Logan began walking toward him, and all Tate could think was, He should always be dressed in wet clothes. As he passed several other waterlogged customers, Tate noticed them looking him over as well, probably wondering how he still looked so appealing when he was just as wet as the rest of them.
Tate took in the water droplets sliding down Logan’s cheek, and his breathing faltered. When those same droplets then continued down to disappear into his shirt—holy shit—Tate knew he wanted to follow them with his tongue, and he wanted it now.
“Tell me you trust me,” he said, his voice barely controlled as he pounded into my body.
But I didn’t know if I trusted him. The truth was, it didn’t matter if I trusted him or not.
“I would die for you,” I said instead, because it was true. Trust was irrelevant. He could break my trust a hundred times, and I would still die for him.
He walked me forward a couple of steps and bent me over the top of the balcony rail, as if testing my claim. Only the tops of my shoulders and my head were floating, but the near-invisibility of the balcony gave the illusion of much more.
“I would die for you, too,” he said. “I don’t care.” And then he gave me everything he had, surging up into my body with the strength of ten men, showing me with his body what could not be said with words.