Page 49 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

His thrusts become erratic, powerful, and desperate. I'm beyond thought, beyond words, beyond anything but sensation. When he reaches between us to circle my clit, I break apart for the fourth time, my inner muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

With a curse and my name on his lips, Logan follows, tensing above me as he finds his release. The sight of him lost in pleasure, all that control finally shattered, is something I'll never forget.

He collapses beside me, careful not to crush me with his weight. For long minutes, we lie there. I'm genuinely not sure I can move.

“Holy shit,” I finally manage, my voice hoarse from screaming.

Logan turns his head to look at me, a mixture of satisfaction and something more vulnerable in his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees simply.

He gets up to dispose of the condom, and I take the opportunity to check out his ass. Perfect, just like the rest of him. When he returns, he hesitates for a moment before sliding back into bed beside me.

I tense, waiting for him to say something, to set boundaries, to remind me this was just sex. Instead, he pulls me against him, my back to his chest, his arm draped over my waist.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

I should leave. Go back to the guest room. Maintain some distance, some dignity. But his warmth feels so good, his breath steady against my neck, and I'm so fucking tired of fighting what I want.

So I stay, curving into him like puzzle pieces. Sleep pulls at me, dragging me under despite my best efforts to stay awake, to savor this moment that feels both perfect and scary as hell.

The last thing I remember is his arm tightening around me, holding me closer, as though he's afraid I might disappear if he lets go.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Emily

Istretch, feeling a slight pain between my legs that brings a smile to my lips. A delicious reminder of last night etched into my muscles. Logan’s scent is everywhere, and my hand reaches across the bed for him, but all I find are cold, empty sheets. My smile fades as I sit up, looking around in confusion.

Rising from the bed sends another ripple of soreness through me. I wrap myself in the discarded sheet and pad across the cold hardwood floors. The first door I try is a bathroom twice the size of mine, with all gleaming surfaces and black granite. Empty. His walk-in closet yields only suits and shirts arranged by color, with each hanger arranged at the same distance apart. What a neat freak.

I follow the scent of coffee to the kitchen, where I find him fully dressed in his work clothes, staring out the window with a steaming mug in his hand. His shoulders tense when he hears me approach.

“Morning,” I say, trying to sound casual despite the sheet wrapped toga-style around me and my sex-mussed hair. “Any coffee left for the rest of us mere mortals?”

He turns, and my stomach drops. His expression is closed off, professional, so unlike the man who looked at me with such hunger last night.

“We need to talk,” he says, setting his mug down.

Those four words are never a good sign in the history of human interaction. I clutch the sheet tighter around me, suddenly feeling exposed in ways that have nothing to do with my lack of clothing.

“Last night was...” he begins, running a hand through his hair, “a mistake.”

“Wow. Don’t sugarcoat it or anything,” I joke.

“I’m your employer, Emily. And your landlord, essentially. It was unprofessional of me to cross that line.”

“Pretty sure I was an enthusiastic participant in that line-crossing.”

“That’s not the point.” He won’t meet my eyes now. “We need to be adults about this.”

“Adults,” I repeat, the word tasting bitter. “Right.”

“I think it’s best to forget last night happened and maintain a strictly professional relationship moving forward.” He delivers this as if he’s reading from a manual. “For both our sakes.”

“Fine by me.” I shrug and force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “It was just sex, Logan. Amazing sex, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not planning our wedding or anything.”

Something flickers across his face—relief? disappointment?—before that mask slides back into place. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” He checks his watch. “I need to head to the clinic early. I have to meet with some pharmaceutical representative.”

Convenient. I’ve never heard of any meeting today, and I am the one who takes all his appointments.

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