Page 13 of Stitch & Steel

Thirteen

BELLA

The world stopped spinning the second Logan touched me.

One rough hand in my hair, the other sliding beneath my dress like he had every right to be there—and maybe he did. Because I let him. Because I wanted him.

God, I wanted him.

He kissed me slow, deep, like he was tasting a promise. One I hadn’t meant to make. One I couldn’t take back now, even if I wanted to.

And I didn’t.

I lay back on his leather kutte, soft grass under my skin, stars overhead like a cathedral ceiling, and Logan hovering above me like the only religion I needed.

My dress was around my waist, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a prayer as he moved over me, eyes locked on mine. That first stretch, the push of him thick and hard, made my whole body tighten around him.

“Logan,” I whispered, nails raking down his back. “Ah?—”

“Look at me,” he rasped, his voice molten. “I want to see your face when I make you mine.”

And he did.

Every slow, possessive thrust branded me. Hot steel. Raw heat. A promise made flesh.

He filled me, stretched me, moved like he had all night to love me right—deep and thorough, so there was no forgetting this. No mistaking it for anything but what it was.

He rocked into me, slow and steady, grinding in with little rolls of his hips that made my toes curl. That made my body climb higher and higher with no way down except through him .

The coarse hair on his thighs, the ripple of muscle under his back, the ink on his skin catching moonlight like magic— all of him . It was too much. Not enough.

I shattered when he reached down and circled my clit with the pad of his thumb, whispering, “Come for me, pretty girl.”

And I did.

Hard.

Back arching. Voice caught. Hips jerking against his like I could pull him even deeper.

I barely came down before he thrust harder, faster, chasing his own edge, his face buried in my neck.

Then he groaned—raw, low, guttural—and I felt him pulse inside me.

Hot. Fierce. Claiming.

My whole body trembled as he spilled into me, hips grinding like he wanted to stay there forever.

He didn’t pull away, didn’t speak right away.

He just held me, breath hitching against my skin.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, legs still wrapped around him like I couldn’t let go.

Because I couldn’t.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

I was still throbbing from the first time—skin damp, thighs sticky, breath unsteady—when Logan rolled over, wrapped me in his arms like I belonged there, and murmured, “You’re safe, darlin’. Always will be.”

That rough, whiskey-warm voice of his made my stomach flip. But it wasn’t just his voice—it was the way he held me. The way he covered me like armor, like he was carved from iron and still soft enough to kiss me like I mattered.

“My men are out there,” he said into my hair. “Keeping a wide eye. Perimeter’s locked down. You’re mine tonight.”

That word— mine —did things to me I wasn’t ready to admit.

And when he slid his hand down my belly, slow and possessive, heat shot through me all over again.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he said roughly. “Not after that.”

I turned to him, heart pounding. “Then don’t stop.”

That’s all it took.

He flipped me onto my back and pinned my wrists above my head, eyes dark and hungry like a man starved. “Say it again,” he rasped.

“Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

His mouth crashed into mine, tasting like wild air and want. His teeth nipped my bottom lip, not enough to hurt—just enough to brand. His hand was already between my thighs, fingers slicking through what he’d left behind, smirking when he found me wet and wanting.

“Still soaked for me?” he growled, dragging the pads of his fingers right where I needed them most.

I gasped. “Yes.”

“Damn right you are.”

He slid two fingers inside, curling them just so, watching every reaction like he was memorizing my blueprint. “You got no idea what you do to me.”

“Show me,” I whispered, arching into him.

Logan didn’t need a second invitation. He went down on me like he had something to prove. Tongue rough, then soft, then relentless. He sucked my clit like it was the only thing keeping him alive, growling low when I trembled under him, thighs squeezing tight.

“Come on, baby,” he said. “Give it to me.”

And I did.

With a loud cry and a body-shaking climax that had me biting my lip to keep from screaming his name loud enough for his men to hear.

But Logan wasn’t finished.

He rose over me, the muscles in his chest flexing, that thick cock of his glistening, proud, and ready for round two. He didn’t tease this time. Didn’t ease in slow. He pushed inside me in one thick stroke, groaning at the way I gripped him.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he growled.

He rode me hard, hips slamming into mine with purpose, hands everywhere—on my throat, my hips, my breasts, like he needed to touch every inch of me to prove I was real.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed against my ear. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“Yours, Logan. Fuck— yours .”

He grunted and drove deeper, each thrust shaking the stars loose overhead. I dug my nails into his back, legs locked around his waist, holding him in, keeping him there, right where I needed him.

“I’ll ruin you for anyone else,” he promised, voice gritty and low. “And you’ll fucking love every second.”

I didn’t disagree.

When he came again, it was brutal and beautiful—hips stuttering, face buried in my neck as he spilled deep inside me with a sound that cracked me open.

He collapsed over me, breath ragged, body trembling with restraint.

Then he kissed me—softly, reverently.

“I meant it,” he whispered. “You’re safe. You’re mine. And I’ll fight the world to keep you.”