Chapter 59: Chapter Fifty-Nine

RAE

I’m a homeowner. Well, I’m engaged to one. Logan bought an actual house. A real house. With a foundation and walls we don’t have to share with noisy neighbors.

Zoe, Steven, and my coworkers think I’m crazy because I haven’t been inside yet. The truth is, I don’t really care. I trust Logan. He has good taste.

All I wanted was to approve of the neighborhood, which I did without hesitation. Our adorable bungalow is in the Avenues, a residential neighborhood in northern SLC.

We’re within walking distance to downtown, which means I don’t have to worry about driving or public transportation to get to work or, more importantly, show up at Zoe’s apartment.

Also, to be fair, I did have some idea what the house was like before today. Logan showed me pictures and floorplans and all that good stuff. I was at work when he toured.

He offered to hold off on making an offer until I had a chance to see the place, but like I said, I’m not all that concerned.

I don’t know the first thing about houses. My dad can walk into a room and sniff out a leak that got plugged in 1980, but I didn’t inherit that skill. Not really much of a point in me poking around.

Today, however, I do have to poke around. As of this morning, the house is officially in Logan’s name.

His lease is up next week, so he’s working on a real tight move-all-his-shit timeline.

Last night, for the first time since Autumn made her presence known, I slept at my old-slash-current apartment—you know, the one where Zoe lives—so Logan could pack all night.

I offered to help—I’m not a monster—but I’m not supposed to be doing anything too strenuous for Autumn’s sake, and to be honest, I didn’t protest much.

“Welcome home,” Logan says excitedly as we pull into our driveway.

I gasp. The pictures don’t do this place justice. Our new home is a cobalt blue split-level with white accents and a mess of overgrown gardens on the tiny lot.

The charcoal-colored roof slopes over stone front steps and a huge window that casts natural light into the living room. I’m in love.

“Backyard or inside first?” he asks.

“Backyard, please.” If Autumn’s anything like her dad, and I really hope she will be, she’ll spend a lot of time playing outside.

“This way, my dear.” Logan unlatches the gate behind the driveway and ushers me through, pretending to tip an invisible hat. I swear, in another life, he was a British butler.

My jaw drops. A cobblestone path leads from the gate to a small patio jutting from the house. The backyard comes equipped with a grill, which Logan immediately strides toward like the future dad he is, and a cute little birdbath.

Smack dab in the middle of the yard is a small tree with a broad canopy. An image of Logan, Autumn, and I lounging in the shade materializes in my mind.

I can’t believe this is real. If I’m dreaming, I never, ever want to wake up.

“You ready to go in—”

I cut Logan off by jumping into his arms. “I love you,” I squeal. “I love you, I love you, I lo—”

His turn to cut me off, which he accomplishes with a kiss. His lips are gentle, but mine aren’t. An intense flame is burning inside me. The overwhelming love I feel is too much to bear without a physical connection.

“Rae,” he laughs, “you don’t want a tour first?”

“I’ll see it eventually,” I point out. “I ~am~ going to live here, after all.”

He shakes his head, a smirk forming on his lips. “The movers will be here any second.”

I pout. All these feelings have me drenched.

Logan checks his phone. I can see the battle playing out on his face, so I take matters into my own hands. Hand. Literally.

I tug on Logan’s shirt, leading him into the screened-in porch like I own the place (I guess I sort of do). When his eyes are on me, I slowly slip my hand into my yoga pants and… ~Wow. I am soaked.~

“Rae,” Logan growls.

I shrug and begin moving my fingers in circles. With a sigh, I lean against the wall and close my eyes, focusing on the pleasure slowly spreading in my core.

I haven’t touched myself in a long time, not since I unofficially began living with Logan. I forgot how blissful it can be.

A hum of contentment slips through my lips, and I position my body so that I can access the spots that feel sweetest.

Logan says my name again, but I’m too caught up in the sensations I’m bringing myself to respond. The pleasure is intensifying, gradually pursuing a climax that’s not so far away.

I let out a small moan, and then Logan’s hand is pulling mine from my panties and raising it to his lips. I shiver when he sucks on each finger, fire in his eyes.

“That’s my job,” he whispers, his tone gravelly and low.

“I don’t know. I was doing pretty well myself. Feel.” I guide his hand to where mine was. His sharp exhale sends goosebumps down my neck.

He leans into me, pressing me against the wall while his fingers slip between my folds. He pushes one inside me, then two, and I’m tilting my head back, squirming because this feels too good.

“Logan,” I moan.

“Rae,” he breathes as he begins to circle my clit with his thumb.

He’s hard, straining against his jeans. I only have to press my palm against him before he’s unzipping his pants and dropping them to his ankles.

I don’t care that there’s no furniture or that the movers might walk in. Nothing matters but Logan and this flame between us.

I meet his eyes, and in a second I’m straddling him on the floor, sliding onto his hard length, while he groans and I forget how to breathe.

Logan’s fingers dig into my hips, rocking me against his body. I’m dripping wet, sliding easily back and forth, in circles, up and down, every angle he wants me.

His hands travel to my breasts, and I take control. I ride him, rubbing my clit against his body, letting the pleasure I found minutes ago seep back in.

Every sensation is heightened. Every touch is a lightning bolt, every thrust a shockwave. My nerves are on fire. I’m full, whole, complete.

The pressure inside my core overpowers me. I ride out my high, walls clenching, while Logan groans loudly, squeezing my hips and finishing in hot pulses.

We cling to each other, but only for a moment, because a door is opening, and someone is shouting, “Hello? Logan Quincy?” and we’re scrambling, racing against the footsteps coming this way.

We barely make it.

We’re clothed, but we’re sweaty. Our faces are red. The room smells like sex. We smell like sex. I stare at my feet.

I don’t know what the mover looks like, but I do know how his voice sounds, because he says, “Nice,” and promptly exits the patio.