Page 87 of Left Cold, Wolf Owned
Then he bends and lifts me—one arm under my knees, one across my back, the easy strength of him that still catches me off guard every time—and I wrap my arms around his neck, and he carries me down from the ridge toward the cabin, and I laugh against his shoulder, and he says nothing, but I feel him smile.
The fire islow when we get inside.
Logan kicks the door shut behind us and sets me down, and I barely have my feet under me before he's kissing me again, and I think briefly about the fire needing logs and then decide the fire can manage itself.
He pulls back enough to look at me, and I can see exactly where the patience went. He spent it on the walk down from the ridge, and what's in his face now is what was underneath it the entire time.
Finish what we started.The thought is written clearly across every line of his face.
I reach up and pull him back down by the collar, and he comes willingly, and we move toward the bedroom with the particular momentum of two people who have made a decision and are done making it slowly.
He takes his time. He always takes his time, and I have stopped finding it frustrating and started finding it one of the most specific things I love about him—the deliberateness of it, the way he treats every moment like it deserves his full attention.
He works me out of my clothes with unhurried hands, his eyes moving over me in the firelight with an appreciation that bypasses self-consciousness entirely. I have never felt morelooked at in my life than I do when Logan looks at me, and I mean that in every possible good way.
We end up on the bed the way we always end up on the bed—nothing declared, nothing performed, solely two people moving toward the same thing at the same time.
I push his flannel off his shoulders and let my hands move over him—the broad chest, the stomach, the mountain-earned build that belongs entirely to the work and the land and the life—and I feel him go still in the particular way he goes still when I'm paying attention to him rather than letting him direct everything.
"Your turn," I tell him.
He looks at me with those gray eyes. "My turn for what?"
I answer by pressing him back against the headboard and swinging my leg over to straddle his thighs, and I work my way down.
I take my time with his jaw, his throat, his chest, and the flat plane of his stomach—and I feel his hands tighten in my hair, the discipline holding right up until it doesn't, fraying at the edges the way it does when something reaches past it.
When I pull his jeans off and find him—hard and wanting, his cock thick and already beading at the tip—he exhales something that is not a word, and his hand in my hair goes very still.
I wrap my hand around him first, feeling the heat of him, the weight, and the way he responds to even that much with a low sound that bypasses everything careful about him. I run my thumb across the tip, spreading the drop of pre-cum there, and feel him shudder.
"Harper," he manages.
"Mmm," I acknowledge and lower my head.
He tastes like salt and warmth and something that is simply, completely him—familiar now in the way that things becomefamiliar when you've decided to keep them—and I take my time, learning the places that make his breath catch and the rhythm that pulls the most honest sounds out of him. His hand stays in my hair, not directing, but holding on, and I can feel him fighting to stay still and losing incrementally, which is its own particular kind of satisfaction.
The sounds he makes do things to me. Low and involuntary, dragged out of all that careful self-control, and what they do goes considerably deeper than my skin.
"Harper." His voice has dropped to something rough and wrecked, the full composure entirely gone. "Come here. Right now."
I look up at him.
He is looking back at me with an expression that could strip paint.
I come here.
He brings me up to him and rolls us and takes his turn, his mouth finding me with the same focused attention I gave him. I grip the sheets and say his name in a way that has completely abandoned dignity. He reads me completely—total, unhurried, entirely committed to every response I give him—until the pleasure tears through me—my whole body shaking, his name leaving my throat in a sound I don't manage or muffle—and he stays with me through every second of it until I pull him back up by the shoulders.
I'm still catching my breath when he moves back up the full length of me. His body is warm and solid and entirely present, and then I feel him—the broad head of his cock at my entrance, certain and ready in a way that makes my whole body answer before I've decided anything.
"Now," I tell him, before he can be careful about it. "Logan. Now."
He drives forward in one smooth stroke, and I feel him everywhere at once—the fullness of him, the heat, the specific and total reality of being completely filled by someone who knows exactly what they're doing and is paying full attention while they do it.
"God," I breathe, adjusting to him. "You are?—"
"I know," he says, low and satisfied, and I feel him smile against my temple, and I would find that insufferable if everything didn't feel quite so extraordinary.
