch my breath, but our kiss intensifies. I weep over his mouth—with one hand, I grab his wrist and dare him to explore under the hem of my shirt; but he maintains his hold on my hips, his fingers digging into my skin there. Does he not want this?
I pull away, my lids flash open. His hooded eyes burn with want. I shake my head, confused. “Don’t you want me?” I pant out.
Logan sucks in a breath and blows it out roughly between his words. “I want you so fuckin’ bad”
His words kindle a throbbing pleasure below my waist. I grind, rubbing against him. I slowly rotate my hips, feeling the swell in his pants. He certainly wants me, and as wet as I am, I want him just as much. “Then why are you holding back?” In a bold gesture, I tug at his wrists. He releases his hold on my hips and allows me to guide him underneath my shirt. At the hint of my bare skin, he groans, and I match it with a charged exhale as his fingertips dust a scorching trail along my flesh. I guide him up my sides, around my back, and on to the clasp of my bra strap.
His fingers linger. “Jersey Girl.” He hisses, sucking in a deep breath. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. I can’t—”
“I want this, Logan,” I cut him off. I gently rest the palm of my hands along his chest. “I want this more than anything.”
Before we can utter any more words, we lose our breath as our lips collide. His hand still grazes the clasp of my bra, wavering. Within a heartbeat, he unclips it. Finally. My breath hitches.
This is it.
This is really happening.
Heart racing, I pull away, gripping the edge of my shirt and tugging it over my head. I moisten my lips and stare down at him. So much is written in his eyes. He’s panting as his stormy blues dance around my face. It’s as if he’s mesmerized by every single carving of my features; and he seems to be analyzing what’s going through my head at this moment. I lift my hands and remove the straps of my bra, slowly dragging them down my arms and exposing my swollen breasts.
Logan’s struggling, fighting back the urge to lose control. He sucks in his bottom lip, stalling for time. His gaze drops down to my chest, but he doesn’t make a move. He brings his eyes back up to mine as if he’s seeking approval. I smile and lightly nod, wanting him to, needing him to. Desire has completely taken over. I need a stronger connection.
An intimate connection.
His hands softly slide up the side of my torso, and I arch my back, rocking against him as his fingers graze over my ribs. Logan stops just beneath my breasts. There’s a long pause between us where nothing but the sound of our panting can be heard. His lustful stare penetrates through mine, shooting flames of longing deep into my belly. His tongue darts out over his dry lips and he traces his thumbs over my nipples. Before I can react, Logan rolls us over so that my back is flush against the mattress.
He quickly removes his clothes and kneels before me, totally naked, and without a doubt the most beautiful male I have ever laid eyes on. Aching for him, I reach down to remove my bottoms, but his hand stops me. I freeze. My heart’s pounding and I’m trying to figure out what—he pulls at the string of my pants, hooking his fingers over the sides by my waist, and gently tugs them down along with my panties. They’re on the floor in a matter of seconds.
Logan touches and caresses me with his eyes, learning every inch of my bare skin. And I allow him to. I’m entirely naked before him, embracing every part of this perfect experience. For so long, I wondered at what it would feel like to be exposed before Logan Reed, to bare it all and have him soak in every fragment of my being.
I thought I’d be scared or ashamed because of who I am, because of the darkness that is a part of me. But in this moment, as affection pools in his eyes and acceptance in his heart, I feel nothing but free. Until now I hadn’t realized that Logan has been undressing me from the very first time we met. Slowly, layer-by-layer, he removed the facade that hid the real me beneath. The me I thought would always be concealed. But not anymore.
My love for him surges. The separation between us is too much. I sit up, my hand wraps around his neck, and I pull him down to me, connecting our lips once again. Instantly, we’re back in a trance, lost in our kiss, savoring each stride. I fall back onto the mattress, bringing his body down with mine, enthralled by the beat of his heart along my chest.
Logan slightly pulls away from our kiss. His lips flicker over my mouth—top, bottom, side… In a daze, I gradually open my eyes. I’m met with Logan’s adoring stare. His hand frames my face and his thumb traces up and down my jawline. Our breathing is shallow, our hearts beating as one. The tenderness in his gaze gives me all the reassurance I’d ever need. “Say it again,” he whispers. My brows draw in in confusion and I shake my head. He spreads my legs with his knee and sinks into me slightly—just the tip of him at my opening.
