Take

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When Logan woke in a bedroom other than his own, it was usually for one of two reasons. Either he’d had too much to drink and gone home with someone he shouldn’t have or he’d purposely gone home with someone, fucked their brains out, and been too tired to creep out at dawn. But neither of those two reasons applied this morning as he sat in the small loveseat by the window.

No. The reason he was still there was simple—or perhaps not that simple at all. Tate Morrison.

The sun was just beginning to rise and slip through the curtains, streaming over the honey-toned skin of Tate’s back. Logan had the intense urge to climb into the bed, kiss his way up Tate’s spine, and then nuzzle in under those brown curls he loved.

Wait…love?

But he didn’t move. Instead, dressed only in his work pants, he stayed where he was, paralyzed by his own thoughts, and watched Tate where he lay between the white sheets, sleeping peacefully.

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