Page 45 of Stitch & Steel
But slow.
God,so slow.
Because she deserved more than a quick fix. More than rough in the dark. She deserved to be ruinedright—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 Isawher—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.
Thirteen
BELLA
The world stopped spinningthe 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 exceptthrough 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.
