Page 12 of Stitch & Steel

Twelve

LOGAN

The lake was glass, holding stars like secrets. Bella’s hand was soft in mine as we strolled along the water’s edge, shoes abandoned, toes sinking into cool grass.

She didn’t say much.

Didn’t have to.

The night was made for whispers and sighs—and I heard every single one she didn’t speak.

God and the stars were watching. So was fate, if you believed in that kind of thing. And tonight, I did.

I stopped walking, tugging her gently toward me. Her dress shimmered like moonlight, brushing her thighs with each step. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted from our kiss.

I couldn’t hold back anymore.

I cupped her face, kissed her slow— real slow —like time could bend if I made it. Like the universe would stop spinning if she just let me keep kissing her forever.

Her fingers twisted in my shirt. Needing me. Wanting me.

I spread my kutte down in the soft grass and lowered her onto it, cradling her like something breakable—something precious. The leather caught the scent of her skin, wildflowers and something sweeter.

She looked up at me, eyes half-lidded, dark with need.

I knelt beside her, ran my fingers along her shoulder, then slowly— slowly —slipped the straps of her dress down.

She gasped when my mouth found her breast.

I kissed her there like I was learning something sacred. Tongue circling, teeth grazing, then a soft blow of breath that made her shiver all over.

She whimpered, arching toward me, fingers threading into my hair.

“Logan…”

Yeah, I liked the way she said my name like that. Like it meant something. Like I could be more than danger and chrome and scars.

My hand slipped under the hem of her dress, sliding up along smooth, shaking thighs. She was wet— damn wet—and I hadn’t even really touched her yet.

“Sweetheart,” I rasped, mouth against her skin. “You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?”

She didn’t answer with words.

She pulled me down on top of her, pressing her hips into mine with a hunger that damn near unraveled me.

Her legs wrapped around my waist, dress bunched around her hips. The kiss turned deep, dirty, desperate. Her hands pushed my shirt up and I shucked it off, needing her skin on mine like I needed breath.

Every inch of her burned under me.

Every sound she made poured straight into my bloodstream.

And yeah—I made love like a biker.

Tantalizing. Hungry. Hot.

But slow.

God, so slow .

Because she deserved more than a quick fix. More than rough in the dark. She deserved to be ruined right —with reverence. With heat that would keep her up at night remembering the way my hands knew exactly where to go. The way my mouth worshipped her, made her tremble.

The way I saw her—brilliant, fiery, tender. And mine.

And when I finally pushed inside her—when she gasped and clung to me like I was her anchor—I realized something:

I wasn’t falling anymore.

I was already gone.