It’s dark, but I can see clearly.
He stands beside the window, looking out over the property. But he looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes waiting.
I let my own wander over him. He wears a pair of jeans. His feet are bare. A gray t-shirt hugs his form nicely.
I push her away. The woman who knows every inch of this man. Who has touched every surface of his body.
I don’t want to be in this moment with her experience in my head.
Right now, I just want to be Logan.
Cyrus stares at me, waiting for my cues. But I see it in his eyes, the burning. The embers. The desire—for a lot of things.
I step inside and close the door behind me.
Slowly, I cross the room through the dark. One step at a time I approach Cyrus, holding his eyes the entire time.
He’s silent, but his eyes say a million words. They run up and down me as I cross the space. I wear an oversized shirt that falls halfway to my knees. His eyes take in my legs. Linger on my shoulder where the neck of the shirt has slid off.
I stop just inches from him and let my eyes fall to the space between us. I reach for his hand and lace my fingers into his.
“We may have pretended for a few weeks,” I say quietly. My heart is racing, my blood surging through all the feminine parts in me. “Put on a show. But in the end, it was real for me. It did things to me.”
“The past few weeks-”
“Please don’t say anything,” I say, cutting him off. My eyes wander over him, taking every bit of him in, but never quite meet his eyes. “Please just let me have this.” I pull our hands up, resting them against my chest. “For just this night, please just be with me.”
I know he can feel it, my heart thundering inside of my rib cage. The sensation of his skin, his hand against my chest, it’s overwhelming. I crave his touch. After the past few weeks of longing, of imagining, of fantasizing what it would be like to be touched by Cyrus, here I am.
I asked him not to speak, so he doesn’t.
Instead, he wraps his hand around my waist. He draws me in close and he wraps his other hand behind my neck.
I let my eyes slide closed. I wrap my arms around the man who has done such complicated things to my heart. I run my hands up his back, appreciating every muscle on his body.
His breath warms my neck as it comes out in a big sigh. It sends a wave of goose bumps across my skin and I let my head fall backward as a little sound escapes between my lips.
It’s just a slight brush at first, his bottom lip against my collarbone. So soft I can’t even feel him, only his warmth. But then it happens again, and once more. He shifts, and soon his lips are pressed to the side of my neck, slowly working their way up to the hollow beneath my ear.
I let my hands fall, slowly sliding down, tracing along Cyrus’ sides, until they catch on his belt. Through the dark, my fingers search, until they find the hem of his shirt. They slide under the fabric, and my breath catches when they come in contact with flesh.
A needy groan escapes Cyrus’ mouth when I touch him and the frenzy in me doubles.
I’ve fantasized about this dozens of times over these past few weeks. Wondered what my view would be with his shirt removed. Wondered how he would feel. Wondered how he would smell from this close. Wondered what kinds of sounds I could make him make.
His hand slides down, dips dangerously low on my back.
I continue letting my hands slide up.
Over his stomach. Over rises and falls.
Up over his chest muscles.
And it’s not enough.
In a swift motion, I pull further up, and Cyrus raises his arms, letting me remove his shirt entirely.
I place one hand on his chest, the other slowly sliding up his arm, appreciating his sculpted body.
Possessively, his hands grip the fabric at my hips and pulls mine to his. His lips come to my jaw, moving up. My entire body ignites with electric sparks when he gently pulls at my earlobe with his teeth.
I moan, utterly satisfied and craving a million degrees more of his touch.
His grip on my hips tightens and I rise up onto my toes. As if I weighed nothing at all, he lifts me, spinning in one motion. He pins me against the wall, his hips holding me in place, pressing hard into me.
His eyes hold a dim glow of red, but I can tell, mine are brilliant and bright. I can’t hold anything back right now. Can’t think straight to do so in the moment.
My hands return to his chest, relishing in the feeling of my skin against his.
Cyrus takes the hem of my shirt and in one swift motion, pulls it up and over my head and lets it fall to the floor at his feet.
His mouth once more returns to the hollow at the base of my throat and my head falls back against the wall. My hands rise up, fisting in his hair. My fingers lace through its thickness.
Another fantasy fulfilled tonight.
His hands caress my back, rising up, his fingers splayed, as if trying to gain every inch of contact possible. I arch into him, needing more. Craving more of him.
“Logan,” he breathes against my flesh.
And a wave crashes down on top of me, drowning me.
My hands come to either side of his face and his eyes meet mine.
Longing. Lust. Desire.
And I want it to be there. Maybe it is, but I’m too scared it isn’t real:
Love.
“Say it again,” I beg him.
He watches me for a moment, and I know he has to be overanalyzing my request.
But the heat does not diminish in his eyes.
His grip on me tightens, and he steps away from the wall. My legs stay wrapped around his waist and he carries us to the bed in the middle of the room.
Gently he lays me down on it, hovering just above me, his eyes locked on mine. His hands come to my hips, and slowly the right one trails down. His eyes wander. To my stomach. To the black panties I wear. Up, over the bra I wear, over the rise of my breasts.
He dips, pressing his lips to my stomach. “Logan,” he whispers against my flesh.
Once more, my hands come to fist in his hair. I arch against the bed, anxious and eager for his touch.
“Logan,” he says again. His eyes slide closed and he draws my knee up, holding it against his side.
My eyes flutter closed and every cell in my body is focused on the sensation of his hands exploring my body.
I love you. The words echo in my brain.
But there are too many sides to this. Too many complicated aspects. And the words cannot come past my lips. Not yet.
For now, I can just touch him. I can just exist in this moment, being with Cyrus. Finally.
Finally.
Me and Cyrus. Together.
Chapter 3
I don’t sleep. But eventually I turn on my side, looking out the window. Cyrus curls up behind me, an arm wrapped possessively around my waist. Slowly he breathes against the back of my neck.
He never says anything, as I asked. But we lie there for hours, just existing.
I don’t let him kiss me. He never tried. I have no doubt he was thinking about earlier when I backed away from him. He’s very much going off of my cues. I never try to kiss him directly on the lips. I need to be at peace with both of my selves before I can do that.
And we don’t have sex. There was endless touching. His hands on me, mine all over him. Lips on skin and bodies tangled together. But not sex.
That part is complicated. Again, I need to be at peace with every part of myself. But I’ve also never taken that step. I’ve never been with anyone like that.
Around six in the morning, Cyrus presses a gentle kiss to the back of my neck and rolls out of bed. I watch him walk to the closet. He grabs a button-up shirt and he stands in the doorway, watching me as he buttons it up, slowly.
“Good morning,” he says quietly as he leans against the doorway, sliding his hands into his back pockets.
I don’t say anything. Maybe I manage a small smile. But I’m mostly just watching him.