Текст книги "She: Part 2"

Автор книги: Annabel Fanning

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Logan laughs again, enjoying yet another of my overreactions.

Pushing on, I ask, “And when they’ve questioned you about having children, what have you said?”

“I, uh, told them that I am undecided, and that I’d know once when I’d met the woman that I’m going to marry.”

“And now that you’ve met me?” I say smugly.

He smiles. “Baby, I can think of nothing better than spending my life, my whole life, with you. But I want it to be only you and I,” he reveals.

I nod, satisfied. “I want that too,” I lean across the table to give him a quick kiss.

“That’s what I thought,” he says confidently, making me smile. “But if we ever change our minds,” he says seriously, “or if Amber teams up with my mother and they succeed in replacing your pill with a placebo,” he chuckles, though my eyes grow wide – that’s actually a really good idea; though possibly illegal – “…then the door is always open. If I’m going to be a parent, you’re the only woman that I want to go on that journey with.”

Hmm. “I like that. An open door,” I muse.

Despite Amber’s urgency, the truth is that we don’t have to decide definitively, not today, not tomorrow, or any day after. We can just be, just live our lives, and if it happens, it happens, and we’ll embark on that wild ride together.

“Whether it is ever relevant or not, I think you’d make an incredible father,” I tell him earnestly. His patience, his cool temperament, his affectionate nature are testaments to that.

“Thank you, baby. I’d certainly give my child more liberty than my father gives me,” he sighs, his words weighted.

“He’s just worried, Logan,” I tell him again.

He shakes his head. “He’s actually not the problem…”

“Then who?”

“Taylor,” he says immediately. “When Taylor finds out about my fight with Jerry, he’s going to give me hell,” I’m informed. “He might even cancel his trip altogether; that wouldn’t surprise me at all.” After a brief pause, he shrugs, saying, “That might be for the best, anyway. I want you to enjoy meeting my parents, and Taylor has a habit of souring every encounter we have together.”

“But…but how come he’s married if he’s such an asshole?” I wonder out loud.

“He’s only an asshole to me,” Logan laughs. “Everyone else likes him. Except for Buddy,” he amends.

“Your parents don’t notice the strain in your relationship?”

“They’ve given up trying to convince him that I’m a nice guy. Karen, my sister-in-law, has given up too. So have I. He’s been waiting over fifteen years for me to fuck up, and – believe me – that’s exactly how he’ll see my run-in with Jerry. It’s proof to him.”

Dammit! I have a burning question that I need to ask, though I’m embarrassed even thinking about. Eventually, I blurt out, “I know this is an incredibly selfish and wimpy thing to ask, but I just have to ask so that I can brace myself…”

“What is it?”

“Will your family be reproving of me because Jerry is my ex? Like, will they think that I’m some sort of bad influence that’s steering you to do bad things?”

A smile overcomes his face instantly. “Is that a serious question or are you just trying to make me smile?” His response is an answer in and of itself. But when I stay silent, he reaches for my hand, and confirms, “No, baby, they won’t think any less of you because of this, I promise. I’ve told my parents how much I love you, they know I’m happier than I’ve ever been before. That’s your influence, Gemima.”

I am both relieved and tickled by his words.

“And just so you know…you can always ask me anything, no matter how selfish or wimpy it might be,” he grins, before eating a massive mouthful of food.

I nod my understanding, and then taking the conversation back to Taylor, I ask “So, what about your niece? Does she like you?”

“Oh, she loves me, much to Taylor’s annoyance. I adore her too,” he says affectionately. “Before getting to know you, she was the funniest person I knew,” he says, grinning at me.

I roll my eyes, making him laugh. “Do you see her often?”

“I go back to Charleston every year, around her birthday. She’s five and a half now. Taylor’s not going to trust me with her when he finds out about Jerry,” Logan sighs, mournfully. “And just to be clear, that’s not your fault either. That’s just Taylor holding onto any excuse he can get his hands on in order to use her against me.”

Seriously? “He really thinks that you’re capable of hitting a child?” I ask in disbelief.

Surely, this whole brotherly spat is being blown way out of proportion? Surely, Taylor’s not as big of an asshole as I already think he is? I feel an unpleasant tension fill my body, a desire, a need to make Taylor see sense.

“He was a child when I hit him,” Logan reminds me.

“So were you, Logan,” I say heatedly, defending him from himself. “You were only a teenager, you were probably drunk, or stoned, or off your head on something else. And while that doesn’t pardon what you did, it also shouldn’t condemn you forever either. I mean, you weren’t you!” I’m becoming exasperated.

With a level head, Logan says, “Right as you are, baby, that fact has never yet managed to penetrate Taylor’s stubborn skull. He wants me to be the bad guy.”

I sigh, giving up. “Fine, then,” I huff. “If Taylor wants bad, I’ll give him bad.”

“What are you going to do?” Logan smiles mischievously.

I consider several heated options, but eventually I calm down. “Nothing,” I decide. “At least, nothing bad. I’m going to have a good time. The best time,” I amend. “And while I’ll no doubt embarrass myself on a minimum of five separate occasions, I’m still going to have the best time because I’ll be with you. And nothing will piss off Taylor more than seeing you happy.”

“Sad, but true,” Logan agrees.

“And nothing will cement his grudge against you quite like seeing you being appreciated by people who love and admire you. Saturday night is going to be torture for him,” I say, thinking about the Appreciation Night that is being held for Logan in honour of his upcoming birthday.

He groans. “For him and me both.”

Abruptly remembering something that Buddy said this morning, I giggle. “You’ll walk into the room on Saturday night and everyone will start howling.”

Logan looks more confused than I’ve ever seen him look before. “Howling?”

“Yeah,” I grin. “I heard about your nickname: the Wolf.”

He erupts into laughter. “That name is ancient!”

As something occurs to me, I ask, “Is a female wolf called a bitch? Because if it is, then Taylor will have a great opening for insulting me.”

“He’s not going to insult you,” Logan says seriously. “And nobody calls me the Wolf anymore, not for a long time.”

“How’d you end up with such a sexy nickname, anyway?” I ask him.

“By doing some pretty un-sexy things,” Logan laughs.

“Like what?”

“Uh…” he thinks back. “Like working twenty hour days. Like chasing projects that people told me were way out of my league.”

“Why did you chase them?” I want to know.

“Because I knew I could win them,” he says.

“And did you?”

He smirks arrogantly in response. Of course he won them. I can’t help but laugh.

“You see,” he says, “I had an unrelenting self-confidence because I had nothing to lose. I’d already been to rock bottom, and that made me fearless in business, especially at the beginning. I stole jobs right out from under much bigger firms, and I guess some people thought I was sneaky, ruthless even, and so they called me the Wolf. The truth is that their ideas were outdated, and mine were fresh.”

“And so the empire was born,” I smile.

He nods. “After I grew my own company up to sixty or seventy employees it was brought to my attention – by my mother, no less – that I had to think about other people’s job security now as well, and not just about myself. That realisation grounded me, I was humbled by it, and after that I changed my tact. I put my reckless nature on the back burner, and the nickname died away over time. How did you hear about it, anyway?”

“Buddy,” I explain. “He also told me that you lost that job last week because you were busy cavorting with me,” I grin.

“He’s teasing you,” Logan laughs.

“He better be, because I don’t plan to stop cavorting with you, like, ever,” I reveal.

“Glad to hear it, baby,” Logan smiles back at me.

“When you go and see him tonight, I need you to drop me off at a store on the way,” I request. “I’ve a few things to pick up.”

“Alright,” he nods. “How will you get home?”

“I’ll walk, it’s only a couple of blocks from here,” I tell him.

“You’ll walk alone?” he asks, unsure.

“I’m almost certain I’ll make it, but if I don’t, I love you,” I toy with him.

“Hmm,” he grumbles. “I don’t know about—”

“It’s happening, deal with it,” I tell him with a laugh.

He smiles at my attitude. “What else will you do tonight?”

“I should probably check in on my other boyfriend,” I toy with him some more and he chuckles. “But, I’ll most likely end up sitting right here,” I gesture to the dining table, “sketching.”

“Sketching?” Logan asks.

I nod. “Sometimes after work I would just sit and sketch gardens. Before you, it’s what I used to do for fun. How sad is that?” I say, sardonically.

“At least you had fun. I would go from my work office to my home office and just keep on working.”

I smile, leaning over to kiss him. He cups my face with his hands, spurring my passion for him onwards. Our food grows cold while we make out. No loss there, I think. Logan tastes more delicious by far.

* * *

A short while later he drops me off on his way to Buddy’s at a huge all-purpose store a couple of blocks from my house. He quizzes me about what exactly I’m buying, but my lips remain sealed.

I browse the birthday aisle leisurely, picking out a stylish navy paper to wrap his photograph and padlock in…and his birthday boy badge – the newest addition to his presents, which I find next to the wrapping paper. He can wear it to work on Thursday, I think giddily. A few paces further I stumble across an assortment of bows and my mind starts racing with possibilities. I can so use these. I pick out four, two smaller ones intended for my nipples, one medium sized one intended for my downstairs, and one huge one to stick on the French doors that lead out to Logan’s roof terrace, where his main present will be concealed. Perfect!

Moving further down the aisle, I find it impossible to pick out a suitable card for him, reading through at least ten different choices, all of which garner groans from me. Where are the you’re-the-best-thing-that’s-ever-happened-to-me-and-I’ll-love-you-forever-and-always cards?

Suddenly Buddy’s drawing from this morning floats into my mind and quite abruptly I decide to put my talent of drawing to another, more carnal task. Yes, I think, a smile spreading across my face. My mind made up, I pick a tolerable card from the shelves, deciding that this one will be for public display, and the one that I’ll draw will be for Logan’s eyes only.

My basket then packed with all the things I need, I wander into the depths of the store, in search of one last, longed-for item. I lose myself somewhere in the hardware section, wandering up and down several aisles until I find a small area of shelving which is dedicated to little, numbered plaques, the likes of which are stuck onto letter boxes…or the corner of cafe tables. Finding a small, circular one with the number forty-nine on it, I head for the cashier brainstorming where I can place it, though I currently draw a blank.

I walk home in the brisk night air, stopping at a twenty-four hour deli to pick up some bread and milk for the morning, before becoming distracted by a bright and colourful candy store that is full of happy, high-on-sugar customers a few doors down. It’s new to the neighbourhood, even newer than I am, and looks very inviting, tempting me to the max. I resist, deciding that I’ll come back tomorrow with Logan. After hearing his revelation over the weekend about candy stores being his one shopping weakness, I’m curious to see it in action.

After checking the stores closing hours, I continue walking home, and as I stand on the front porch of my house, I hear shouting coming from my neighbours across the way. Again. It’s the same couple that Logan and I saw arguing two weeks ago. Through the windows into their living room I can see arms gesticulating madly in time with loud, incomprehensible yelling. I pause momentarily, wondering if I should do something, before deciding that it’s really not my place. Good luck to them, I think, stepping into my home and closing the door on their row.

Before I get to do the fun, birthday-related things, I have to do the responsible, grownup things. My plants haven’t had water for nearly a week, so they’re my first port of call. Then I empty the fridge of everything that’s too old to eat, I put clean sheets on my bed, and I do a quick dust and vacuum of the whole cottage.

An hour later, my chores done, I excitedly gather everything I need together, placing my bag of shopping, along with Logan’s presents and few blank sheets of paper and some pens, onto the dining room table, and I then head into the living room to turn on the television. I navigate my way to the music channels, settling for the Chillout Lounge, of course. Humming along to a familiar song, I embark on my gift wrapping and card creating. Picking one of the most memorable times that Logan and I have had sex, I draw on his birthday card a very detailed, very accurate depiction of me standing flush against the glass window in his bedroom, with Logan standing behind me. I take a lot of care to draw our faces so that they convey the amount of pleasure we felt at the time, and I find myself becoming aroused as I think about that morning repeatedly, capturing it on paper.

When I’m satisfied with its level of eroticism, it’s then time to write the insides of both cards. The sexy one is easy, as I write simply, our imminent activity, hoping his birthday will start, quite literally, with a bang. However his other card, the one for public display, takes me longer to pen. There are so many things I want to say to him and so I just start writing, putting down in words all of my reasons for adoring him, all the ways that he’s made my life better, all the ways he’s helped me to grow.

Logan, there are just a few things I want you to know…

In a way, without saying a word, we have dared each other, and pushed each other to open up more, to trust more, to fall more in love, and we keep achieving new heights. This is completely new to me.

With you, love feels real. Like, REALLY real. I’ve never felt so loved and respected and appreciated as you make me feel, and you make me feel like that constantly, just for being me. That’s new as well.

You’ve made my everyday sweeter and brighter, and brief though our relationship has been, I cannot imagine living a single day of the rest of my life without you. I love you more than I ever thought I was capable of loving someone.

I wish for you the best birthday that you’ve ever had, and I hope that the next thirty-five years (and beyond) we will continue to grow side-by-side, because if there’s one thing that I know with absolute certainty, it’s that we’re better together.

I’ll love you forever. Thank you for being YOU.

All my love, Gemima.

It’s in this immensely thankful and loved-up mood that I crawl into my fresh, newly-made bed. As I lie, looking up at myself in the mirrors on the ceiling, two thoughts go through my mind.

The first is about Amber and Seamus – the mirror implementers. Their heartwarming announcement makes me reach for my phone and spend the next ten minutes trawling the internet to find them a suitable pregnancy present. I buy them something called a foetus-scope, which I find a sufficiently different gift to give. They won’t be expecting something usual from me, so this is perfect.

My phone then back on the bedside table, next to my packet of the pill which looks untampered with, the second thought goes through my mind. Me, lying here last Monday, about to embark on my special assignment from Logan – touching myself and bringing myself to orgasm while thinking about him, during our only night apart since we’ve gotten together. Oh, that was fun, I muse, allowing the gratifying feelings to flow through my body, enlivening it, sparking a desire to reenact that assignment. The image I drew earlier of Logan and I against the window comes back into my imagination, driving my desire higher still. But I don’t touch myself, I doze in the delicious, sensual sensations as they carry me off to sleep.

* * *

I wake many hours later with Logan lying over me, his head on my shoulder, his hand on my chest and his leg resting on top of mine. I’m steaming under the covers, and not because our combined body temperatures are hot, but because I’ve just awoken, quite suddenly, from the most sexually explicit dream that I’ve ever had.

I would swear on my life that it was real. I’m sure I was just coming over and over and over again…but it was all a dream. Jeez, my imagination is wanton! My heart pounds madly, and I’m panting as though I’ve actually just had sex. Down below I can feel my wetness and if it weren’t for the aching feeling in my clitoris I would think that I had an orgasm in my sleep. But that dull ache tells me that I haven’t, I woke up on the verge. Dammit!

I’ve never, ever woken up feeling so horny and raring to go. How is this even possible? How can I possibly be right on the verge of an orgasm simply from a dream? It was Logan, I remember, it was the incredible, heightened things he was doing to me. Oh, I want the dream to finish.

“Logan,” I whisper loudly.

But then I blanch, and scold myself, Gemima, what the fuck are you doing? You can’t wake him up and demand sex just because you had a sex dream! Immediately, I know my scolding-self is right, but Logan shifts and mumbles next to me.

Don’t wake up, please, don’t, I scream in my mind. I really don’t want to have to explain myself. Chiding myself again, I think, you didn’t think it that far through, did you, Gem?

I lay very still, hoping that he’ll settle and continue sleeping for however long we’ve got before my alarm goes off. Tentatively, I glance over at my nightstand, trying hard to move my eyeballs and nothing else, to check what time it is. Shit…it’s only five AM.

Logan wriggles and mumbles, “S’matter?”

“Nothing,” I whisper, feeling tense all over. My dream will just have to wait to be finished. “Go back to sleep,” I tell him, though I feel like I won’t be able to do anything of the sort. I’ll probably lie awake, growing more erotically charged until daylight brings some sweet reprieve. Logan will wake up and my desire will be quenched. Maybe two times, or three times, I think hopefully.

His head shifts over my chest and a second later, he freezes, his body becoming stiff and rigid. He lifts his head, suddenly alert and stares at me through the darkness. “Gemima, what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice terse.

“Nothing, go back to sleep,” I whisper once more.

“No,” he says, “your heart is beating overtime.”

Fuck! Please, don’t make me say it, Logan. “I’m fine,” I say, stroking his cheek with my hand.

Logan momentarily flattens me, reaching for something on my nightstand. The feeling of him on top of me does nothing to stem my rapid heartbeat or the intense feeling of longing that’s potent in every cell of my body. Suddenly the bedside lamp comes on, and I scrunch up my face against the unwelcome light.

“What’s wrong?” Logan demands to know, still on top of me.

Oh, this is beyond embarrassing! I desperately wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I could have snuck out of bed and crept into the bathroom, and taken care of business myself, I realise too late. Then I’d be coming right now, instead of having to explain my rudeness. I cover my face with my hands, partly to block out the light, partly to save face. It’s confession time, Gem.

“OK,” I begin. “Nothing is wrong,” I point out firstly, so that he’ll stop worrying. Then the words just pour out of me. “I had a sex dream, and it was incredible, and I woke up feeling like I was just about to orgasm and that’s why my heart is racing, so I tried to wake you up to convince you to have sex with me, but then I was like, hang on a minute, you can’t just demand sex from him, he’s sleeping, don’t be so rude.” I take a breath. It might be the longest sentence I’ve ever managed without one.

Logan is silent for a moment, taking in what I’ve just divulged.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” I tell him, peeking through my fingers. “It was very inconsiderate. Go back to sleep.”

His face is filled with humour. “That’s not fucking likely,” he murmurs, shifting himself so that he’s properly on top of me. He buries his face into my neck, kissing my skin.

“Oh, I love doing this with you,” I breathe, everything in me reigniting. My dream is becoming reality.

“The feeling’s mutual, I promise,” he chuckles.

I grin, but feel the need to say, “Please don’t feel like you need to take care of anything. I mean, if the table was turned and you woke me up after having a sex dream, I’d think, that’s nice, then roll over and go back to sleep,” I tell him truthfully.

“Ah, but you see, we have differing processes of arousal,” he counters quickly. “I have a one-second startup on my engine, where as yours is a little slower,” he says, mercifully aware of our differing bodies. “So, no, I would never wake you up and demand sex, because it’s not really the same thing when the table is turned,” he says.

Oh my god, I love this man! His sensitivities, his understanding. He’s letting me get away with my rudeness! Can this be? A smile spreads across my face. “The fact that you’re aware of what you just said makes you so fucking sexy, Logan.”

He smiles against my lips, “It’s just biology, baby.”

He begins kissing me, slowly, sensually. His hand moves southwards, towards my sex. I open my legs gratefully, so ready for him. His fingers glide over me easily. I squirm against them, wanting both to feel them and to escape them. I’m so, so close!

“Gemima,” he sighs, his voice full of as much carnal desire as I feel within me. “Baby, you’re so wet!” his voice is my detonator, pushing me to the edge.

“It was a good dream,” I pant.

“Was I in it?” he asks, chuckling. He so knows the answer to that.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I say, throwing my head back into the pillow and arching my back against him. I groan loudly.

He plays with me, stroking me softly. “I love feeling you arch against me,” he whispers in my ear. “I love feeling you so wet.”

“S’your fault,” I moan. “The things you did in my dream…ah…they were very similar to this.” The weight of him on top of me, his fingers on my sex, his words in my ear…it’s all too much. “Logan, I want you inside of me,” I beg, my hand finding and rubbing his erection. I seriously don’t have long left.

“In a minute,” he says slowly, enjoying himself.

I tremble under him, my self-control slipping away fast. Then he slides two long fingers into me, making a sound of such gratification at my warmth. Immediately, I feel my legs stiffen.

“Already?” he asks, reading me correctly.

“Yes,” I moan into his mouth as he starts taking me, sliding in and out quickly. Ah! Closer, closer. He sinks into me for the final time and I call out, pushed too far. I orgasm stupendously, my mind vaguely wondering if I’m still dreaming. But I’m not, Logan’s lips on mine, his tongue slipping into my mouth confirms this for me. He withdraws his fingers, and positions his erection at my entrance. I reach down and grab his backside, squeezing it, willing him forward.

He fulfils my wish, again, immersing his rock hard member into me, all the way to the hilt. There’s something different, something more about feeling him fill me, feeling his sex stimulate mine in all the right places as his body drapes over mine. I tangle my hands in his hair and kiss him hard. All of a sudden I’m very happy that I woke him up. Oh, yes, I’m happy. He thrusts into me over and over, fully exploring that sweet spot within.

Ah!

“Logan,” I mewl.

“Best. Wakeup. Call. Ever,” he says into my mouth, before claiming it again, crushing my tongue with his own.

Down below, he quickens the pace. I’m drowning in pleasure. I’m actually drowning; there is nowhere I can escape the satisfaction that’s building in me, no way to stem it. He’s got me pinned down, forcing me to accept every beautiful, incredible, indescribable feeling. And I love it! I love being pinned under him, feeling his weight on me.

He runs a hand down one of my legs and pulls it up under the knee, changing the angle that he enters me and then he thrusts deeply. Holy fuck! Right there!

“Logan,” I cry into his mouth. Ah, he feels exquisite!

Logan takes me at this new angle and my drowning continues. I’m pummelled by wave after wave of ecstasy, building up to something deep and powerful.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I susurrate.

“Ah, Gemima,” he groans, provoking me with unfailing precision.

He pushes my leg higher and I whimper in rapture. So close! So fucking good! I feel both of our bodies tense as we reach the very edge, and then, when there’s no chance to turn back, no chance to back down from our inevitable explosion, when one more fast thrust would send us both flying, Logan slows his pace drastically. My body trembles violently and I scream in sexual frustration and pleasure (though mostly pleasure) as I come slowly, too slowly, so slowly that every feeling is heightened and drawn out, engulfing me over and over again, in an oddly similar fashion to the dream that I just had. Holy shit! This feels phenomenal!

In the midst of my sounds, Logan comes too, before pulling out of me and rolling onto his back, panting hard. “People will think there’s been a murder,” he laughs airily.

“S’your fault,” I say again, with the biggest smile on my face. It really is his fault. “Baby, you do things to me that are out of this world.”

“Ditto,” he breathes. “The way you tighten around me, it makes me lose myself in you. It’s all consuming. Everything about you is, you’re all I can fathom…so, no, Gemima, it’s not my fault, it’s most definitely yours,” he tells me.

I grin at him, enjoying his explanation. I’ve never been happier to take the blame.