Текст книги "Walk Through Fire"

Автор книги: Kristen Ashley

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

CHAPTER SIX

You’ll Give

Millie

AFTER I PLOPPED the sour cream into the bubbling contents of the skillet, my phone rang.

I looked to it, saw it was Dottie calling, and snatched it up. I put the phone to my ear as I reached for the Dijon mustard.

“Hey, babe,” I greeted.

“You rang,” my sister replied as I squirted mustard into the bubbling sauce.

I had earlier that day, leaving a voicemail.

“Yeah,” I said. “Listen, I need a favor.”

“You know the drill,” she replied instantly. “You need it, free babysitting and that’s gonna happen soon, seeing as Alan and I are really in need of a date night.”

Two kids, both young, I knew that to be true.

Then again, it was always true. Dottie and Alan had been dating for years, pre-marriage, post-marriage, that’s the way they were.

I liked that for my sister.

My sister liked it too. And she wanted it for me.

“Done,” I told her, stirring my brew, talking to my sister, listening to Macy Gray from the new dock I’d bought, my candles burning, the steak and mushrooms already done and set to go in when the sauce was complete, the noodles resting in their water, ready to drain.

Then it was all a go.

Homemade beef Stroganoff.

It was smelling divine.

I just hoped it tasted the same way.

“What do you need?” Dottie asked.

“Okay, listen,” I began. “I went to that Pilates place and don’t let the pictures of people sitting on their asses bending around fool you. That shit is hard. But I got a wild hair, bought a five-session pass. I will not go again... ever... if you aren’t here in workout clothes, guilting me into doing it. So the favor is, I need you to bring the guilt. Don’t make me waste four sessions.”

I finished talking, asking this favor knowing it wouldn’t be hard. Dottie was a mother. Guilt, I suspected, for women was a specialty that was latent until you birthed your first baby. Then it kicked in full-force. I suspected this because it had happened with Dot.

But even though I stopped talking, Dottie didn’t start.

“Dot?” I called, pinching some salt and pepper into my sauce.

“You went to that Pilates place?” she asked softly.

I stopped moving and stared at my counter.

“Yeah,” I replied softly.

“I...” I heard her clear her throat. “Sure, I’ll do Pilates with you.”

Her tone was hesitant. Hopeful, but hesitant.

She knew what Pilates meant.

She knew what anything outside of me snarfing down fast food and watching reality TV meant.

“I’m done, Dot,” I told her.

“Done?” she asked, still hesitant, still hopeful.

Damn, but I’d put her through the wringer.

I needed to stop doing that.

And finally, I was going to.

“It’s time to move on.”

She said nothing.

I was sure she was shocked. This had never happened. I might have talked about it. I definitely thought about it (daily).

But I’d never done a thing about it.

“Did... something happen?” she queried.

“Yeah,” I gave her the truth. “A lot, actually. And I’ll explain it later. I don’t...” I shook my head even if she couldn’t see me. “I don’t wanna get into it. I’ll share it one day but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. In the end, it’s just time. Long past time. So there it is.”

In that speech, I’d lied.

It mattered.

Logan using me, taking advantage for his revenge fuck, then speaking to me the way he did, killing what we had, turning love to hate.

That mattered.

But it was done.

He hated me and there was nothing I could say that would change that. And the way he’d treated me—like what we had never happened, like what we shared wasn’t everything, like all of that didn’t buy me some kindness or at least some patience or at the very least some silence so I could share what I needed to share—it was inexcusable.

So it was over.

I was done walking through fire for that man.

And I wasn’t wasting another moment of my life on him.

I was going to change.

Finally.

I’d made that decision after the debacle at Wild Bill’s and that decision was cemented after what happened Saturday morning before the King’s Shelter event.

I was all in.

My larder was stocked.

I’d gone to the mall and bought clothes for inside and outside workouts.

I’d also bought a little black dress.

And the aforementioned speaker dock.

And the night before, I’d given myself a luxurious pedicure, unearthing my foot tub out of its box to do it.

My five-session pass for the Pilates center was purchased.

My first session was under my belt.

I was making fabulous-smelling, and I hoped would be fabulous-tasting, beef Stroganoff.

And I was thinking of getting a cat (or two) for company.

Yes, I was all in.

New life.

New me.

New beginning.

All to write a new future.

Out of the rut.

And on to something good.

(I hoped.)

“I don’t know what to say,” Dottie said in my ear.

“Nothing to say anymore.” I dropped my voice and kept stirring my sauce. “You’ve said it all, babe. I just never listened. Or if I did, it just didn’t sink in. It’s sunk in.”

“It’s seeing Logan,” she guessed.

“Yes.”

I did not lie about that, just my answer encompassed a whole truth she didn’t know.

Her voice was stronger when she said, “Then it’s good that happened. It didn’t seem good at the time but every woman has her limits. Every woman finds her time. You seeing him, hearing him, knowing he moved on, has kids, is doing okay, that was it for you. So that’s good.”

She was right. That part was good.

For Logan.

But I didn’t care or, more aptly, was determined to move toward not caring.

However, that thought was a good one to have.

I’d think of him that way, rather than the total asshole he’d been.

I’d think of him doing okay. Enjoying his kids. Being with his brothers.

And I’d find my things to enjoy.

Like beef Stroganoff.

“You’re right, Dottie,” I replied. “Now, I gotta add the mushrooms and steak to the sauce before it gets too thick.”

“You’re cooking?” She sounded shocked.

“New leaf, haven’t you heard?” I teased. “I mean, I did just mention it two seconds ago.”

“Kiss my butt,” she retorted, as she’d done since I was six and she was eight.

“Show it, I’ll kiss it,” I replied, as I’d done since she was eight and I was six.

“Whatever. If that stuff you’re making is good, then you’re making it for Alan, the kids, and me.”

“You’re on.”

“Awesome. Later, Mill.”

“Later, Dot. Love you.”

“Love you too, babe.”

She rang off.

I set my phone aside and picked up the platter with the seared beef and sautéed mushrooms.

I added it to the sauce.

I stirred.

I tipped it over the drained noodles and ate it with a delicious glass of red wine poured into one of my fabulous red wineglasses that I hadn’t pulled out in probably three years.

And it was divine.

*  *  *

“Holy crap, this is Dynasty except British with a better wardrobe and set in the early 1900s,” I whispered to the TV.

My kitchen was clean. My candles still burning. Only one lamp was lit, along with my gas fireplace, giving the room a warm, cozy glow.

And I was sitting, curled up on my couch, wineglass in hand, into my third episode of Downton Abbey.

Violet was a stitch.

And I was so organizing a party where people had to wear clothes from the early 1900s.

The costumes were amazing!

Violet had just drolly let out another humdinger and I was giggling at it when my doorbell rang.

I turned and looked over my shoulder toward the hall that led to the rest of my house, including my foyer.

It was late but I was not surprised my bell had sounded.

This happened. It happened when Dottie got fed up with Alan thinking that being a stay-at-home mom was a cushy job so he could come home, watch TV, scratch his crotch, and leave her on duty. She’d teach him by coming to my place, bitching, leaving him home on duty with the kids.

He’d learn.

Then he’d forget.

As was, according to Dottie, her lot since he was a man. They forgot stuff like that.

Repeatedly.

It also could be Justine, who worked but only part-time and her partner, Veronica, had a higher paying, higher stress, full-time job and Veronica felt the same way about Justine taking care of their son.

Thus she also had that lesson to teach, did it on occasion, Veronica learned and Veronica had a vagina but apparently she also had a short memory because she often forgot too.

Further, it could be Kellie, who did not have a partner (at the moment). However, she did have a life motto to have a good time all the time and even after all these years of shutting myself away, she never gave up. If she got a wild hair to try to drag me in to her good time, she swung around my place in an effort to do just that.

Or it could be Claire, my assistant, who was a serial dater and seemed surprised when the men in her life found out about the other men in her life and didn’t like it and then dumped her and broke her heart (ish). Claire also had a short memory since this happened frequently and she hadn’t learned to come clean early that none of her relationships were exclusive.

As I set my wine aside and got up, I was guessing Kellie or Claire. It was way too late for it to be Dottie or Justine. My niece and nephew were nine and four. Justine and Veronica’s little boy was eight months.

With the kids down, they’d totally be in bed by now doing one thing or the other.

I moved to the foyer, walked down it, and stared at my door, which was mostly a window covered in a beautiful sheer gathered at the top and bottom.

But I did this with my heart beginning to pump faster.

This was because the motion sensor light outside had lit and there was an unmistakable man’s body silhouetted through the sheer.

I didn’t stop moving toward the door, however, because I could not believe this.

It was past ten o’clock on a Monday night and he’d been a total asshole to me the last two times he’d seen me in a way I couldn’t decide which time was worse since they both were the worst.

And here he was.

Logan.

Standing at my front door!

No, I absolutely did not stop moving.

I was too angry for that.

I went right to the door, unlocked it, and hauled it open.

I instantly looked up at him and demanded, “Are you serious?”

“Your door is a fuckin’ window,” he replied in an irate growl.

I blinked, my anger tamped down with confusion at his unexpected words.

“What?” I asked.

“Your door is a goddamned window,” he bit off.

“So?” I asked.

His head tipped to the side in an intimidating way. “So?”

“Yeah,” I snapped, back to angry, thus totally unintimidated. “So?”

“You know how easy it is to break into a house with a window in the goddamned front door?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “But I’m certain you do,” I finished nastily.

“Yeah,” he clipped, leaning slightly toward me. “I do. It’s fuckin’ easy, which means this shit,” he threw a hand toward my open door, “is unsafe.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve shown up at my home after ten at night when you said you never wanted to see me again to tell me my front door is unsafe?” I asked incredulously.

“No,” he stated. “I came for another reason.”

Before I could ask what that was, he turned, bent, I got a view of his ass in his jeans I did not want because it was too good for words, then he straightened, hefting something up and turning back to me.

Dear Lord in heaven, he had that stupid crate.

Those crazy women who came to visit me gave him that stupid crate.

Damn it!

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said on an annoyed snap.

“Nope,” High replied, and pushed in, right in, doing it so I had no choice but to leap out of his way as he angled sideways to get him and the crate through the front door. And then, when he was through, he kept on walking.

“I did not ask you into my home,” I called after him as he stopped at the hall, looked right, looked left, then turned left, toward the living room.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he replied as he disappeared.

I made a frustrated noise, closed the door, and stomped after him.

By the time I hit the living room, he was standing in it, box at his feet and he was looking around.

I rounded him angrily, opening my mouth to tell him to get the fuck out, when his eyes cut to me and he spoke.

“Christ, you live on a movie set,” he noted with disgust.

“It’s pretty,” I snapped.

“It’s perfect,” he returned, like that was a bad thing.

“Yes, it is, utterly,” I agreed. “Now—”

“And what’s that smell?” He looked around and sniffed and I got even more annoyed because only Logan could sniff and do it looking manly and yummy. “It smells like flowers and onions.”

“Not onions,” I kept snapping. “Shallots,” I stated like any fool could tell the difference and his eyes came back to me. “And the flower smell is coming from my candles. Lavender. It’s soothing.”

“It’s sickening,” he replied.

“It... is... not,” I shot back indignantly.

“It fucking is,” he retorted.

“God!” I shouted, throwing out my hands. “Why are we talking about how my house smells?” I narrowed my eyes and swiftly kept speaking so he wouldn’t answer since I didn’t care about his answer. I cared about another answer. So I asked that question. “And why are you here?”

“Here to return this shit.” He toed the box with his boot but didn’t take his eyes off me. “And to warn you again to stop pullin’ this shit.”

“Then I’ll say again I’m not pulling any shit,” I declared.

“And I’ll repeat, I don’t believe you,” he stated.

“And I’ll repeat, I don’t care,” I returned.

He took a step toward me and I took a step back, eyes locked to his.

He hesitated, his head again tilting in that strangely intimidating way, then he kept coming at me.

I kept retreating.

He started speaking as we moved.

“It was a good play, usin’ that crate. What’s inside guaranteeing good women will go all out to have your back. But it’s still a play. You know it. I know it.”

I hit wall.

He invaded my space, tipping his chin way down to keep my gaze.

And he kept talking, lower, rougher, and his tone was more intimidating than any head tilt.

“You need to release Tyra before your shit causes Club shit, which you know, Millie, will be seriously uncool.”

“And, again, High, I am not playing some game where I pulled Tyra or her friends in to help me do anything,” I told him. “So you can repeat that until the cows come home but I can’t control her. Hell, I don’t even know her.”

“You knew her enough to give her that box.”

“She came here,” I shared. “I did not ask her. I barely spoke to her. I asked her to get rid of that crate. Not give it to you.”

“You knew what she’d do when she saw what was inside,” he derided. “She’s a sister.” His face dipped closer and his voice went quiet. “You got a pussy, baby, know that pussy, tasted it, fucked it, so know you definitely got a pussy. That means you knew what she’d do.”

God, he was such an asshole.

“You’re disgusting,” I announced bitingly.

“You didn’t think I was disgusting when you were on your knees for me,” he returned, still quiet, still close.

But it was the wrong thing to say, reminding me how he’d used me for his revenge fuck.

Very wrong.

And so I was done.

Done.

“Move back,” I snapped.

His eyes dropped to my mole and, damn it, the insides of my thighs started tingling, even though I was done.

“Got a mind to change yours about how disgusting you think I am,” he murmured distractedly.

“Move back, High,” I warned, and on his name, his eyes sliced to mine.

“That name’s not yours to use,” he grated.

“If you leave, I won’t use it,” I fired back.

“Got a lesson to teach,” he returned, and my belly curled.

Oh God.

What did that mean?

“Move back,” I repeated, my voice weakening with fear and something else a whole lot different.

“Give you what you want,” he said, his gaze again dropping to my mole, his voice again going soft. “Give you what you want so you’ll give up the game.”

“This is no game,” I whispered what I knew for certain to be the truth, and he looked into my eyes again.

“Oh yeah it is, Millie. And this time, I’m gonna get what I want when I win.”

Oh God!

This was not happening.

And suddenly, his mouth was on mine.

God.

It was happening.

I twisted my head away, lifted my hands to his chest, and pushed hard, shouting, “Move back!”

His torso swung away at my shove but then it swung right back in as the rest of his big body got closer, pinning me to the wall at the same time his hand came up and fisted in my ponytail, giving it a gentle-rough jerk that caught my attention.

It also caught my body’s attention and more than my inner thighs started tingling.

“Do not pull away from me,” he growled.

“Please leave,” I begged, not above that.

Oh no, I was not above begging at all.

I had to stop this.

Immediately.

And I’d do anything.

“Not until I make my play.”

“High—” I started another plea but stopped when his eyes fired, his hand in my hair pulled my head back, and his mouth came back down on mine, crushing it, pushing my lips against my teeth so I had a funny taste in my mouth.

But I felt High.

And I smelled him.

His body to mine, his hand in my hair, his lips on mine, his scent, all this permeated my anger and fear and when it did, it weakened my resolve.

But it didn’t kill it.

I had enough left to twist away so his lips slid up to my cheekbone.

“You’re hurting me.”

He positioned me to facing him using my hair and went back in, not for a kiss, to nip my bottom lip with his teeth.

I went still.

Because it wasn’t hurtful.

It was playful.

Logan was playful a lot when we’d been together.

A lot.

Especially sexually.

I loved it. I missed it when it was gone in a way that I craved it.

And there it was.

Oh...

Fuck.

“Then I’ll quit doin’ that,” he whispered, and went back in.

He quit doing that. His mouth on mine was hard, it was demanding, but it wasn’t painful.

It was coaxing.

Oh man.

“Logan,” I murmured against his lips, unable to stop it.

“And she gives it,” he muttered against mine, then swept his tongue into my mouth.

I tasted him and when I did, it hit me.

He wanted this. He’d come for it. No matter what it was for him, he’d found out where I lived and he’d come for it.

Teaching a lesson.

Playing a game.

It didn’t matter.

Because for me, outside those I gave myself, I’d had only one orgasm in twenty years and Logan had given it to me.

He was intent on giving me another one?

Fuck it.

I’d take it.

But this time, I’d go in knowing what this was.

He’d used me before.

I’d use him now.

There were worse ways to end a brilliant evening of delicious food, fine wine, and Britain’s classy version of soap opera.

Right?

My decision made, I slid my hands up to the sides of his neck, held on, and kissed him back.

He growled into my mouth and pressed me deeper into the wall.

I glided a hand up into his hair and pressed myself farther into his body.

He pulled my hair again so he’d broken the kiss and twisted my head to the side.

Lips to the skin right below my ear, his words caused shivers when he asked, “You want this?”

“You gonna give it?” I dared.

He nipped my earlobe with his teeth and right in my ear, he snarled, “Fuck yeah.”

“Then do it,” I challenged.

He righted my head, catching my eyes, his glittering with fury and heat.

“Bedroom,” he grunted.

“Last door at the end of the hall.”

He instantly let me go but grabbed my hand and I fought the bittersweet memories of the feel of his fingers around mine as he moved away and did it tugging me after him.

Like he’d been there before, the minute we entered my room, he flipped the light switch and the crystal-based lights on the nightstands on either side of my bed came on, casting an intimate glow to my bedroom.

This was not good.

The last time, heat of the moment, I didn’t even think of my body or, more importantly, what Logan would think of my body.

This time, I was turned on, I wanted this, but I was not out of my mind with want.

So I thought that my body was not twenty-one anymore. It was forty-one.

I had no idea how it had changed since then because I didn’t pay a lot of attention.

I just knew a single session of Pilates kicked its ass.

“Lights off,” I ordered as he kept tugging me, straight to my bed.

He pulled me around so we were facing each other, sides to the bed, and he shook his head.

“No, baby. I make you come, I’m gonna watch.”

Fuck.

“High—” I started but got no further.

He released my hand so he could catch me at the side of my neck and yank me to him.

I fell into his body as his mouth crashed back to mine.

And it was on.

I didn’t care about the lights anymore.

He wanted to see me?

Well, I wanted to see him.

All of him.

So I went after that, tugging his cut down his arms, then tearing at his clothes.

He copped feels, took bites, licked tastes as he let me at the same time he tore at mine.

We fell to the bed, him only in jeans, belt, and first two buttons on his fly undone, me in nothing but panties and a bra.

The second we hit mattress, I went after him.

God, I couldn’t get enough.

The feel of his chest hair against my lips, his nipples tightening against my tongue, the ridges of his abs contracting at my touch.

He had new tattoos, several of them, and I wanted to discover them in a variety of ways.

But at that moment, other things took precedence.

In no time, I needed more of those particular things and went for it, fingers to the final buttons of his fly.

“Fuck no,” he rumbled, his hand catching my wrist and my eyes flew to him. “This time I get to eat.”

Ripples shot over my thighs.

I wanted that.

But I needed what I was going after.

“Me first,” I returned.

“No way,” he shot back.

“Way,” I snapped.

He used his hand at my wrist to lift it, then when I locked my arm, he shoved it, successfully taking me to my back.

Before he could move over and pin me, I planted a foot in the bed and heaved, putting all my weight and strength into it, rolling him to his back with me on top.

He began to buck his powerful body to roll me again, something he’d achieve if I didn’t stop it, so I shot up, straddling him and clamping my thighs to his hips.

He angled up with me, catching both my wrists and rolling his hips, pushing up farther, until he made his knees.

“Fuck,” I hissed, grappling against his fingers wrapped around my wrists, catching his triumphant, hot-as-hell grin as he fell forward.

I hit the bed on my back with him on me, his hips between my legs and my head dangling off the end of the bed.

With his superior strength, he forced my hands to the bed at my shoulders as his lips hit my neck.

“Stop fighting it,” he murmured.

Then he ran his tongue along my jugular.

So nice.

“Kiss off,” I spat.

I heard and felt his chuckle.

So nice.

“God!” I snapped.

Logan nipped my collarbone, hands still holding my wrists to the bed.

I pushed against them, bucking my lower body, succeeding only in lifting us both off the bed an inch until his weight bearing mine down forced me to give up and we collapsed back to the mattress.

He slid his lips (and tongue) down my chest.

Destination: breast.

Knowing that, my body wanted to still, quit fighting, feel Logan’s mouth on me again like that. He was good at that. He’d given me a lot of that back in the day because he liked it but more, because I loved it.

The problem with that was, I couldn’t quit fighting and not only because something I didn’t get was at stake and whatever that was, I couldn’t lose.

But because this whole thing was a massive turn-on.

Unable to fight him any other way, I demanded, “My bra stays on.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, necessarily his hands having to move down as his body did, but they took mine with them.

Then I felt him nudge my nipple with his lips.

That was when I stilled.

“Oh yeah,” he whispered, feeling it, hunger and victory in his tone.

I forced another buck, but that one was feeble.

I wanted his mouth on me.

I felt his tongue lap my nipple through my bra.

Yes.

I made a soft noise in my throat.

“Fuck yeah,” he growled, and went in, sucking my nipple into his mouth over my bra.

That was when I arched, unintentionally (or perhaps not) forcing it in farther and he sucked harder.

“Logan,” I moaned.

He let my hands go and shoved his under me, pushing up so I was compelled to remain arched, offering my chest to him.

I didn’t fight it.

I drove my fingers into his hair.

He took one hand from around me and used it to pull down my bra.

And he had me, nothing in between.

“Logan,” I gasped.

He went at me and kept doing it until I had fingers clutched in his hair. Then he moved to the other nipple and kept at me until I was squirming.

When he had me that way, he let go and lifted away.

I raised my head from where it was dangling off the end of the mattress and looked into his heated face right before he clamped his hands on my hips and dragged me down the bed so my head was no longer hanging.

Then, watching my face, he hauled my panties down my legs.

I closed my eyes in happy anticipation.

Logan opened my thighs.

He positioned in between and I tensed, waiting, ready, so fucking ready.

“Want it?” he asked.

God, he was going to make me say it.

Whatever.

Who cared?

I did want it and I’d get it, so what did it matter?

“Yes,” I breathed.

He dragged his tongue through my pulsing wet.

Oh yes.

“More?” he asked.

God, this was hot.

“Yes, Logan,” I whispered.

He lapped at me.

Yes.

“More, baby?” he asked.

Hot.

“Yes, Logan. Please,” I begged.

He dipped in and went at me.

I lifted my knees, spread my legs wide, drove my pussy into his mouth and gloried in it.

He took his mouth from me, nipped my inner thigh with his teeth, and asked warningly, “Where should your legs be?”

So.

So.

So.

Hot.

I shifted them over his shoulders where he liked them so he could feel from the tension in my legs, my heels digging in his back, how much I liked what he was doing to me.

He cupped my ass, murmured, “Damn straight,” pulled me to him, and went back in.

That time, he didn’t stop.

He ate and he licked and he sucked and he darted his tongue inside until it built so high, it scared me.

“No more,” I begged, squirming under him like I was trying to get away at the same time push closer.

“Take it,” he growled into my pussy, and kept at me.

I slid my fingers into his hair. “Baby,” I whispered, the word trembling as my body did the same, top to toe.

He latched on to my clit with his mouth, dragged his tongue tight over it, then sucked hard.

I was right.

Too much.

And perfect.

I dug my heels into his back, fisted my fingers in his hair, and exploded on a sharp cry that rang through the room.

He kept sucking and I kept flying.

He added fingers, driving them inside and my cries came again but softer, in pants, my heels plowing into his back, my head twisted to the side, my hand clutching his hair.

Then he stopped and I desperately drew in air, gathering up the pieces to pull myself together only to lose hold as his cock slammed deep.

“Look at me while I fuck you,” he rumbled, his hand going into my hair to force me to do as told.

I caught his fired eyes, took his thick, hard cock, panting and whimpering as he fucked me.

“What you want?” he asked roughly.

“More,” I forced out through harsh breaths.

He kept thrusting, hitching a knee to put more power into it, holding me in place with his hand in my hair, his weight on me, and I put a foot to the bed to plant myself to take him at the same time I wrapped my other leg around his thigh to anchor myself to him.

I began gasping.

“What you want?” he repeated, and it sounded like a groan.

It took a lot but I managed a breathless, “Harder.”

His hips drove into mine and it was so beautiful, my eyes shut so I could focus on nothing but the feeling of Logan and me connecting, deep, brutal, driven.

“You kiss me before you come, Millie,” he ordered, his voice so rough, it scored my skin like sandpaper.

And I fucking loved it.

“I—” I gasped, forcing my eyes open and looking into his, seeing it was close for him, too, feeling him getting closer, this taking me over the edge. “Okay,” I breathed, lifted my head, and pressed my mouth to his.

My whimper slid down his throat as his tongue drove inside.

I took that and the latest orgasm he gave me before his drives turned to pounds. He released my mouth, yanked my hair back, my neck arched, and he shoved his face in the side where he groaned while he bucked inside me and shot deep.

I closed my eyes and took it, loving it, my head turning, lips tipping up into a smile.

I gloried in his uneven breaths wisping across my skin, his cock buried, his chest hair gently scratching my breasts, his weight on me.

Then he asked my neck, “You covered with birth control?”

Was I ever.

But he’d come inside.

The last time, after that night at Wild Bill’s, it had been another agony, coming home and washing him away from me.

This night, it wouldn’t be.

He might have come to win this bizarre battle we’d somehow gotten locked in to.

But no way was he the victor.

No fucking way.

“Yeah,” I answered. “You covered with STDs?” I asked.

It was nasty but even if it was too late, it was necessary.

He lifted his head and I rearranged my features before I righted mine and caught his guarded eyes with my own.

“Could ask the same,” he stated.

I gave a slight shrug. “No worries here.”

“Same,” he grunted, staring down at me, not moving.

I stared up at him and this went on for a while before I let my lips curve and I taunted quietly, “Feel like a winner, baby?”

He pressed his hips deep and involuntarily my lips parted, this driving his return taunt home. “Absolutely, darlin’.”

I gathered my shit together and stated coldly, “Then I suppose we’re done... for now.”

Without a word or any hesitation, he pulled out and rolled off.

I immediately pushed up, catching him on his back, lifting his hips to pull up his jeans.

God, Logan in my bed doing that?

That was hot too.

I tore my eyes away from his beautiful cock, still hard and glistening with him and me.

Sitting on the bed, I righted my bra and reached under my pillow to get my pj’s, thrilled they were a good set. A shimmery green, silky knit with scads and scads of fancy teal lace. Pants and a cami. The lace on the pants around the hems and cutting up the outsides of the legs all the way up to my upper thighs.

I pulled on the cami, then got out of bed and yanked on the pants.

Not looking at him, I strolled as casually as I could muster into my bathroom.

I hurriedly found what I was looking for and strolled back to find him sitting on the end of my bed, jeans done up, pulling on his boots.

I bent at the knees in a ladylike squat, capturing his wrist, and tugged his arm to me.