His hands. His voice. That look in his eyes right before he kissed me.
I stand abruptly, yanking the curtain open to let in light.
It was just a dream, I tell myself. A filthy, graphic, completely unforgettable dream that means I probably won’t be able to look him in the eye anymore.
I open my bedroom door, cross the hall to the bathroom, lock the door behind me, and flick on the light.
The shower door squeals when I pull it open, and I crank the handle all the way to cold and step under the spray.
Maybe it’ll help, or maybe it won’t, but right now, it’s the only thing that might shut my brain up.
A harsh breath leaves my lips as the water hits my skin, but I leave the dial untouched. I let the cold seep through my muscles, hoping it’ll cool the warmth that still lingers deep in my stomach.
I brace one hand on the tile, keeping my head low as water falls down my face, and before I can talk myself out of it, my other hand slides down, wrapping around my hard cock.
Don’t think about him.
I stroke once. Twice.
“Fuck,” I hiss, biting down hard on my lip.
I try to picture anyone else. Literally anyone else. But it’s a wasted effort. Because the only thing running through my head is Logan. Logan saying my name, Logan’s nails dragging down my spine, Logan pressing against me.
My name being moaned while he kisses me, those eyes, that stupid, cocky smirk he always wears.
My hand speeds up, my hips stuttering forward, chasing the memory of the dream. The slick sound of skin-on-skin is swallowed by the water rushing around me.
I come with my hand fisted so tight I see stars, a low groan ripped out of me, my forehead slammed against the wall.
The shame hits the second after.
I hate this. I hate that it’s him. I hate how fast I lose control, how easily I get off to a stupid dream. I hate that my body wants it so damn bad.
I rinse off fast, desperate, like the water can wash him and the dream down the drain. But I know it can’t. It never fucking works.
I stand under the water until the buzzing under my skin finally stops. Then I get out, towel off, and pull on a hoodie and sweats.
The floorboards creak under my feet as I make my way down the hall, my nose twitching at the unmistakable smell of something burning.
I drag a hand through my wet hair, hoping the kitchen’s empty when I turn the corner.
But of course it’s not.
I pause when I spot Logan standing by the stove, and naturally, he’s not wearing a shirt.
He’s in nothing but plaid boxers and ankle socks, shaking a pan that’s clearly smoking, humming casually like he knows what he’s doing, but it’s clear that he absolutely doesn’t.
I stop in the doorway, desperately trying to act like I didn’t just spend the last ten minutes trying to forget what it felt like to touch him—even if it was only in a dream.
His back is turned to me and he hasn’t seen me yet, which means I have exactly three seconds to take him in before I force myself to look away. I let my gaze wander over his broad shoulders and tanned back, still golden from the summer.
Logan scratches the back of his neck, and his boxers dip lower on his hips.
I press my hand to my face, dragging it down as I shake my head before stepping fully into the kitchen.
“Do you ever wear a shirt?”
He glances at me over his shoulder when he realizes he’s not alone, and he tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Turning you on, am I?”