Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 142: What Happens in Bed...

Light filters through unfamiliar curtains, dragging me from blissful unconsciousness. Every muscle protests as I stretch myself awake, and something heavy pins me to the mattress.

Logan’s arm lies draped across my torso, his breathing deep and even. His face relaxed in sleep lacks his perpetual smirk, making him look almost innocent—a ridiculous notion for a man who’d done such thoroughly filthy things to me last night.

I attempt to slide out from under his weight, inching toward freedom. No such luck. Without waking, Logan responds to my escape attempt by throwing a muscular leg over mine, effectively caging me against his body.

Trapped.

The pressure on my bladder grows more insistent. I need to pee, my mouth feels like sandpaper, and I have no idea what time it is or if anyone’s noticed my absence.

I stretch toward the nightstand, fingertips brushing the phone. Every movement stings down below. Whatever Logan did to me last night—correction, whatever we did to each other—has left its mark in ways both pleasurable and painful.

"Come on," I whisper, extending my arm further. My muscles scream in protest.

Logan mumbles something incoherent and tightens his grip, pulling me closer against his chest. His body radiates heat like a furnace, a stark contrast to the cool air conditioning of the hotel room.

After one more desperate lunge, my fingers close around my phone. Victory! Until I see the battery icon blinking angry red at 5%.

"Perfect," I mutter, quickly opening my messages before the phone dies completely.

Penelope’s texts flood my screen.

[PENELOPE: Where are you? (8:24 p.m.)]

[PENELOPE: Nicole seriously, should I be worried? (9:52 p.m.)]

[PENELOPE: If you don’t answer in the next 10 min I’m calling campus security (10:37 p.m.)]

[PENELOPE: Logan texted me, it’s fine, and I cancelled the cavalry. Also, while you don’t need permission to get yourself fucked to the stratosphere, please at least warn me. P.S. Your kitty’s mad. I’m stealing her. You can’t have her back. You ditched her for dick, so she’s mine now. (11:02 p.m.)]

Heat floods my face. I can hear Penelope’s voice—equal parts relief and exasperation over my impromptu sexcapade.

"Shit," I whisper, letting the phone drop onto my chest. Princess Paws might actually be holding a grudge. I wouldn’t put it past my spoiled little brat.

Logan stirs beside me, his stubble scraping my shoulder as he nuzzles closer. "Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. His hand slides possessively across my stomach.

"I can’t move." My complaint lacks conviction, especially when his touch sends shivers through me despite my soreness.

"That’s the idea." His lips brush against my neck, trailing lazy kisses toward my collarbone.

"I’m serious, Logan. Everything hurts."

He props himself up on one elbow, eyes suddenly alert as they scan my face. "Bad hurt or good hurt?"

The genuine concern in his expression catches me off guard. I consider the question seriously. My body feels thoroughly used, muscles I’d forgotten existed now making their presence known with every movement. Yet beneath the discomfort lingers a satisfaction so deep it borders on smug.

"Both," I admit. "Definitely both."

Relief softens his features. "I have something that might help." He shifts to move away.

"Wait." I grab his arm. "My phone’s dying, and I need to text Penelope back before she really does steal my cat." Hearing from Logan isn’t the same as hearing from me.

"I’ll charge it." He kisses my forehead. "I already texted her."

"I saw. And now she’s kidnapped my cat."

Logan’s laugh shakes my body. "Princess Paws only spent one night without you."

"It’s not the cat I’m worried about. Penelope will spoil her rotten. Extra treats, premium catnip—I’ll never regain my authority. You don’t understand. She’s a witch in every sense of the word."

"What a tragedy." Logan yawns, finally rolling away and standing up.

My breath catches at the sight of him. Morning light defines every muscle, highlighting the scratches I’d left across his back during our more enthusiastic moments. Something possessive and primitively proud stirs in my chest at the sight.

He catches me staring and grins. "See something you like?"

"No, just assessing the damage." I push myself to sit up, wincing at a particularly sharp twinge.

Logan disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with a tiny white bottle. "Here. Ibuprofen."

I brighten. "Nectar of the gods. Gimme."

Logan tosses the bottle my way and I catch it with glee.

He disappears again, the sound of running water floating from the bathroom. When he returns, he’s carrying a tall glass of water, handing it to me in silence.

What an angel. He’s definitely topping the favorite boyfriend list right now—though his competition is pretty pathetic.

I shake four pills into my palm and toss them back, chasing them with half the glass.

Ah. Hydration is so important after hours of cardio.

Logan frowns. "Four? Isn’t that a bit much?"

I lower the glass, wiping away a drop of water from my lip with the back of my hand. Doesn’t everyone take ibuprofen four at a time? "Haven’t died yet. Charger?"

I wave my nearly-dead phone at him with a sweet smile. If he’s willing to wait on me hand and foot like this, I’m certainly not going to complain.

He plucks the phone from my fingers and heads to the other side of the bed to plug it in. "There. Crisis averted. Princess Paws will be returned to her rightful owner."

Then he reaches for my glass with exaggerated care, placing it on the nightstand next to me.

Something shifts in his expression the moment the water is safely removed—a predatory gleam I recognize all too well from the night before. Before I can react, he pounces, his body covering mine as he rolls us across the bed.

A shriek escapes my lips, half-laugh and half-protest.

"Logan!" I smack at his shoulder with an open palm. "I’m a no-touching zone until my vajayjay heals."

His body freezes above mine. He blinks once, twice, his expression cycling through confusion to disbelief.

"Did you seriously just call your pussy a vajayjay?" The corner of his mouth twitches.

Heat creeps up my neck and settles in my cheeks. "Don’t call it... that other word."

"What word?" His voice drops to a husky whisper as he leans closer. "Pussy?"

"Yes. That." I shift uncomfortably. "It sounds crude."

"And ’vajayjay’ sounds like you’re five."

I make a face, and he laughs.

"You weren’t being so prim and proper last night when you were begging me to—"

I slap my hand over his mouth before he can finish that sentence. "What happens in bed stays in bed."

His eyes crinkle at the corners, amusement evident even with half his face covered. When I feel him smile against my palm, I slowly withdraw my hand.

"Actually," he says, rolling onto his side but keeping one possessive arm draped across my waist, "It wasn’t in bed. It was on the table, and—"

I smack my hand over his mouth again. "Shut up."