I wake up to pain. Sweet, delicious, earned-every-bruise pain. My inner thighs burn. My hips ache where his fingers dug in. And my core—well. Let's just say walking might require some mental preparation.
The mattress dips beside me. Logan, already dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal henley, scrolls through his phone. His jaw is tight, the tendons in his neck prominent. The morning light cuts across his features, giving him a stony, distant look.
So much for afterglow.
I grab my phone from the nightstand. Seven angry texts from Penelope light up my screen:
[PENELOPE: Okay, didn't expect to come home to this. Seriously? Some of us have class tomorrow. Hint: It's BOTH OF US. (10:27 p.m.)]
[PENELOPE: Seriously, I'm about to come knock on your door and make shit awkward. At least have the decency to let Logan answer it. Naked. I wanna see it for myself. For science. (11:13 p.m.)]
