Текст книги "She: Part 2"

Автор книги: Annabel Fanning

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He groans at the thought of photographing me naked, much to my satisfaction, and then grinning broadly, I strike my best nineteen-twenties pose, and he takes his shot.

Ten minutes later we’re seated on the terrace under a glowing red heater. It reminds me happily of our first lunch date, when I blamed it for making me flustered instead of admitting to myself the potent effect that Logan was having on me. I couldn’t deny his effect now even if I wanted to. I indulge in it fully, enjoying the sultry hour we spend feeding each other, and the romantic dancing that follows.

Music issues from speakers attached to the outer walls of the building and we twirl leisurely, Logan’s hands moving seductively over my body, until the cold becomes too much for me. I unbutton his jacket and press my body firmly against his as he wraps it around my back as far as it will go.

“I love holding you,” he whispers in my ear. “I love feeling your body against mine.”

I nod into his chest, thinking this moment couldn’t get any sweeter. I then look up at him and he gazes down at me, our foreheads touching. While we turn to the music, we talk, appeasing – for now – my endless fascination with him.

“I haven’t been out of Paris for anything other than business or family visits for ten years,” he shares with me.

“What about those weekends away on the coast?” I ask, remembering him telling me that he likes to do that.

“I was always working on them,” he says swiftly. “They were a change of scene, but not a change of behaviour. This,” he indicates our surroundings, “is different. This is the first time I’ve been able to leave the city and also leave work behind.”

“You’re not itching to check your emails?” I tease.

“I’ll do that while you’re sleeping,” he teases me back. “When’s the last time you went on holiday?” he then asks me.

I think back. “Last August. Jerry and I went to London for two weeks,” I say, remembering the trip that I took with my insolent ex-boyfriend. “We took the train, so I didn’t have to face my fear of flying,” I add.

“Did you have fun?” he asks quietly.

“Not really,” I admit, recalling the details. “I wanted to go to Italy, but he booked everything behind my back. Not a good behind-my-back like you bringing me here,” I hasten to add. “A sneaky behind-my-back because he knew I wasn’t interested in spending two weeks being his chaperone to a series of football matches that he just had to see.”

Logan looks at me in disbelief. “He’s such a fucking idiot,” he exclaims, making me smile and nod in agreement.

“He was a pain in my ass that holiday,” I say, and then I blanch. “Not literally,” I add, horrified.

Logan laughs, his dimples distracting me from yet another careless choice of words. “I didn’t think it was a literal comment, baby,” he says, bringing his lips closer to mine, “but I’m glad to hear you clarify it,” he chuckles.

Steering the conversation far away from me and Jerry and anal sex, I say, “The summer before London, Amber and I went back to the States. I took more sleeping pills than I should’ve,” I admit, “so I don’t remember much about the journey there or back. But while we were there we drove from my hometown in Florida to her hometown in Oregon.”

“Wow,” Logan breathes. “I bet you two got up to no good,” he rightly assumes.

I laugh and confess, “I’m very good at sweet-talking cops out of giving me tickets.”

“That’s a good skill to put on your resume. I tried it once,” he jokes, “it didn’t fly.”

“It might’ve if the cop was a woman,” I think.

“She was,” Logan laughs. “But I was driving high with a car full of drunk teenagers and I doubt any amount of sweet-talk would’ve gotten me out of that predicament. That was arrest number two,” he adds. Two of seven, I remind myself. “And in hindsight it was a very good thing that I had a huge, muscular female cop pull me from my vehicle and pin me to the ground.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen,” he reveals.

My eyes widen. “You didn’t even have your license!”

He shakes his head. “Young. And very dumb,” he says.

I stare at him in awe, amazed that such a destructive teenager could transform into the man before me. His words stoke my curiosity. “Alright, Leary, what is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?”

He considers for a long moment. “I’ve got a few things in mind,” he grins, “but I think the stupidest thing my friends and I ever did was train-dodging.”

I shudder at the name.

Reading my response correctly, Logan continues, “It’s exactly as the name suggests: we would wait until a train was close, too close, and then we’d sprint across the tracks.”

I gape at him. “You’re right – that is stupid,” I say, shocked. Then, just to be sure that old habits don’t die hard, I ask, “When’s the last time you did that?”

“About seventeen years ago,” he assures me.

“Any fatalities?” I wonder.

“No, fortunately. But my brother told me that my friends and I started the craze, which continued for years after I moved here. A couple of kids have died since then. I didn’t start the craze, by the way,” he tells me. “People were doing it years before I ever did, but that’s just something Taylor likes to tell me to make me feel responsible.”

“That’s not very nice,” I frown. “None of it is: you risking your life, other kids dying, or Taylor being mean.”

Logan laughs, and warns me, “He can be mean, baby. That’s why I spend most of my time ignoring him. What about you? What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?”

“Date Jerry Cassidy,” I say without missing a beat.

Logan laughs and nods his agreement. “I think that’s worse than train-dodging,” he says.

“You might be right about that,” I sigh, lamenting my early twenties, when coasting through life in an unaware daze was my norm. I’m so glad things have changed, I think, gratefully looking up at the biggest change to occur since Jerry and I broke up last year.

“Do you think he’s nursing a black eye?” Logan asks, referring to their dustup two nights ago, during which Logan punched Jerry after Jerry called me a whore.

“I certainly hope so,” I say immediately. “But I don’t want you to feel bad about that. He deserved it,” I reiterate.

Logan nods again. “I know he did.”

“Good,” I smile. “Now can we talk about something nicer than the prick?”

With a smile on his face, Logan brings his lips to mine and kisses me deeply. I surrender to it, brushing my tongue forcefully against his. Jerry is forgotten in an instant.

A few intoxicating minutes later the heavens open and Logan and I are drenched in the cool March rain, before we are able to make it back inside the hotel.

I’m shivering and goose-pimply by the time we stand on the top floor landing where Logan fumbles with the room key before admitting us.

I peel myself out of my dress and hang it carefully, hoping that the water won’t do any lasting damage. In my underwear, I walk into the bathroom and find Logan plugging the bathtub and turning on the faucets. Perfect idea, I think gratefully. We both strip fully, and he then holds out his arms for me to walk into. I do so eagerly.

“Oh, you feel so good,” I moan, relishing his warmth.

“I’ve heard you say that before,” he chuckles.

“In entirely different circumstances,” I grin at him in the mirror.

His mobile phone starts ringing from within the pile of clothes on the floor. Ducking down to find it, he reads the caller ID and tells me, “It’s my mom.” He answers it. “Hi, mom,” he says affectionately as I take a seat on the side of the tub. He sits on the toilet lid, his arms resting on his knees as he leans forward.

“Logan, darlin’, how are—” She abruptly stops talking. I hear her tapping several buttons before saying, “Uh, dear, you might want to turn your video off, I just caught a glimpse of your testicles.”

I start laughing so hard that I almost fall into the bathtub.

Logan immediately raises his hands, muttering, “Oh, shit!” Clearly he didn’t realise it was a video call! There’s a large frown on his face, until he sees me, and mouths, “It’s not funny!”

I can’t even respond; I just nod.

“Oh, no!” Mary-Gene sighs.

“What?” Logan sounds alarmed.

“The damn cameras frozen,” she tells him, and I crumple from my position, falling to the floor in a hysterical heap.

With amusement, Logan tells his mother, “You’ve made Gemima fall over, she’s laughing so hard.”

“Oh my word! Is she there? Let me see her,” she says in rapid speed.

Composing myself as best I can, I stand and pull on a bathrobe, before walking a few paces and perching myself on Logan’s lap. I wave into the camera before realising that it’s probably still frozen. The thought sends another peal of laughter through me, and Logan pinches my waist in retaliation.

Wiggling on his lap I take hold of his phone to better see Mary-Gene George. She looks quite formally dressed, with prominent makeup and bright-blonde hair which, though clearly dyed, suits her well. She’s frowning like Logan, tapping her phone or tablet or whatever device she’s using in an attempt to get the camera to work once again. A moment later her shrill shriek of joy alerts both Logan and I that it is live once more.

Again, I wave into the camera.

“Gemima,” she cries, “it’s so wonderful to see you, darlin’!”

I smile, partly at her words and partly because I cannot get enough of her thick Carolina accent. It’s so charming. “It’s wonderful to see you, too, Mrs. Leary,” I say. “I mean, George,” I correct myself immediately. Great one, Gem, I think sarcastically.

“Oh, now, we’ll have none of that,” Logan’s mother says, peering intently at the screen, apparently checking me out. “You call me Mary-Gene, sweetheart, and you don’t think twice about it,” she tells me. Then turning around she practically screams, “Rupert, come here!” She’s silent for a second, before she yells, “No, now!”

Logan chuckles behind me, burying his face into my neck, his lips on my skin, out of sight of the camera.

Mary-Gene looks at the camera once more, leaning forward as if trying to get closer to us. “Gemima,” she says, her accent very heavy, “you are gorgeous! Just like Logan told me.”

“Thank you,” I grin bashfully. Then looking at Logan, I whisper, “Have you been boasting about me?”

He laughs. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

I give him a quick peck on the lips and then look at the phone again. A man appears over Mary-Gene’s shoulder and it takes a moment for him to come into focus.

“This is Rupey,” Mary-Gene points at him.

There’s no way I’m calling him that, I think immediately. “Hello,” I wave once more.

“I’m Rupert, Logan’s father, role model, and all-round idol,” he smiles at me, waving back. I suddenly see where Logan’s dimples come from. He looks a lot like his son, just double his age. What a silver fox!

“Hey, dad,” Logan laughs again, tucking his chin onto my shoulder.

“Loges,” he nods at the camera.

“Don’t they look precious together?” Mary-Gene says to her husband, causing a broad smile to spread across my face.

“They sure do,” Rupert agrees.

Looking at the little window in the very corner of the screen where Logan and I are reflected, I can’t help but agree with their sentiments. We do look cute.

“How’s your post surgery recovery going, son?” his father asks him.

“Perfectly,” Logan tells him quickly. “Everything’s fine; Gemima’s been instrumental in that,” he compliments, his arms tightening around me as he kisses my cheek.

“Yes, I’ve been keeping an eye on him,” I say. I also gave him a remedial blow job, I don’t say.

“Lucky Logan,” Mary-Gene smiles, showing off perfect white teeth. Dentures probably, I think absentmindedly.

“That’s good to hear,” Rupert nods.

“What are you kids up to this weekend?” Mary-Gene asks.

“We’re on holiday,” Logan says quickly, eyeing the bath which is nearly full. “Mom, was there a specific reason you called?” he asks tactfully.

“Oh, yes, dear,” she says, suddenly looking sheepish. “Well, I, uh…I was rather hoping that Gemima could help me with something,” she says.

Oh? “Of course,” I say. It’s my natural instinct to want to help, but I tell myself, I should really only agree after I know what it is that she wants.

“I called Barbara-Anne’s salon this afternoon,” she says slowly, before a dramatic torrent bursts from her, “and they can’t fit me in anytime this week and I need to have my hair done before your party next weekend,” she blurts out, exasperatedly.

In the screen reflection I see Logan roll his eyes. “You should’ve booked in earlier then, shouldn’t you?” he tells me. “What do you expect Gemima to do for you?”

“Pull some strings,” she says openly, making me smile.

Logan laughs. “She’s a real politician’s wife,” he whispers to me. “Never takes no for an answer.”

“It’s OK,” I smile at him. “I’ll get you an appointment before the party,” I tell Mary-Gene. I know my mom will accommodate an extra client, and besides that, it’ll mean I’m in her good books before we’ve even met. Well played, Gem, I congratulate myself. “With Barbara-Anne herself,” I add for good measure.

Mary-Gene squeals in glee. “Thank you, darlin’!” she smiles broadly. Then she sighs, “Disaster averted!”

She must lead a charmed life, I note, if a bad hair day constitutes a disaster.

“You’re welcome,” I tell her.

“We’ve got to go now,” Logan says, leaning over to turn off the bath taps. He’s clearly eager to get into it.

“Bye, kids,” Rupert waves. “See you soon.”

“Bye,” we echo.

“Enjoy your getaway,” Mary-Gene says. “I have to go and start packing.”

Logan and I exchange a look as if to say: already?

We all mumble several more goodbyes, before Logan ends the call and starts chuckling.

“They are adorable,” I say to him. “Your mom’s accent is amazing!” I stand up and drop my robe, ready to step into the tub, but Logan’s roving eyes stop me where I stand. His eyes scan my naked body and narrow. “What?” I ask him.

Looking me in the eyes, he says, “The Moulin Rouge.”

I look down at my body. “No, I’ve never worked there,” I jest.

Smiling, he stands up as well and begins madly tapping away on his phone. “I’m going to book tickets for my parents to go to a show next Thursday night,” he tells me. “Buddy will go with them,” he says to himself.

“And me dropping my robe gave you that idea?” I grin.

“Not exactly,” he smiles back. “You dropping your robe reminded me that I want to be with you on my birthday evening. Only you. These tickets will ensure that happens,” he explains.

“Excellent plan, Logan,” I nod my approval, stepping into the piping hot bathtub.

Logan quickly books his tickets and then puts his phone on the desk outside, perhaps to ensure that no more naked video chats are possible, before joining me in the water. We sit with our backs at either end, our feet entangled in the middle.

I sigh in relaxation, and with a smile on my face, I giggle, “So, you told your parents that I’m gorgeous?” I put on my best attempt at a South Carolina accent.

He smirks. “Oh, I said a lot more than that, baby.”

“What else?” I ask in amusement.

“I told them about our lunch date and about seeing you later that evening before I went home and indulged in a healthy amount of onanism,” he grins, and I laugh, immediately knowing that he’s joking.

“Even spaced out on painkillers, you wouldn’t tell them that,” I say confidently.

“True,” he concedes, “but that is what happened,” he reveals slowly.

My curiosity is piqued. “You went home after your meeting with the complex manager and pleasured yourself?” I ask, adding, “After seeing me?”

He nods, and a moment later I erupt into laughter.

“Oh, Logan, how alike we are,” I tell him.

“You too?” he asks, surprised.

“Yes,” I confess. I place my foot on his stomach and as I talk I slowly glide it upwards over his broad chest. “When I got home I had a cold shower to cool the fire you lit in me, but it didn’t help at all. And knowing you were in the complex somewhere…so close…it did things to me,” I trail off, leaving him wanting more.

“Tell me,” he pleads.

I recall the feelings that were coursing through my body only a few weeks ago. “I was aching for you, even then, and I couldn’t not touch myself to relieve that ache.”

He stares across the tub at me, his gaze filled with both love and longing. “Oh, the aching feeling,” he smiles. “I know that feeling well. It’s been my constant companion for two years,” he says.

I grin at him, never tiring of the knowledge that Logan loved me and longed for me for years, respectfully waiting for Jerry and I to break up before he made his move. “An itch that only I could scratch?”

“And, baby, you scratch it so well,” he compliments me.

“Worth the wait?” I ask.

“Undoubtedly,” he laughs. “Gemima, I would wait forever to feel the way you make me feel. The satisfaction I get from being with you,” he says, his hand unconsciously moving to his crotch, “is unparalleled.” He strokes himself under the water and I’m instantly mesmerised.

The words escape my lips before I can hold them back. “Will you let me watch you touch yourself?”

His eyes widen. “You want to see that?” he says, skeptically.

“Oh, yeah,” I smile again.

“Oh?”

“You want to watch me, right?” I check; he’s said as much before.

“Definitely.” His answer is quick and eager.

“It’s the same for me,” I tell him. There would be something so incredibly intimate about pleasuring ourselves in front of one another. It seems fitting for this particular day when things between us have been deepening.

“I sort of watched you last night,” Logan confesses with a smile.

“Yes,” I giggle, “but you were very much there too.” I think about our encounter last night. “You get the best view,” I think.

“I could tape it, if you like?” he offers.

“Oh, no,” I laugh again. “I’ve already had an embarrassing video go viral, thank you very much.”

Logan goes uncomfortably still at the other end of the tub. “You made a sex tape with Jerry?” he asks in shock.

“God, no! I shot something with Amber,” I explain.

“With Amber?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Amber?” he checks again and I nod. “You…you made a sex tape with Amber?”

I burst out laughing. “It wasn’t a sex tape, Logan. We recorded ourselves dancing to our jam.”

“Oh,” he breathes in understanding. “What’s your jam?”

“The Best by Tina Turner,” I tell him. “We got really drunk many years ago and choreographed an entire routine. We figured it was the best thing ever, and you know, maybe Britney Spears or your friends N*Sync would want to use it.”

“Naturally,” he teases.

“So we filmed it and then accidentally emailed it to about two hundred friends, family and work associates.”

“Do you, uh, still have the video?”

I shake my head, smiling at him.

“Too bad,” he sighs, taking my foot off of his chest and massaging it. “I suppose I’ll just have to watch you touch yourself instead.”

* * *

We soak in the hot water for a long, luxurious time, and all of that time is a slow, sensual windup to what we want to do afterwards.

Once we’ve dried off, I linger next to the bed, and when Logan joins me he has a coin in his hand.

“Is it competition worthy?” I ask.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he confirms. “Pick a side.”

“Heads,” I grin cheekily.

He throws the coin up in the air, catches it easily, and slaps it onto the back of his hand. It’s heads, meaning that he has to go first.

“Dammit,” he says. He doesn’t miss a beat before asking, “Best of three?”

“Sure.”

Logan repeats his process and the result is the same.

“Best of five?” I offer with a laugh. Or seven?

“No,” he says in mock dramatics. He then smiles wryly at me, “I know when I’m beat.”

My heart is pounding as I sit on the bed next to where Logan lies down, his erection protruding, waiting to be taken. He closes his eyes and furrows his brow, concentrating hard as he takes his penis in his hand and pistons himself once.

“Which of our sexploits has been your favourite?” he asks me, seeking an image of inspiration.

“Impossible to choose,” I tell him, gazing down at him.

His eyes dart open. “I need something to think about, baby. My mind is blank. I’ve never done this with another person before,” he admits.

I lean down and kiss his lips. “Neither have I,” I breathe. Then I take his free hand and use it to touch my sex. “Think about this,” I smile, wholly aroused.

He groans, his other hand moving already. He starts to pump himself furiously, coaxing him to his release. His guttural moans make me even damper, and I have to force myself to hold back. I’ll have plenty of opportunities to touch him like this, I tell myself, but this moment is supposed to be different. This is supposed to be a personal, private, individual experience that we’re sharing with each other for the first time. This is another boundary that we’re letting one another cross, and watching him not only turns me on to the max, but it also makes me feel closer to him than ever before.

He keeps stroking himself forcefully. Several heightened minutes later, his wandering hand searches for me and when it glides over my sex again, I whimper sensitively, the sound of which pushes Logan to the edge. He works himself for a few moments more and then groans loudly as he comes. He shakes it out, his sounds of pleasure penetrating every part of my psyche. Holy shit, this is hot!

Breathing rapidly, Logan’s eyes open once more and he smiles as he sees me biting my lip, my eyes wide with arousal.

“Your turn, baby,” he pants eagerly.

My nerves are nonexistent as Logan and I swap position. I lie back and he sits up, a look of intense enthusiasm on his face.

“You look like it’s Christmas morning,” I laugh, stroking his face with my hand.

“I feel like it too,” he grins back at me.

Taking his lead, I close my eyes to begin with, moving my hands steadily south. I touch myself and writhe immediately, already so wet and so sensitive. I set my keen pace, moaning airily. The images I see in my mind’s eye are certainly gratifying, but Logan in my imagination is no match for Logan in real life. I’m halfway to heaven when I open my eyes and gaze at him instead. The look on his face tells me how impressed and satisfied he is that I can do this with my eyes open. He looks as captivated by the sight of me as I am by him. He is so enchanting beautiful. Sexy, handsome, manly, and the unequivocal love of my life.

“Logan,” I moan quietly.

My whole body changes as I look at him. Somehow I relax even more and my pleasure increases in droves. My moans and motions become heavier as I spur myself onwards. Down below, one hand works over my clitoris, faster and harder, while I slip a finger on my other hand inside of myself. I open my legs wider and arch my back against the bed, reveling in the incredible sensation. Oh, yes! Yes! I’m so delectably close now. I scrunch my eyes shut, powering on to my climax.

“Ah!” I call effusively, as my orgasm ricochets through my body, causing it to tremble violently.

“Oh my god,” Logan breathes, sounding more stimulated that I’ve ever heard him before.

When I’ve ridden my orgasm to the last delicious quiver, I retreat my hands, unable to keep myself from giggling. We should do that on a regular basis, I think, out of my mind with pleasure. I open my eyes and smile at Logan. He looks at me like I’m the goddess on his shrine.

“Gemima…” words fail him.

I put my hand over his mouth, my smile even broader. “You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him. I know exactly what he’s feeling, I felt the same way watching him. “Just come here, Logan,” I ask him, wanting more. Always wanting more.

* * *

On Sunday morning I’m awoken by the sound of howling winds and heavy rain. Logan is snuggled behind me, and I roll over, facing him, and turning my back to the window. His arm naturally encases me, and I tuck my face between his stubbly chin and chest, snuggling as close as I possibly can, relishing the memory of last night. Logan took me deeply and rapidly, bringing me to my second release of the evening with his trademark attention to detail. The result being that this morning every cell in my body feels good.

In this state, I drift off to sleep once more but am woken again when my phone starts ringing loudly.

Logan groans and I reluctantly jump to life, wanting to silence it before he’s fully roused. Staring at the clock on the bedside table, I see that it’s only eight AM. Too early, I think grumpily. Hurriedly finding my phone, the caller ID tells me that it’s my mom. Strange, I think, it must be past midnight in Brazil where she’s currently holidaying.

“Hi, Mom,” I whisper, scurrying to the bathroom and closing the door.

“Darling!” she cries loudly, alerting me straight away to the fact that she’s well and truly drunk. “Darling, I’m at a disco,” she shouts.

I grin into my phone, and pull on a bathrobe to stave off the cold. Outside the hotel I can hear thunder rumbling, and down the phone line I can hear loud music thumping away in the background. “I can hear that,” I say. “Are you having fun?” I ask needlessly.

“It’s brilliant here. Everyone is so friendly, and I just wish I could stay longer,” she says.

“Why don’t you stay an extra few days?” I suggest before remembering that I’ve promised Mary-Gene an appointment with her.

“Alas, my booming business needs me,” my mom explains. “How are you, sweetheart?” she then asks.

“I am excellent,” I say enthusiastically, smiling into my phone. “I’m in the south of France this weekend,” I tell her. “Logan surprised me by bringing me to the Hotel Beaux Rêves.”

“Uh…” she thinks back, “is that that fictional hotel you’re obsessed with?” she wonders.

I laugh out loud. “It’s not fictional.” Obviously, I’m sitting in it. “But, yes, the one I’ve always wanted to come to.”

“He’s trying to get into your pants,” she says hastily, as if trying to warn me off a conman.

I laugh again. Oh, mom! “He succeeded sometime ago,” I confess, only doing so because I suspect she’ll remember little to none of this conversation after she’s had a good nights sleep.

“I see...” she sounds disapproving. It’s the exact reaction I’ve come to expect from her. The only feelings that she has for men since her divorce from my stepfather six years ago are disdain and disrespect. That a man could be honest and genuinely affectionate is beyond her capacity to comprehend. “And you still think you love him?” she asks, inadvertently telling me that she received my email last week during which I professed my love for Logan to her for the first time.

“Definitely,” I smile again.

She’s silent for a long, telling moment.

I roll my eyes. “Just be happy,” I say, irritated. “It’s a good situation, I promise you.”

“Hmm…”

“Mom!” I exclaim, my irritation turning to anger.

“Alright,” she says in surrender. “I trust you,” she tells me earnestly. Then changing the subject – which automatically picks up her mood – she says, “So, I just called to say hello, and I figured you’d be up early on your way to work, but obviously you’re playing hooky.”

“I never work on Sundays…”

“It’s Sunday?” she shouts.

“Yes,” I tell her, my annoyance all but gone and my grin back in place. Discoing a little too much, maybe?

“Not Monday?” she checks.

“It’s Sunday,” I confirm.

“Oh, goodness, I must be having even more fun than I thought,” she giggles.

Fun being codeword for alcohol more like!

“Stay safe,” I impress, “and I’ll see you later in the week,” I say, electing not to tell her about Mary-Gene’s salon appointment, now certain she won’t remember it.

“Si! Take care, darling. Say hello to Logan from me,” she says.

Ah, progress, I think gratefully. “I will,” I smile. “Love you. Bye!”

A little too inebriated to hang up the phone swiftly, I hear her order another round of drinks before the line finally goes dead. Laughing to myself, I turn my phone on silent – no more early morning wakeup calls, thank you very much – and then I creep back into the bedroom as quietly as I can.

It’s pouring rain outside, and so for the next several hours Logan and I just lie in bed, entwined, semi-awake. Hours of making out, falling back asleep, holding one another, listening to the heavy rain, and making out some more. It’s utter bliss! We’ve never given ourselves the time to spend so long like this, but being on holiday is the perfect excuse for our laziness.

It’s past noon when we finally order up room service, our stomachs grumbling loudly. I call down to make the order while Logan stands at the window, surveying the weather. After I hang up I join him, hugging him from behind. I’m almost shocked to see a blue sky outside. The storm has evidently passed.

“I have something planned for this afternoon,” he says, running his hands up and down my arms. “I thought I’d have to cancel, but the water has settled.”

“We’re going out on the water?” I ask, excitedly.

He turns around and nods. His stomach grumbles again, and smiling, he says, “But first the skipper needs to eat.”

* * *

An hour later we walk out along the hotel’s signature, picturesque jetty, and I sigh happily as I take in the view that I’ve waited years to see. So this is what Fitzgerald saw when he wrote my favourite book, I muse, taking in the stunning vista. Joy rises in me. I’m finally here, I’m finally seeing what he saw…and all because of Logan. Feeling full of gratitude, I reach up mid-step to kiss his cheek.

“I love you,” I tell him, and before he can respond, I repeat my words half a dozen times.

I’m eventually quiet enough for him to say, “I love you too, baby. I love seeing you take in this view, knowing that it means so much to you.”

Oh, Logan! I swoon at his words. His thoughtfulness in bringing me here is so much more than I’ve experienced in my life before now.

“That’s why I’m taking you somewhere special,” he continues.

We’re going somewhere specific, I wonder, I thought the experience was simply going out on the ocean. “Where to?”

“C’est une surprise,” he smiles. It’s a surprise.

At the end of the jetty our boat sits in the water and a man stands on the dock, patiently holding a silver tray with two flutes of champagne on it.

“Bon après-midi,” he nods at us. Good afternoon. “Appréciez s’il vous plaît,” he says, as we take the flutes. Enjoy.

Logan helps me step into the boat, which I do carefully, willing myself not to spill the champagne; this stuff is too good to waste. Once Logan’s onboard as well, the butler-cum-waiter walks back up the jetty drawing my line of sight with him, and I gaze at the charming-looking hotel with admiration. I can’t believe I’m really here, I muse again, brimming with love for the man sitting next to me.