My gaze drifts downward, fixating on the clear puddle glistening between my feet on the elevator floor.
Jesus.
Soone has to co in here and clean that.
The thought churns my stomach. Will they know what happened in here? Who happened in here?
A wave of embarrassnt burns up my chest and neck, and I start wondering why I ever let horny Nicole out of her cage.
Logan loosens his grip and carefully sets down. My legs wobble beneath . I can’t even look at him. The jerk is the reason I’m like this. Him and his pheromones and his dirty mouth and...
He couldn’t wait two seconds for the elevator to reach his floor? We could have done this in private.
Granted, it might have been a little less hot. Just a fraction.
But I wouldn’t have to sit here with the vision of soone with a spray bottle of bleach and rags cleaning up the evidence of our... indiscretion.
His lips press against my bare shoulder—surprisingly gentle after what we just did. The contrast steals my breath.
"You’re absolutely fucking magnificent," he murmurs. His voice is low and close, brushing against my skin. "A literal goddess."
"I made a ss," I whisper, still staring at it.
He chuckles. "You certainly did. And I loved every second of it."
He kisses the junction of my neck and shoulder, then drags his lips up behind my ear. "That’s the highest complint a woman can give a man, you know. Showing exactly how good I make you feel."
The praise lts through , warming what embarrassnt had frozen. I lean into him, my limbs still jelly.
His hand cups my breast, thumb grazing over my nipple with lazy, confident possession. "Wonder what other hidden talents we might discover tonight."
Panic shoots through . "Logan—"
"Relax." He nuzzles my neck. "We’ll do the rest inside. In private. Out of concern for your tender, sweet sensibilities."
Relief floods , but then I glance at the floor again. "We should clean that up."
"Later." He turns to face him, lifting my chin. "Right now, I want to get you sowhere more comfortable than this elevator."
His eyes have softened to green, though flecks of gold still dance at the edges. He bends to retrieve my underwear and jeans—but doesn’t hand them over. Just holds them, smirking, and offers his other hand.
I scowl and make a grab. "Give those back."
He lifts them just out of reach, childishly smug.
"Co on, you can’t just—"
I step forward, then wince as pain flashes between my legs. I freeze, hand flying to my crotch.
It stings. Like road rash, but in the worst place. And there’s a sharper, deeper tearing pain underneath it all. Endorphins gone, I feel everything now.
Damn it.
Logan’s grin drops. He steadies , eyes searching mine. "What’s wrong? Nicole?"
"I think..." Heat climbs my face. "I might’ve torn. Down there."
Which, technically, is his fault. Who asked him to be so damn big? No one.
I’m not complaining.
Okay, I am complaining. Seriously. Ouch.
His face goes pale. "Fuck. I hurt you?"
He spins and jabs the elevator panel with rapid beeps, then lifts into his arms. The sudden movent makes wince again.
"I’m sorry," he murmurs, his voice tight with regret. "I got carried away."
The elevator doors open—not to a hallway, but a massive living room.
Thank God.
"I was expecting to be paraded through the building butt naked," I mutter.
"It opens directly into the penthouse," Logan says, focused entirely on as he carries across plush carpet toward the bedroom.
The room is ridiculous. King-sized bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Dramatic curtains. Abstract sculptures that look expensive and possibly cursed.
He sets down gently on the bed, like I’m made of glass.
"Stay here," he says, disappearing into the bathroom. I hear water running.
I stare at the ceiling. My body can’t decide if it’s still humming with pleasure or officially filing a complaint.
Logan returns with a washcloth and a bowl.
A whole bowl. From the bathroom. Is that a rich person thing?
"Let see," he says, sitting on the bed beside .
I hesitate. Ridiculous, considering what we just did. He’s cleaned up before. It’s not new. Just... suddenly intimate again.
"Nicole," he says softly. "Please."
I part my legs, wincing at the sting.
He dips the cloth, wrings it out. The water slls vaguely herbal.
I should check out his bathroom. What else does he have in there?
Tampons?
Whose? How long ago were they bought? How many tis has he—
"This might be cold," he warns, cutting off my spiral.
The cloth touches . I jerk—not from pain, just the cold. He murmurs an apology, touch impossibly gentle.
The sting fades.
"It’s not as bad as it feels," he says. "Just a small tear."
I absently reach for his hair. It’s too soft. I twirl a strand around my finger.
"What’s in the water?" I ask, voice quieter.
"Witch hazel, calendula, a bit of comfrey. Old recipe."
I blink. "Okay, Dr. Logan, dicine... Wolf." That sounded better in my head. He grins anyway.
"It’s an old blend I keep around for ergencies. You’d be surprised how often I need it."
I tug his hair, frowning. "Don’t you heal quick? Super wolf powers and all?"
"Well—sotis it takes a night or two."
The statent lingers. He’s a werewolf, an alpha. I’m... not. Not human, not really anything.
I’ve never cared about hybrid pairings before, but I wonder if it’ll be a problem.
For him, I an.
No one on my side cares. Well, except Penelope—and he’s already got her number.
Literally.
Which reminds —
"I’m sorry," he says again, still focused on his task. "I should’ve been more careful."
"It’s not entirely your fault. I wasn’t exactly telling you to stop."
"Still." His voice drops. "I know better."
The tenderness in his care punches emotion straight to my throat.
"I liked it. We should do it ag—"
Wait.
Phones. ssages. Cars.
My fingers twitch with the sudden urge to yank a handful of his stupid perfect hair.
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