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Watching Logan play hockey throughout high school, I longed to run my hands along every line and curve of his six-pack abs and bulging muscles, but I couldn’t risk putting myself out there when I knew he’d be drafted when he turned eighteen.
Palming my left breast, I lean into his touch, as a not so silent plea escapes my lips. Bucking my hips again, we caught a spark of friction that had us both moaning.
Opening his eyes, Logan groans. “We probably shouldn’t do this,” he sighs, easing back. “We’ve both been drinking.”
“It’s okay. I think we’ve both sobered up.”
“It still doesn’t feel right,” he says, lowering my feet back to the floor.
Knowing he’s right only made me want him even more. Fixing my clothes, I agreed with him. “You’re right,” I reply, my mouth going so dry I wondered how I even uttered the words.
Watching me stand here, Logan runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. That really wasn't fair of me to get you all hot and bothered, only to put a stop to it,” he apologizes, feeling guilty.
“You were right to call it off,” I reassure him, capturing his face in my hands. “This is on me just as much as it is on you,” I say. “Besides, Taylor will be along any minute.”
Staying true to his gentlemanly self, he offers me his arm. “Let me at least help you get settled before we call it a night.”
“I’d like that,” I said, accepting the help.
