Page 47 of Left Cold, Wolf Owned
I reach for the buttons on his flannel and begin loosening them. From there, the heat between us takes over.
He walks me backward toward his bedroom door, kissing me between words, between breaths, one hand still in my hair and the other learning the shape of my waist through my shirt, and by the time the backs of my knees find the bed, I've lost the thread of everything except him.
He pulls back and looks at me—really looks, the way he looks at the territory from the ridge, like he's taking the full measure of it and intends to remember every detail—and his hands move to the hem of my shirt and lift it over my head slowly, watching my face the whole time.
The firelight from the other room catches the angles of him as he finally shrugs out of his flannel, and I get to look at him properly for the first time. Broad shoulders that fill the room differently when there's nothing between them and me. The powerful build earned through years on this mountain—chest wide and solid, stomach flat and carved, the kind of body that doesn't come from a gym but from actual work, from splitting wood and running terrain and carrying the weight of a life lived physically. Dark blond chest hair, a trail of it running south. The old pale scars along his forearms that I've been looking at for all this time and am only now allowed to touch.
I trace one slowly with my fingertips and feel him go very still.
"These," I tell him quietly. "Someday you'll tell me about these."
"Someday," he agrees, and the certainty in it lands in my chest like an anchor.
He reaches around me and unclasps my bra and slides it off my shoulders, and then he looks at me—unhurried, entirely present, his gray eyes moving over me in the low light with an attention that bypasses self-consciousness entirely. I don't feelexposed. I feel seen, which is different and better and something I didn't know I needed until right now.
"Harper." Only my name. The whole sentence.
He lays me back against the pillows and kisses down my throat, my collarbone, and the curve of my breast, taking his time at every point. His mouth finds my nipple, and my back arches involuntarily, a sound leaving me that I make no effort to contain. He responds to it with a low hum against my skin—deliberate, satisfied—and moves to the other side, and I get my hands into his hair and hold on.
He works my jeans off, hands running the full length of my legs with an unhurried attention that makes me aware of every inch of ground between my hip and my ankle, and when he hooks his fingers into the last scrap of fabric and draws it down; he takes his time doing that too, watching me the whole way.
Then he settles between my thighs, and I feel his breath against my pussy before I feel anything else, and the anticipation of it makes me grip the pillow above my head.
"Logan," I manage to moan out.
"I've got you," he replies, low. "I've got you."
He lowers his head, and his tongue finds me, and I stop existing as a coherent person.
He reads me the way he reads everything—with full, unhurried attention—learning what makes me gasp and what makes my thighs tremble and what makes his name come out of me in pieces I don't recognize as words anymore. My hips roll toward him instinctively, and he lets them, one hand flat on my stomach, anchoring me without restraining me, and the pleasure builds the way everything with Logan builds—steadily, with total commitment, not rushing any of it.
"You taste—" he starts, low against me, “so good.”
"Don't stop talking," I tell him, breathless. "And don't stop doing that."
He doesn't stop doing that.
Two fingers find me while his mouth keeps working—thick and slow, curling somehow to my breath, disappearing entirely—and I feel the tension coiling at the base of my spine, tightening with every stroke.
"Logan—" His name comes out wrecked. "I'm going to?—"
"I know," he replies, against me. "Let go."
I come apart completely. My back leaves the bed, his name tears out of my throat, and he stays with me through every wave of it—unhurried, thorough, wringing every last tremor from me before he finally lifts his head.
I am breathing like I've been running.
"Come here," I manage to rasp. "Right now. Please."
He stands to remove the rest of his clothing, and I watch, and the watching undoes me in a different way. He is built to the same scale as everything else about him—his cock thick and hard and already wanting, the sight of him making my moist pussy clench with anticipation. He is—the word that comes to mind is significant, and I say so, and he makes a sound that I'm choosing to interpret as a laugh.
"You're staring," he observes.
"I'm appreciating," I correct. "There's a difference."
He comes back to the bed, settles over me, and I feel the broad warmth of his body against every inch of mine—the weight of him, the solidity—and I reach between us and wrap my hand around his cock, feeling the heat of him, the thickness, and the way he exhales sharply at my grip.
"Harper," he says, low and strained.
