She twirls around and starts walking. I follow behind her. “Oh no, you’re still an asshole for not seeing Jenna sooner, but I admit I was wrong about your feelings and intentions toward her. I can tell now that you really care about her.”
“Thanks,” is all I can say. “Before we go in, I just need to grab something from my truck.”
“Sure.”
Wrapping the towel around my chest, I stand before the mirror. I wipe away the fog and stare at my reflection. “What now?” I say to myself. I guess I just keep going. There’s nothing else I can do. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but I need to keep going for today. It’s the only way to regain my strength.
Breathe. It’s the first step, which I do.
After I’m done, I step into my room and freeze. My fingers grip the towel in place; my chest expands too quickly, trying to fight for air as my heart pounds away. I press my lips together, composing myself so as not to launch across the room and cling onto him. There’s no way this can be real.
“Charlie let me in,” he says, standing by the edge of my bed.
I close my eyes tight, willing my head to take the image away. When I open them he’s still there.
He bows his head, looking down at an item held in his hand and then looks up at me. Red lines the rims of his stormy blue eyes, those eyes I’ve fallen in love with.
“What are you doing here, Logan?” I choke over the words scraping up from my dry throat and mouth. This is real. He’s actually here.
Logan wets his lips, hesitant to say anything. We both just stand there, waiting. Finally he speaks first. “Jenna, I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“For everything; the way I acted when you told me about your—” He pauses. “About your disorder. The last few days I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around all of it. And no matter how much I’ve researched and tried to figure out why you suffer from this disorder, it hasn’t changed the feelings I have for you.”
“It hasn’t?”
He shakes his head, taking a step forward; there’s still so much space between us. He goes on, “No. I still care for you. I still want you.”
“But—”
“No. There are no more ifs, ands, or buts between us. There’s no mistaking any of it. I want us to be together. I want your struggles to be mine. I want you to be able to come to me for everything, Jersey Girl. I want to be there for you. You have to trust that I will never give up on us.”
I look down. “I felt like you did, that you decided to just give up.” My shoulders slowly lift into a shrug. “It’s understandable. I couldn’t blame you. I couldn’t ask you to take this on. It’s a lot to ask.”
His boots slide across the floor until they’re in my view. His closeness knocks the air out of my lungs. I continue to look down, staring at the round peep of his scuffed-up Tims. Logan crooks a finger under my chin, lifting my head back until he’s fully gazing at every emotionally-shattered feature etched on my face, and I witness all the wretched pain stamped on his.
His eyes take on a look of sorrow, of compassion, of regret, of love. “I hate seeing you like this and I hate even more that I’m responsible for it.” He releases the finger under my chin and frames the right side of my profile with his hand. I weaken against his touch, fluttering my eyes closed at the comfort found in the connection.
“I’m never giving up on what we have, Jenna.”
I know it’s wrong to ask this of him, but his closeness, his touch compels me to ask anyway. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
Before I can utter another word, Logan’s lips are on mine, binding our tiny pact. My breath, my lips, my tongue, my teeth, everything I have becomes a part of this kiss, inhaling and tasting and feeling and reveling in what I’ve been longing for since the very first time our lips disconnected so long ago. The first one was purely chemical, lust and desire. But this one? This one is passion and longing and promises and fireworks, fucking fireworks. As his tongue gently dives into my mouth, dancing with mine, my body falls into his. With one hand still on my face, he snakes his free arm around my waist to keep me in place, still gripping onto the item in his hand.
I try to keep my composure but fail as I moan against his mouth and lift onto my toes. My arms find their way around his neck. My towel—which hasn’t fully dropped because it’s pinched between us—has slipped, exposing the swell of my breast. We’re hungry for more, starved by the time we’ve spent denying and repressing our feelings for one another. Logan drops whatever item was in his hand, his fingers gripping into the small of my back, tugging me ever closer to him.
The hand that was framed around my face is now gently fisting into my hair. Small gulps of air between kisses, our tongues twirl, entwine, and lash, growing thirstier for one another. He groans he wants me, and I moan I want him too. Our sounds turn this slow burn into an inferno. In one swoop he lifts me and carries me to the bed, our lips still molded to one another.
My back flush against the mattress, the towel loosens—exposing my breast and peaking nipples. A small groan rumbles deep within his throat. Logan drops his head; his tongue skims over my nipple before fully sucking in my small breast. I tilt my head back, raking my teeth over the flesh of my bottom lip to savor the aching pleasure. My fingers dig into his scalp as his hand finds its way down between my thighs; teasing, he circles his palm over my nub.
We ignore the knock on the door. It’s probably Charlie, checking in on us. I lift Logan’s head with my hand and bring his lips back to mine. Another knock. I groan out, “Leave us alone, Charlie.”
“It’s not Charlie.”
I freeze. My eyelids fly open. “Who’s that?” Logan asks, whispering.
“My father,” I say, scrambling out from beneath Logan. “Just a second, Daddy,” I shout out, running over to the dresser and rummaging through a drawer. I grab the first ankle-length nightgown I can find and toss it on. I look over at Logan. He’s up on his feet, his hand shoved in his jeans, trying to adjust himself. There’s no helping him right now, and he curses under his breath when he realizes there’s no hiding his erection. Then he lightly jogs over to the object he dropped earlier—it’s a large, square-shaped item covered in newspaper. I smile at that little thought, and he holds onto it, using it to guard the bulge currently struggling against his jeans.