He didn't pull out.
He stayed inside me, still throbbing, still hard, his cock buried deep and warm and wet, his breath heavy against my neck.
I thought it was over.
That maybe he'd drift off like this, holding me, our bodies tangled, the air between us thick with sweat and silence.
But then he moved.
Just a little.
A roll of his hips.
A soft grind.
And I felt it.
Still hard.
Still aching.
Still hungry.
He wasn't done.
My body tensed, overstimulated, every nerve ending raw and open.
But I wanted it.
I wanted more.
I didn't say anything. I didn't need to.
He pulled out slowly, and I felt his cum leak down my thighs, warm and sticky, dripping onto the sheets. He looked down at the mess between us, then gripped my hips and dragged me closer.
His cock slid against my hole, coated in slick and spit and cum.
And then he pushed back in.
Harder this time.
No hesitation.
No restraint.
I gasped, arching off the bed, my hands scrambling for something to hold onto.
He started moving immediately—rough, fast, deep—his body slamming into mine with a force that made the bed creak beneath us.
This wasn't like before.
This was primal.
Urgent.
Desperate.
He growled low in his throat, not words—just sound, just need.
His fingers dug into my skin, holding me in place while he fucked into me like he was chasing something he couldn't name.
I took all of it.
Every thrust.
Every inch.
Every loud slap of skin on skin.
My cock was already hard again, twitching uselessly against the ruined sheets.
He grabbed my arm and yanked it back, pulling me upright so I was straddling him, his cock buried to the hilt, his chest pressed against my back.
His mouth found my shoulder, biting down hard enough to sting.
He grunted with every thrust, his hips slamming up into me from below now, faster, deeper.
I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
My hands found his thighs, bracing myself as I bounced on him, gasping, moaning, silent cries spilling past my lips with every brutal thrust.
The pressure built fast this time.
Too fast.
My second orgasm was rising like a wave, sharp and sudden and cruel.
He knew.
He could feel it.
He wrapped his hand around my cock and stroked me in rhythm with his thrusts—tight, fast, relentless.
I came undone.
A sharp cry.
Cum splattered across my chest, my stomach, my thighs.
My muscles spasmed around him, and he lost it.
He slammed up into me one last time and growled deep in his chest as he came again, pulsing hard inside me, filling me a second time.
So much.
It spilled out around him, leaking down my legs, soaking the sheets, mixing with sweat and the mess from before.
He stayed there, holding me against him, both of us trembling.
My chest rose and fell like I'd been running.
His heart pounded against my back.
Neither of us spoke.
There were no words for what this was.
No definitions.
Just the sound of breath.
The smell of sex.
The ache between my legs and the burn in my chest.
He kissed my neck.
Softly this time.
Slow.
Like he didn't want to leave.
And I didn't want him to.
I sank back against him, letting the weight of everything crash down over us.
He stayed inside me for as long as he could.
And when he finally pulled out, I felt everything—
The emptiness.
The slick.
The soreness.
The longing.
But I didn't move.
I just let him lie there beside me, one arm draped over my waist, his fingers curled against my skin like they didn't want to let go.
I closed my eyes.
The room smelled like sweat and sex and something softer underneath—something vulnerable. The kind of scent that lingers long after skin cools and the hunger fades.
Logan didn't speak at first.
He just lay there beside me, one arm across my stomach, his breath slowing. His thumb brushed small circles against my side, absent-minded but comforting, like he was still anchoring himself to the moment.
I turned toward him slowly, still sore, still dizzy. He met my eyes in the dark.
For the first time, he looked unsure.
Not ashamed.
Not angry.
Just unsure.
I leaned in before I could second-guess it.
My lips met his—soft, searching.
And he kissed me back.
No hesitation.
No restraint.
Just heat.
His hand slid up to cradle the back of my head, pulling me closer as our mouths moved together in silence. It wasn't rushed like before. It wasn't about need. It was something quieter. Like we'd both stepped off a ledge and were floating somewhere just outside of consequence.
He tasted like breath and warmth and sweat and something deeply, achingly male.
I opened my mouth to him, and he took it.
Tongue. Teeth. Groan.
He kissed me like he wanted to swallow me whole.
Like he couldn't believe I was real.
And I let him.
When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathless.
Our foreheads touched.
His hand lingered against my jaw.
"I shouldn't be here," he said, voice low, cracked.
"I know."
"But I can't stop."
"I don't want you to."
He exhaled like that hurt him more than it helped.
"I've never done this," he admitted.
"Neither have I."
Silence wrapped around us again, tight but not cruel.
He looked at me like he was memorizing something. Something he didn't want to forget.
Then he kissed me one more time—gentler, slower.
He pulled away.
Slid out of bed.
Found his boxers on the floor and stepped into them, glancing over his shoulder once.
"You're okay?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Yeah."
He lingered in the doorway.
"I'll be in the other room."
"Okay."
"But if you need anything…"
"I know."
He nodded once, like that settled something, and left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The room felt colder without him, but my chest was warm.
I lay there, sticky, ruined, marked.
And I smiled.
Because I knew the truth now.
He wasn't just looking.
He wasn't just wanting.
He'd already chosen.
And so had I.