Someday (Sawtooth Mountains Stories Book 2)

by Susan Fanetti

  Now it was his turn to keep her from speaking. “Honor, don’t,” he said, trying to keep a plea from his tone. “What we did before, I know you needed it. Now let me give you something soft and slow. Let me make it good.”

  “Why?” The word was more shape than sound.

  “Because I need it.”

  She didn’t answer, but her body lost its resistance. Her legs softened in his grip, and she eased back in the chair. Logan settled in close again, put his mouth on her thigh, caressed her silky pale skin with his beard. As he drew closer to her core, he pulled gently, bringing her lower in the chair, opening her whole body to his touch and taste.

  She was shaved, perfectly bare and smooth. Not even a hint of stubble; she must have been to the salon recently. He licked over her public bone, enjoying the sensation of such satiny perfection. When a quiet whimper left her, and her other hand joined the first on his head, her fingers twisting in his hair—when he felt her surrender to him—that powerful, undefinable feeling surged through him, filling every inch of him, making his hard cock pulse and his heart throb. Jesus, whatever that was, it was a damn drug.

  Pushing his hands up, he grabbed her ass and ducked his head deeper, nestling between her legs and covering her soft, smooth, sweet pussy with his hungry mouth. But he wanted to be gentle and soft with her, to do better than what they’d done before, so he reined himself in and laved her folds, caught her saltysweet juice on his tongue, found her clit and sucked softly.

  “Ohmygod,” she sighed, the words melted together on a hot breath, and her hips rose up.

  “That’s it, darlin’,” he mumbled against her soaking flesh. “I know what you need.”

  Damn if he didn’t need this, too. His chest ached sharply, like something in it was breaking apart, breaking open. It hurt, and he hated it, but he needed it, too, wanted it, chased it. This woman confused the shit out of him.

  Logan kicked the door closed on any thought in his head that wasn’t purely focused on feeling Honor around him, sensing her reactions, her pleasure, her need. It didn’t matter what he was feeling, except where his body met hers.

  And there—fucking hell. There was everything.

  Locking his mouth onto her clit, sucking, tonguing, he focused wholly on the press of her thighs at his ears, the writhe of her hips in his arms, the flex of her ass in his hands, the flutter of her pussy on his face, the twist of her fingers in his hair. Muffled by her legs, her soft cries were otherworldly, wafting above them. His own grunts were louder, bouncing off her thighs to echo in his head.

  He could stay where he was forever.

  But when he felt a new tension thrumming through her, all around him, he knew he was bringing her close again, this time gently, offering her pure pleasure, not feeding her need for pain. He eased one hand from its grip on her ass and slid it between her legs and pushed a finger into her. He felt her moan, so deep it rumbled through her muscles. When he added another finger, she arched up, pushing herself so firmly to his mouth that he had to back off a little or she’d smother him. She moaned again, the sound taking on a bite of frustration, and he deepened his suck, sped up his fingers, still gentle but with real purpose now, the journey becoming a destination.

  Her thighs dropped away from his head, spread wide, and she surged up again. “Oh God, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

  Oh, he had no intention of stopping. He sucked her clit, swirled his tongue through her slit, brushed his beard over her tender flesh, pressed his fingers as deep as he could reach, found the place that made her twist and writhe in his hold, never stopped, never paused, barely breathed, took her as high as he could get her, until she was wild in his arms.

  This time, she didn’t scream like before; she went quiet instead, her feet shoving on his thighs, her hands yanking his hair, the rest of her body arched up like a strung bow. The spasms of her climax rolled over his tongue, throbbed against his face, wet his beard. He stayed where he was, didn’t stop, until that taut arch subsided into quivering tics.

  As she slouched in the chair, her belly shaking with her staccato gasps, Logan eased off of her with a light kiss to the bare, slick skin above her clit. Her fingers eased their tearing clutch in his hair. He looked up and saw her watching him, her eyes lidded with sated lust, the torment in them finally calmed. For a moment, he stayed where he was, caught in that look. But he wasn’t finished. He wanted more.

  Sliding both hands under to grip her ass again, he rose up on his knees and kissed her belly, brushed his beard over her, made a long, wide, meandering path upward. At her breasts—so beautiful and pale, the tips of her nipples canted pertly upward—he paused and flicked his tongue over one of those candy-pink tips.

  “Oh,” she breathed, and her hands held his head there while her legs caught his waist and she locked her ankles against his back. He must have been stretching his boxer briefs all out of whack; he didn’t think he’d ever felt so fucking hard and swollen before.

  He suckled each breast in turn, feeling the hum of her soft moans against his lips, then continued his wending way to her throat, up to her ear, pausing to suck that small lobe and breathe in the fruit of her shampoo.

  When he finally made his way to her mouth, she was waiting for him. She grasped his head in her hands, cupping the sides of his face, and brushed her nose and mouth over his beard.

  She was tasting herself. Reveling in it. And he was going to come in his Under Armours pretty soon.

  He caught her mouth with his and held on, fixing her to him with his tongue. Her hands let go of his head, and her arms wrapped around his neck, and, acting on pure need, Logan grabbed her and pulled her off the chair, setting her on his thighs. His erection, trapped in his underwear, dug at her pussy, and they both made a nearly identical groan—hers pitched lustily downward, and his climbing desperately high.

  She dropped a hand between them, into his underwear, and grabbed hold of him. As she tried to pry him free of the restraining fabric, Logan made himself get some control. He broke free of their kiss and sucked in a breath.

  “Wait, wait. I need to get a condom.”

  “I’m on birth control. It’s okay.” She had his cock free—hallefuckinglujah—and lifted up to make way for him.

  He grabbed her hand and stopped them both. Never had he trusted a woman with that information. He was no fool. Even when, as with Honor, he wouldn’t expect a woman to lie about such a thing and try to trap him, he’d always, always, taken the prudent path. Lots of reasons to use a condom, and they didn’t all have to do with pregnancy.

  He needed to get his ass up from this fluffy sheepskin rug, go into the bedroom, get the other condom out of his wallet, and pick this up where they’d left off.

  She looked him in the eye, holding his cock, her pussy hovering above it, the heat and wet so close he could die, and Logan was paralyzed. There was a line here, one he never crossed. He didn’t have to cross it. Just get up, get the condom, come back. Or just carry her in there and fuck her in her bed again. With a condom.

  He couldn’t leave this moment. He couldn’t set her aside, even for the seconds it would take to be prudent. He didn’t want to.

  Logan took his hand away and let her position him. She sat down, slowly. He felt each scorching molecule of her body where it slid over his. Her eyes stayed fixed on his, and oh fuck.

  “Fuck!” The word exploded from his breath. “Fuck.” His head fell forward, crashing onto her chest. She wrapped her arms around him; her breasts pillowed his cheeks. When she began to move, swaying and rocking, back and forth, Logan held on and let her fuck him.

  It didn’t last long enough, not nearly. But Logan had been close already, fully primed, and she felt so goddamn good. He tried to hold off, keep control, get her to come again before he did, but he could only focus on the pleasure she was wringing out of him. In the shelter she’d made with her arms and her breasts and her head, his own groans and gasps were magnified so that he could hear nothing else. All he could feel was h
er. All he could think was now.

  His finish grabbed him by the balls and the throat, and he flew backward, arching, throwing his face up to the ceiling. He might have howled—some kind of inhuman sound tore through him as his cock exploded inside her. Inside her. Sweet Christ, it felt so good to come inside her, not to feel the latex holding him in, to feel her heat all around him at that moment of perfect ecstasy.

  He fell forward again, dropping his head onto her shoulder. While he tried to get control of his breathing and assemble all his atoms again, Honor held him and petted him, smoothing her hands over his hair, his back, his arms.

  When he could, he lifted his head. She’d been waiting for this moment, he could tell; she cupped her hands around his face. Something big had shifted between them. Logan didn’t know what it was, but he felt uneasy.

  “Logan, I need you to go,” she said.

  With that, he knew what had happened, what that shift was. Power. She had it all. He knew because those words had skinned him alive.

  “Or I need you to stay,” she added. “One or the other. I need you to be all the way with me, or I need you to be all the way gone. I can’t take any more blows right now. I’m barely standing as it is.”

  What she’d just done to him, the pain that had lanced through him when she’d uttered, what, five simple words? The power she had to cause that? It had Logan freaked the fuck out. He needed to get out of here, away from her, and stay away. All the way gone.

  But she was in his arms, he was in hers, he was inside her, and he couldn’t go. This was what he wanted. Maybe what he needed. And what she’d said after had been a balm to that blast of pain. He had power over her, too. She needed him. She still needed him.

  “I don’t want to go,” he said, truthfully, fearfully. Then he added a greater truth, a more potent fear. “I don’t want to let you go.”

  Her eyes made a silent cross-examination of him until, apparently satisfied that he was in earnest, she smiled and kissed him.

  Logan tightened his hold of her and brought her down to lie in the sheepskin rug. He was still hard, fully hard, and still inside her. They weren’t finished.

  They were just getting started.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I don’t know, Dad. Soon. I just need some time.” Behind him, the door to the detective division creaked again, and Logan looked over his shoulder—no, not Honor. He returned his attention to his phone call.

  “Alright. Steve and Roy got the ranch in hand. You got me curious, though, son. All this dodgin’ my questions is gonna turn that into worry soon enough.”

  “Nothing to worry about. It’s something good, I think. I just need to let things play out for a bit before I say more.” Another creak of the door turned his attention around, and this time it was Honor. “I gotta go. Bye, Dad.”

  “You keep me—” Logan ended the call and killed his father’s parting sentence. He shoved the phone into his jeans pocket and walked toward Honor.

  She looked like they’d wrung her dry in there. Though she’d put on some makeup and put her hair up into a sleek ponytail, the vulnerable, unguarded woman he’d picked up at the emergency room was barely concealed. Her eyes were red again; the detectives must have made her cry while they finished her formal interview and statement.

  He was glad they hadn’t walked her out, because he might have punched any cop who’d been with her just now.

  She carried large two yellow plastic bags and a manila envelope. Her belongings, he assumed. In fact, he could see the outline of a high heel pressing against the side of a bag.

  “Hey. All done? You okay?”

  Without a word of answer, Honor walked straight to him. When she reached him, she dropped her head to his chest and didn’t move.

  That fiery bolt of feeling went through him again, always, when she did that, rested on him, took solace and strength from his presence. Logan set his arms on her shoulders and bent down to kiss her head.

  “I got you.”

  She took a shaky breath, and then another, deeper one. And another, until the sound lost its tremor. Logan stood with her, steady for her, until, with her deepest breath and a sharp, impatient exhale, she lifted her head.

  He smiled into her weary, beautiful face. “You done here? You want to go?”

  “I can’t get my car. It’s here, in the impound, but it got shot up when the cops fired back. They don’t know if it runs, and I’m not ready to deal with a car full of bullet holes. The office is still a crime scene. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anything to do. I don’t have a car, I don’t have an office. I don’t have anything.” Her breathing was taking on that tremor again; she was on an emotional tightrope and starting to flail.

  “Easy, counselor.” Logan cupped his hands around her face. “Easy. One thing at a time, okay? If the cops don’t need you, let’s get out of here, what d’you say?”

  A smile crept into her lips, but then shrank back. “Wait. I need—” Without finishing her thought, she dropped the bags and envelope to the floor and followed them, crouching at Logan’s feet.

  He followed her, crouching too, wincing as always when his knees asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. She tore open one bag, riffled through it, then shoved it away and opened the other. In that one, she found what she wanted: a clear baggie, an evidence bag, but without any writing on the field intended for that purpose. In that bag were Honor’s Cartier watch, the little gold twist of a ring she wore on her right ring finger, her small pearl and diamond earrings, and the strand of pearls Logan had come to know well. In fact, all that jewelry was familiar to him; she’d worn it all almost every time he’d ever seen her. Even when she’d come to the ranch in jeans to work on Heath’s case.

  Crouched on the floor of a Boise police station, Honor ripped the baggie open and pulled the necklace from it.

  There was blood on the pearls—four were covered in red, and a couple on either side were speckled with it.

  Dropping all the way down to sit on the floor, Honor rubbed at the blood. When her efforts had little effect, she began to get frantic, rubbing so hard that Logan worried she’d break the strand, and it was clearly important to her.

  He put his hands over both of hers where they clutched the necklace. “Honor. Shhh, darlin’. Shhh. Can I try something?”

  Her eyes came up to his. “They were my grandma’s. She was in the French resistance. She wore these when she spied on Nazis.”

  With a smile, he eased the pearls from her hand. “Probably not the first time they saw blood, then, huh? I’m gonna take ‘em in there”—he nodded at the men’s room door—“and clean ‘em right off, okay?”

  “Okay.” The word was meek, and she sort of sagged away.

  Before he went into the bathroom, he got her back on her feet, gathered up her belongings again, and moved her to sit on a bench and wait for him.

  He used a bit of soap and a lot of hot water, and the pearls came clean without much trouble. A uniformed cop came out of a stall and washed his hands at the neighboring sink. Standing at the sink washing a strand of pearls, Logan got a surprised, sardonic look, but he returned it without a blink.

  The cop left, and Logan dried the necklace as well as he could, hoping that men’s-room soap and paper towels weren’t doing damage to seventy-plus-year-old pearls.

  Honor was sitting where he’d left her, staring at the black screen of her phone. The battery was probably dead.

  She looked up as he came over and sat beside her.

  “Here, darlin’. All better.”

  “Thank you!” She dropped her phone atop one of the plastic bags and took the strand from him—and put it immediately around her neck. She was in jeans and a pink v-neck t-shirt, but he wasn’t surprised at all that she wanted to wear the necklace now. It clearly had meaning and power for her.

  He swept her ponytail out of the way as she clasped the beads at her nape. With all that yellow silk in his hand, Logan couldn’t resist brushing it ove
r his face and nose. And he was rewarded with a small smile.

  “Better?” He let her ponytail spill from his hands.

  Honor nodded. “But I don’t know what to do.”

  First thing that morning, as they’d sat at her island with coffee and toast, she’d used her iPad to text a bunch of people with updates and to clear her work schedule. She’d said little to him about those texts, and he didn’t try to read over her shoulder. Her stress had been fairly clear, though, and with a couple, it had been flashing brightly around her. Like it was now.

  He had a suggestion for her, but he wasn’t sure what she’d do with it. She could hurt him with it, even.

  “Let’s go back to your place and figure it out. We’ll get some lunch on the way.”

  “Don’t you have to get back to the ranch?”

  “I cleared some time. If you want me, you got me.” He made to stand, meaning to offer his hand and help her up, but she grabbed his arm before he rose from the bench.

  “Logan.”

  He met her eyes.

  “Thank you.” She leaned over and laid her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Damn, that feeling. It made his every cell sing out. Right now, feeling like this, there was nothing he wouldn’t give her. Not one damn thing.

  Whatever this was he felt, it scared the righteous hell out of him. And he never wanted it to stop.

  He laid his hand over hers and squeezed. “Let’s get out of here.”

  *****

  Logan wrapped his arm around Honor and tucked his hand between her bare waist and the mattress. As he kissed her shoulder, she leaned back, turning to him, hooking her arm around his head, and hummed softly, like a cat’s purr. Afternoon summer sun slanted across her bed. They’d come back after lunch and hadn’t talked at all. He’d kissed her to offer her some comfort, and they’d landed here.

  He hooked his leg over hers. This need to have her close, to have his body on hers all the time, rode him harder the longer he was with her.