Secretly, I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss Logan, and now I don’t have to wonder any longer. The man is extremely skilled. One of his big hands weaves into the hair at the back of my neck, tilting my head just so, and I almost dissolve into a puddle on the floor. He tastes like red wine and man, a combination my poor little neglected heart can hardly handle.

I move closer, urgently needing to erase all the distance between us.

His tongue moves against mine in deep, drugging kisses that make my toes curl in my socks. He makes a low, breathless sound, and for one glorious moment, all the noise in my head quiets, and it’s just me and him.

It feels so right to be here, doing this with him. But a second later, my brain switches back on and I pull away, putting an inch of space between us.

His forehead touches mine, and I let out a long, shaky exhale.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers.

“I know. We can’t.”

I need to put an end to this before I do something foolish, like drag him to my bedroom.

Before I can process what’s happening, Logan pulls us over to the couch, and then I’m sitting in his lap, happily grinding my hips against his.

The stubble on his face scratches pleasantly against my chin, the feeling both foreign and erotic. It’s been a very long time since I was with a man, but Logan doesn’t seem to notice or care about my lack of finesse. His hands roam from my shoulders down to my waist. I can feel a hard ridge beneath me—the press of his erection against me—and I groan into his kiss.

“We can’t do this,” I say slowly, groaning out the words.

“No, definitely not,” he says in a strained voice.

So, why aren’t either of us stopping?

He pulls off my shirt and drops it to the floor, then places a soft kiss to the top of my collarbone and another on my shoulder. His mouth is warm and soft, and I’m flooded with endorphins.

While every part of me wants to continue this—preferably pants-less and inside the bedroom—a small, stubborn part of my brain clicks on and reminds me that we can’t do this. It would be wildly unprofessional of me to give in to my desires.

I really hate being so dedicated sometimes.

“We can’t,” I murmur, pressing one palm to the rough stubble on his cheek. “I’m here to help you get back to work playing hockey.” I pause, drawing a breath. Not to ride you like a prize stallion at the rodeo. “I’m sorry.”