I hold on to my temper though because she’s not ready to accept my work schedule yet. And I did mean to come home earlier than this. It just didn’t happen.
“Then what is?” she asks. She spreads her arms wide, as if she’d gather up everything in the house if she could. “What is the point of all this?”
“The point is to provide for you.” My voice is cold and jagged as an icicle. Why the hell doesn’t she appreciate what I’ve done for her? That office, her bedroom, her yoga studio, this entire house—I liked our house, sure, but I built it for her.
“It’s Sunday. And—” She shakes her head as she looks at the clock on the wall. “Actually, it’s Monday now. You’ll be back in the office in less than eight hours.”
“Yes. But I’m here now.”
“Good.” She rises briskly from the couch. “Then we can eat.”
While she prepares plates for us, I open a bottle of wine to breathe.
“Where’s that from?” Callie points to the label. “It looks familiar.”
“It should. That’s your design, and this is from your winery.”
She pauses halfway to the table, a plate in each hand. “My winery.”
“Yep.” I fill two long-stemmed glasses. “Remember that?”
She sets the plates down a little too hard. “How could I forget?” She snags a glass from me and takes a long drink. “Out of nowhere, you bought me a winery.”
I sit down, holding her gaze the entire time. “Why do you act like everything I do for you is now an insult? You weren’t complaining when I built this house. Or when you had all day to do whatever you wanted. Or even when I gave you the winery—not a word.”
She sits down during that speech, then stabs a piece of chicken. “No, I left. Which I thought sent a pretty clear message.” She stabs another piece but doesn’t bring the fork to her mouth. “That was always your problem—you thought you could buy things to keep me happy.”
I take a long drink from my own wineglass, the better to cool my temper. My mother would have been really fucking happy had someone—like my father—bought her things. Like groceries. Or paid the rent.
“Should I send all this back?” I ask coolly. “Would that finally make you happy, to be living like you were before?”
She flinches, because she was on the razor’s edge of poverty in the City before, and she knows it. As more money flows into this place, the more it takes to keep a person afloat here. And the salary of a graphic designer isn’t much.
I’m not going to apologize for giving the people I love nice things. Beautiful things. Oh, and keeping a roof over their head and food in their stomach.
“No, I wouldn’t.” She takes a bite, defiance in her expression. “But I also don’t want to live like we were before.”
I force myself to soften, because I don’t want her to leave again. Fighting with her over our first dinner together in months isn’t going to help me. “I really did mean to come home before this.”
“But you didn’t.” She stabs another bite of chicken. And then she drops her fork. “Work was crazy, huh?”
Resignation blurs her voice. But the resentment has been smoothed out.
“It’s always crazy,” I say. I can’t change that or the nature of what I do. The tech world is set up to go twenty-four seven, and I have to go that much too if I want to keep up. I gesture to the food. “This is really good.”
Callie actually brightens. “Thanks. I found the recipe a while ago, and there was a whole chicken in the fridge—” She bites her lip. “You don’t cook, but there was a ton of food in there.”
I shrug. “Maybe one day I might want to try it.”
Or maybe I was waiting this whole time for her to come home and take possession of what was hers. Including all the food in the house.
I’m trying to keep my expression neutral, but something must give me away, because she pinches up her mouth like she’s going to cry.
Fuck. Her crying during our first dinner together in a while is worse than us arguing.
But she wrestles her mouth flat. Our gazes meet, and something… that hot, crazy something flares between us.
Her gaze runs over me, going from cool to hot. Energy surges through me, all the dirt from the day washed away as I soak in her expression.
I set down my fork. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
She swallows hard. Oh, she’s definitely hungry—for what we’re both thinking of. There isn’t a hint of hesitation or regret in her eyes—I might have insisted she share my bed, but she definitely wants to be there.
“I’m done,” she says, her voice breathless.
“Good.” There’s a growl in my voice I didn’t mean to put there, my desire slipping its leash. “Let’s go to bed.”
Her eyes darken and her cheeks flush. “Your bed?”
She’s not asking because she’s uncertain about joining me—the pulse in her throat is eager, not frightened, and the pink of her cheeks is enticing, not anxious.
I walk over to her chair, slowly. Stalking her. “Yes.”
She shifts, her limbs spreading as if in welcome. “That’s what I thought.”
I pull her into my arms, her mouth finding mine. She smells of roses and warm sleep, and home. I tried to keep the house exactly as she left it, but this is what was missing, what I could never replicate—her scent.
I kiss her until we’re both panting, then I pull her into my arms. For the first time in a long time, she’s going to sleep in my bed.
Right where she belongs.
Chapter 13
I wanted to be so angry when Logan came home.
Stupid me, not putting conditions on when he had to be home, how much he could work. In my defense, I’ve never negotiated anything, and I was going up against a master.
I was angry as I watched the dinner I made go cold, as I lay down on the couch to wait for him.
But when he came home and woke me up, I forgot to be angry. And when he said he meant to be home earlier… I melted.
He’s never done that before. Maybe… maybe he really was trying this time.
Right now he’s kissing me like it’s our very first time, his arms tight around me as he carries me to his bed. There’s no try here, just want and need and finally.
We have on too many clothes. I’m desperate to feel his skin, shaking with my need. I want him on me and over me and in me, now.
“Hurry,” I murmur. Then I bite his lower lip to get my message across.
He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and growl. “You want me.” His voice is gritty. “You always wanted me.”
Oh, Logan. He has to be right, even when I’m begging him to fuck me. But I’m not going to roll over so easily. I might be sleeping with him—or about to—but he can get home early tomorrow instead of trying.
“I ran,” I remind him. “And hid from you.”
“You didn’t run very far.” He bites my lip, just hard enough to remind me that his teeth are sharp. “You didn’t hide very well.” He starts to unbutton his shirt, his gaze hard, daring. “You wanted me to chase you, find you.”
“No,” I say without thinking, mostly because I don’t want him to win this fight.
But… maybe. Maybe I did want him to chase me. Maybe I wanted his attention again and figured that was the best way to get it.
I certainly have his attention now, and I want to bask in it like Meowthra in a sunbeam.
Logan lets his shirt drop to the floor, then reaches for the button on his pants. I grab his hands before he finds it.
I want to do this myself. I need to touch him.
The skin of his belly against my knuckle is warm, rough with hair. The muscles there are hard and stark, contracting and releasing with his breaths. I have to simply stop and stare.
I catch sight of the small smile on Logan’s face and realize I’ve been staring openmouthed long enough for him to notice.
“Did you forget something?” he rasps.
With
a flick of my thumb, his button releases. We inhale in unison, and then Logan is kicking away his pants, sliding his boxers down his legs. And then he comes to me in all his naked beauty.
We step together toward the bed, our legs moving in a well-remembered dance. I let him get one step ahead so I can drink him in. I’ve missed the sight of him almost as much as I’ve missed his kisses.
His body is simply glorious. When the Greeks were making all their statues of the ideal male form, Logan’s body was what they were trying to capture. The perfect balance of muscle and function and beauty.
He’s not embarrassed to have me stare at him like this, and why should he be? My mother always said he was too good-looking, as if that were a crime, but I thought his looks were a gift. Just for me, back when I knew he loved me.
I take another step back, suddenly confused. What do I mean, when I knew he loved me?
Logan isn’t confused though. He catches me before I fall back on the bed, taking all my weight in his arms. His mouth finds my chin, my jaw, my ear, and he makes little murmurs all the way, as if each kiss is a new delight he’s found.
My whole body is clamoring for him, especially my pussy. I can’t deny myself, not after months without him. Not that I need to, not with our agreement.
I run my hands down his chest, over his arms, remembering all the details of him. The smattering of springy hair on his pecs, his nipples, which come to attention at my touch, and the scar under his rib from a car wreck.
His hands on me are urgent but controlled, a man carrying out a long-planned siege. I’m ready to fall after only a few minutes though.
He pulls off my sweater without warning, leaving me in only a tank top and leggings. Suddenly I’m freezing, my body curling in on itself as my teeth chatter. The room isn’t cold though, so I can’t understand why I’m shivering.
Logan tosses back the blankets on the bed, guides me down to it, then covers my body with his. The chills slow, then stop.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice a rough scrape.
I nod because this roller coaster I’m on has made my voice too shaky to use. And I don’t want to talk. I want to feel.
Logan’s hand slips under my tank, his palm rough and warm and so surprising I gasp. The song “Like a Virgin” takes on a whole new meaning right now.
I’m squirming by the time he reaches my breasts because his path upward is so damn methodical and slow. My heart is loud in my ears, and I can’t seem to draw a full breath, I’m so worked up.
When he finds my nipple, I almost scream.
I hardly ever wear a bra—I’ve never been well endowed enough to need one. Right now it seems like the luckiest thing ever that Logan can simply reach under my shirt and find my breasts, my aching nipples, drawing them to firm, tight points.
I grab his shoulder and dig my nails in, ready for him to fill me. All he has to do is caress my nipples and my pussy is soaked and throbbing, hollow without him.
But Logan won’t be hurried. He keeps tormenting me by touching my breasts, teasing one nipple, then the other, his every movement precision engineered to drive me to the edge.
I put my hand at his shoulder and push. He resists but only for half a heartbeat. When he raises his head, his expression is wild, confused.
I grab the hem of my tank and pull it over my head, tossing it aside. I do the same with my boots and leggings until I’m as naked as he is.
Although less blasé about it. As I lie back on the bed, Logan remains on his knees, watching me. Since his body isn’t covering mine, I have to cover it with my own hands.
I’ve always been what you’d call gangly. Always the tallest, thinnest kid in school. I used to wonder if I might be part stick insect.
Then I hit puberty, and suddenly my body was what society called the sexiest of all. I couldn’t understand it since I was still skinny and tall as ever, except now with some hints of breasts, and of course, I was only a teenager.
Men didn’t seem to care though. They hit on me anyway. They never saw that I was still only a kid, that I was horribly embarrassed and shy and scared. And I hated them for not seeing that. I hated them for their complete lack of control around me.
It got better as I got older and more confident. When I met Logan, I met the one man who looked at me with equal parts lust and control.
I could be free and safe with him—when I could be with him.
He’s here with me now though, and I’m going to seize this moment and squeeze all the pleasure out of it. I don’t know what we’ll do tomorrow, but for now this is enough.
So I move my hands, let Logan look his fill at me.
He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. I can see it in his eyes, how much he missed this. Missed me.
Of course we never had problems in the bedroom. No, everything always came together perfectly there.
Logan takes my knees and spreads my thighs wide. I grab for the sheets, bracing myself for what’s coming. Already I’m shivering with anticipation, my calves quivering with it.
When he leans over and licks my pussy, I make the most insane noise, deep in my throat. It’s like months and months of sexual frustration is unraveling and rattling my voice box.
Logan doesn’t slow down, his clever tongue lapping at my most sensitive parts, his lips teasing my clit. My head thrashes on the pillow, my fists wrapped tight in the sheets, yet he won’t let me catch my breath, won’t let the pleasure ease for even a moment.
I’m all wild, uncontained sensation by the time I come, pushed to the edge and beyond by this man who knows me too well.
When I open my eyes, he’s braced above me, his expression stark, his gaze burning.
“Are you still on the pill?”
I nod, and then he’s pushing forward, his cock filling me. It’s been so long I’m tight as a glove around him. He groans, stops, and shakes his head as if to clear it. Then he’s moving again, filling me so perfectly I want to die like this, pleasure-soaked and consumed by this man.
He’s as relentless as he was when he was licking my pussy, driving, driving, driving until we’re both gasping and sweating, pushing hard toward our climax. I want to bite him, to claw him, to be as wild as the sensations churning in me.
Logan is my mate. We’re mating. Primitive words, but they feel so right.
When I come the second time, my pussy clenching around his cock as my eyes roll back, it’s even more powerful than the first, because this time we’re joined. He’s with me, and it makes it that much more potent.
I feel heat spill inside me, spreading throughout my core as he comes too. I’ve always loved that part of married sex, even though it’s not proper to enjoy it. I’m too damn pleased to care about proper though.
We’re both breathing too hard, sweat coating our skin, and we… we smile at each other. I don’t even know who smiled first, just that we both did in the end.
And somehow that moment feels more intimate than the carnal, sensual ones before.
Chapter 14
Waking up in Logan’s bed is both surprising and familiar.
Weak light is coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows covering one entire wall of his bedroom. It looks like the fog is going to stick around today.
I stretch, not bothering to watch out for Logan. I already know that he’s gone. The sheets are colder than when he was here, the air staler. Everything will be chilled and still until he comes home tonight, the way it was yesterday.
Once my kinks are out, I sigh and let my shoulders slump. I ran through several branding ideas yesterday, including some fonts teasing through my brain, but another day of simply staring at my sketches doesn’t really sound appealing. I do want to work, but I also want to get out, see the City. See my friends.
That thought makes my skin break out in goose bumps. I’ll have to tell them I’m back with Logan. Temporarily. I think.
I bury my face in my hands, but I can’t find any relief there. Last night was awful and amazing
all at once. Awful because I made dinner and waited for Logan like an idiot. And of course he didn’t come home until late.
But amazing once he had me in bed, under him, as we moved together. And the orgasms… My body is still tingling this morning.
So we’re already back to Logan being gone all the time and the two of us only having quality time in bed.
I drop my hands, force some steel into my spine. It’s only been one day—things could still change. I’m just not sure how yet.
I pull on my old sweater over my T-shirt and yoga pants, then head into the kitchen.
Someone’s put away the food I left out last night, which I should have thought of myself.
A mug of tea is already waiting for me, the lovely blend I couldn’t get in Platina. It’s only sold here in the City, and I’ve missed it desperately. There’s a plate of croissants waiting too, with several chocolate-dipped strawberries nestled against them. This is a breakfast fit for a princess.
I take the mug between my hands and breathe deeply, feeling as if I’m waking to a fairy tale. Like Cinderella the morning after a nightmare about her stepmother and cleaning out the hearth, realizing the Prince Charming she’d dreamed of before is real and this is her life now.
Except… the prince is gone for the day and the castle is big and empty and with all these servants, there’s not much to do. Not if all you know how to do is sweeping and cleaning and general drudgery.
I already know what Logan is doing. It’s eight a.m. on a Monday, which means the partners’ meeting is in two hours. All the Bastards will assemble and discuss their week—what their pet companies are doing, how much money they made last week, which deals and how much money they expect to make this week. I’ve never attended one of their meetings, but I’ve imagined them often.
Logan would never miss one, no more than he’d miss Christmas or Thanksgiving. Actually, he’d be more likely to miss a holiday than a partners’ meeting.
He’s going to bring up everything that happened with TidBytes and my proposal to fight Fuchs with his own weapons. They’ll tear apart his ideas, probably talk him out of starting our own news site.
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