Logan's POV
Noah stumbles through the front door first, giggling against my mouth. He's a mess—flushed, sweaty, shirt half untucked.
A beautiful, insatiable mess.
I chase after him in the dark, my arms wrapping around his waist as I pull the door shut behind us. He tries to turn around, to kiss me again, but I've already got him pressed up against the door, caging him in with my hips.
"Logan," he gasps, breath hot and needy.
Music to my ears.
The Omega's already tugging at my pants, my cashmere vest long forgotten in his car and the remains of my now-ruined dress shirt dangling off one arm.
"You tore my shirt," I mutter against his neck, not really mad.
"It was in the way," he replies, not really sorry.
I suck another hickey into his throat, his ass grinds into me, desperately searching for friction.
