Page 72 of Obeying

"Kristen, I⁠—"

I pull him in and kiss him. Because whatever he was about to say, I already know. And I'd rather show him than let him finish the sentence.

This time is different from the cabin. The cabin was a rush. This, I want slowly.

His hands slide down my sides, and I can feel the warmth of his palms through my shirt. I pull at his collar, and he lets me unbutton his shirt, one by one, while his mouth moves along my jaw. His lips taste like coffee and something sweeter, and when I push the shirt off his shoulders, I press my mouth to his neck, and his breath catches.

He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around him. He carries me down the hall, his mouth on mine, and my back hits the doorframe on the way in.

"Ow."

He pulls back. "Sorry. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Keep going."

He laughs, low, against my mouth. "Yes, ma'am."

Then we're in his room, and he sets me on the edge of the bed.

He kneels, looks up at me, his hands on my knees.

This image. Logan Maxwell on his knees, looking up at me with those eyes. I don't think I'll ever recover from it.

"What are you doing?" I whisper, the words barely making it past the thick lump in my throat.

"Taking my time," he says, his voice a low, gravelly anchor in the quiet room. He doesn't look away, his gaze holding mine.

It's what I want—slow—but I hear myself saying, "Don't take too much." My fingers tremble where they bunch the fabric of the bedspread.

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Impatient, are we?" He moves, his palms warm against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, dragging a trail of fire upward that makes my breath hitch.

"Just a little," I manage.

He leans up and lifts my shirt over my head in one smooth motion, his eyes dark, heavy with a hunger that makes me shiver despite the heat radiating off him. When he kisses the hollow of my collarbone, the pressure is slow and agonizingly thorough. He maps the curve of my ribs with his fingertips, his touch so careful I feel like I might shatter under it.

He moves lower, pressing his lips to my stomach, then the sharp bone of my hip, his breath a hot, ragged ghost against my skin. Every place he touches feels branded. When he slips my jeans away, his hands linger, his thumbs tracing the line of my thigh until I'm dizzy. He refuses to rush, taking his time on every spot, savoring the way I arch into him, the way my nails dig into the sheets as I try to breathe through the slow, steady burn of his attention.

The patience of this man—the way he systematically dismantles my composure, millimeter by millimeter—is going to kill me.

"Logan." His name comes out breathless. "You're being very thorough."

"I'm always thorough." His mouth moves lower. His breath is warm against my skin. "You should know that about me by now."

I pull him back up to me because I need his mouth on mine. I need his weight. I kiss him deeply. His hands find my hips, and he presses into me, and I can feel all of him, and I make a sound against his mouth that I would be embarrassed about if I could think straight.

He groans. Low. The vibration of it goes through my whole body.

"You're amazing," he says against my ear. His voice is rough, unraveled. And hearing Logan Maxwell unraveled because of me is doing something to my brain that I never want to recover from.

When he sinks into me, it's slow. He moves with me, not ahead of me. His forehead drops to mine, his fingers lacing through mine, pressing them into the pillow above my head. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, fast, matching mine. His breathing is ragged in my ear, and every sound he makes tells me more than words.

"Look at me," he says.

I open my eyes. He's right there. Close enough that I can see the green in his gray eyes. And he looks at me while we move together. I don't look away. I can't. I don't want to. I want him to see everything on my face because I'm done hiding from this man.

His rhythm changes. Deepens. My fingers tighten around his. My back arches, his free hand slides beneath me, pulling me closer, and I can feel everything building, this slow heat that's been climbing since he kissed me in the living room, since he looked at me across that table, since the first day he called out to me in a hospital hallway.

"Logan." His name breaks on my lips.