Then his hands held mine, pulling them away from him and raising them above my head. His mouth was still on my neck, licking, sucking. I felt him everywhere. He shifted my hands until they gripped the bar above me. "Keep them there."

And then he moved.

The instant his mouth covered my nipple, my grip on the bar tightened. I cried out in pleasure. But it wasn't enough, not for him. He spread my legs—with his hand this time. I felt his fingers skim my folds through my panties. I could've come. If I wasn't so embarrassed about how wet I was—I would have.

He switched breasts, making sure they both got the same attention. My arms were still raised, gripped tight against the cold metal. Somehow, without me realizing, my hips were moving. His hand on me, moving ever so slightly, just enough that my clit could feel the friction of his palm.

Then his tongue on my breast stopped moving. I thought we were done. But he sucked on it.

Hard.

I was too consumed with the pleasure of his mouth that I didn't even know how or when it happened. I felt the cold air on my wet sex and my panties around my ankles. He started on the outside, fingering and spreading my wetness, making circles around my nub. One finger slid in and out, replaced my two. He started moving them, slowly.

I got lost in the fog of his actions. I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to feel as good as I felt. "You're so fucking wet." He watched my face as his flattened tongue moved from one nipple to the other.

"I want to touch you," I told him.

"No."

"Please," I begged.

His fingers moved faster, harder, more determined. I felt myself building. I wanted to hold out. It was too soon. I wanted to feel this intensity longer. I'd started thrusting into his hand. It'd only been seconds, not even minutes. There was no slow build-up, no warning. His fingers, his mouth—all of him—were so determined to make me feel. To make me want. To make me his.

And I was. Whether he was around to know it or feel it.

I was always his.

Three years ago to the day—on our very first date—I became his.

His fingers took up a rhythm. He knew I was close. "Baby," he murmured. My legs squeezed tight around his hand and-

"Oh my God," I moaned. I repeated the words over and over as his movements slowed and my vision cleared. When my breathing settled I opened my eyes, just as he reached into his shorts to adjust himself. I went weak at the knees. I let go of the bar and slid down the wall until my ass hit the floor. "Holy shit." My body was still trembling with the aftermath of the most intense orgasm I'd ever had. My head felt heavy, so heavy. I could barely lift it to see his reaction. He smirked, right before he walked out of the tiny space in the closet. A second later, I heard the stream of water turn on from a shower.

16

Amanda

I sat on his bed and waited while he was in his bathroom. He came out and paused mid-step when he saw me. I wasn't sure why; I didn't know what he was expecting.

"Hey," he said quietly, taking a seat next to me.

I looked at the floor, feeling a little awkward. "Hey."

"I thought for sure you'd bail."

The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I turned to face him, but his gaze was focused off in the distance. "M . . . maybe I should go."

His eyes darted to me. "What? No." He stood up. "I mean—of course if you have to—but I don't want you to." He cursed under his breath, and started pacing the floor. "I wanted to ask you to stay with me tonight . . . if you wanted to."

"I don't—"

He cut in. "Of course you don't want to. I'm an idiot—"

I got to my feet and stood in front of him. "I was just going to say that I don't have anything to wear."

"Oh." A small smile appeared. "That's it?"

I nodded. My own smile matched his.

"Easy fix," he announced. He led me to the bathroom, shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to me.

When I returned, he was lying in bed with his hands behind his head, waiting for me. I didn't know what we were doing. I don't think he did, either. We didn't discuss it; maybe if we did it would have ruined the moment.

He put his arm out for me, like he used to do every night. I could see the tattoo on it so clearly. I lay down next to him and rested my head where he wanted it. His hand began playing with my hair. "Mm," I hummed. It was so familiar. So perfect. I moved closer and nuzzled into his neck. My leg covered his. I placed my hand over his heart; I could feel it pounding through his chest.

All of a sudden, I was crying. I wasn't sobbing or weeping but the tears fell silently onto his shoulder. His heart thumped faster, harder. "It's going to be okay, Amanda." He kissed my head. "I promise," he said. "I'm going to make it okay."

I let out a small sob. He had no idea. It wasn't up to him to make things right. We were both to blame. It wasn't just him. It was me, too.

"Shh," he soothed. He continued to stroke my hair until the tears subsided and sleep overcame me.

***

He was crying. He was asleep, but he was crying. He mumbled something, and it sounded like my name. His head thrashed from side to side. I sat up and turned on the nightlight. I didn't know what else to do. His face was pained. It broke my heart. "Stop," he quivered, still asleep. And then tears fell from his shut eyes.

"Logan!" I shook his heavy shoulders. "Wake up."

He didn't. I shook him harder.

Then, with lightning fast speed, he gripped my wrist tight, making me wince in pain. "Logan," I cried out.

His eyes snapped open. He sucked in a breath, as if he'd just come up from drowning. His eyes were glazed.

I tried to pull my hand from his grip, but he didn't loosen his hold. "Logan, it hurts."

"What?" he croaked.

I started to pry his fingers from their death grip.

"Shit!" His fingers straightened, releasing me instantly. "Fuck, I'm sorry." His breathing was loud, heavy.

"It's okay." I massaged my wrist, trying to recirculate the blood.

He held it in both his hands and did it for me. His thumbs massaged the area I'd tried so hard to hide. He pulled it towards his lips and kissed it once, twice, then placed my palm over his heart.

He sighed. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "How bad was it?"

I shrugged. "I have nothing to compare it to."

He nodded, picked up my hand again and looked at my wrist. "I'm not going to ask you, but you'll tell me when you're ready, right?"

"Yes," I said truthfully.

"Good."

"Does it happen often—the nightmares?"

He nodded again.

Sweat had built on his hairline; I wiped it away with my fingers and sat cross-legged next to him. I knew what he was feeling. The aftermath of nightmares was painful. The images plagued in your memory overshadowed the relief that it was just a dream. He blew out a breath and rubbed his hand against his jaw. "I forgot to take my meds," he admitted quietly.

"Xanax?" I asked.

His eyes narrowed.

"I saw them in your bathroom. I wasn't snooping, swear it."