Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 142

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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. freeweɓnøvel~com

"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."