Noah's POV
Logan's lips taste like warmth. Like stillness after a storm. Like the kind of home you don't realize you've been aching for until your mouth finds it.
His lips are sweet, softer than I remember. I melt into them like I've been starving for this. His skin is cool beneath my fingers—not rain-soaked, but freshly showered—and I press closer, chasing his heat, my damp clothes against his bare chest. His arms tighten around me, pulling me in until there's no space left between us, until I can feel the frantic beat of his heart against mine.
He must've showered sometime after getting home—his body smells like soap and pine and comfort, and his skin is cool to the touch, but not in a "caught-in-the-rain" kind of way. More like "just stepped out of a warm bath" kind of way. Fresh. New.
I sigh into the kiss and let my fingers tangle in his hair. He makes a sound low in his throat—something between a gasp and a whimper—and it's all I can do not to kiss him harder.
