by Kim Karr
“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping toward me and putting his hands on my hips.
Even upset with him, my body flared to life. Lust and love and something that felt a lot like my own fear swirled around me like a mini tornado. I wanted to push him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to fuck him. I settled for throwing my arms around him. I needed to touch him. To comfort him, as odd as that sounds. With my mouth unbearably close to his ear, I whispered, “Don’t shoulder this situation we’re in on your own.”
He buried his head in my neck. “I can’t think straight. I’m so fucking worried about you.”
Oh God, that ache in his voice killed me. My fingers threaded through his hair and as I touched him, I breathed him in. All Logan. All everything I never knew I wanted but now needed so very desperately.
Moments passed. Seconds. Maybe minutes. I knew I had to push him away. I had to talk to him with a clear head and I warred with myself until I finally did. “Logan, I’ll be all right. I can take care of myself.”
His sigh told me he didn’t believe it.
Clarity set in. “What are you doing here?”
“I was going out of my mind. I had to see for myself you were safe.”
“I’m fine, Logan. I‘11be fine,” I lied. Physically maybe, but emotionally, I didn’t think I would.
The doubt in his stare made his hazel eyes look icy.
I chose to ignore it and press on. “Why didn’t you come back to your father’s this morning?” I asked, even though I knew why. Still, it was a start to the bigger conversation.
His face was worn, his eyes tired. He rubbed his jaw. “I didn’t know what to do. I had to figure things out. And to do that I needed, I need, some time alone.”
Being alone meant not being with me, which in turn, in his mind, meant I was out of danger. I got that. I just didn’t agree with it. I didn’t want him to be alone. I didn’t want to be alone. But he was worried that if he stayed with me, something bad was going to happen. If something bad was going to happen, I believed it would happen either way. Was he here because he just couldn’t fight his need to be with me? Or had he decided we were in this together? I had to know. “And what has changed?” I asked, trying to make him think this through. Hopefully see that we were better together.
Logan stared at me with blankness in his eyes.
I knew right then nothing had changed. I should have asked him to leave—I didn’t. Instead I pressed on, hopeful. “Logan, what has changed?” I repeated, hoping for a miracle.
There was a slight shake of his head. His beautiful hair was tousled, his stubble longer than usual. Everything about him screamed that he was lost.
And even though I felt anger that he couldn’t see what I saw, that we should fight together, I couldn’t fight my longing to take the lost boy and comfort him. Maybe make him see things the way I did. That if anything was going to happen, it would happen either way.
“After everything that happened last night, I had to make certain you were okay,” he said, avoiding my question.
No matter how many times I tried to reassure him that I would be fine, that I could take care of myself, it didn’t matter. I could see the turbulence he was suffering in his eyes—that he didn’t see it the way I did.
“And we need to talk. Get our stories straight,” he further clarified.
I nodded.
He took the lead, the alpha in him back in action, as he led me to the sofa. Once we sat down, we were only inches away from each other, but it felt like miles. I watched the way his lips moved as he spoke, the way his jaw tensed when I told him about Michael’s call. I couldn’t turn my emotions off, but I tried as our conversation turned even more serious and we discussed our situation in detail—the delivery, what he’d done, his father, the DEA, Tommy, and what had happened after he left me last night.
Facts. Facts. And more facts.
Nothing that changed our tragic situation.
When the talking had ceased, the what-to-say-if-asked agreed upon, we stared at each other. I was searching for the right way to discuss his fear, but I never found the words.
I don’t know who moved first, him or me, just that his lips were on mine and they felt so good I wasn’t going to deny the moment.
I opened for him. My mouth, my arms, my legs, and of course my heart.
His hand curled against the back of my neck, possessively, drawing me nearer.
Need so big, so large it was like an ocean, a mountain, the world, consumed us.
Without words, he rose, picked me up, carried me to my bed, and set me down.
My heart was pounding.
He unbuttoned. Unzipped. I tugged my shirt off, my leggings, my panties. Eyes only on each other, both naked, our bodies found one another.
Frantic for each other, we kissed. We touched. We tangled ourselves together.
His hands roamed.
Mine did the same.
Then his lips found my skin and he kissed my mouth, my jaw, my chin, my neck.
The lights in the room were on and I could see everything. All of him. The leanness of his body. The pale, smooth skin that covered his ribs, his stomach, the jut of his hip bones, and his beautiful, long, fully erect cock. I reached for it, and the feel of him in the palm of my hand made my clit pulse with so much dizzying need that I had to close my eyes. “Fuck me.” The words slipped from my mouth.
He made a noise and for a second, I wasn’t certain he was going to, but then he rolled us over and before I knew it, I was staring down at his handsome face, straddling him.
I drew a line over the scar under his eye. The one Tommy had given him. I wanted to lick it, to kiss it, and to tell him everything was going to be okay, but I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to ruin the moment with words. So instead, I shifted a little, raised myself the smallest of amounts, and then he was inside of me. Ecstasy. With a shudder, I squeezed my knees against his sides and absorbed the pleasure.
After a few moments, he started to move. Slow. Easy. Up and down. In and out.
My hands flattened on his chest.
His body continued to lift and fall, his hands now possessively gripping my hips.
My mouth lowered to his, and gasps of pleasure escaping through open-mouthed kisses filled the room. It was hard to concentrate on kissing him when with every slide of his cock there was a glorious press against my clit.
The pleasure kept building.
Higher and higher.
On the edge, I needed more. I pushed upright and rode him. Faster. Harder.
Eyes locked, he fucked upward and I rolled my hips.
Over and over.
In rhythm.
I arched my back.
My heart beat faster.
My breath rushed out.
And then I was coming.
He was coming.
It was fast.
Intense.
My body quaking in perfect spasms of ecstasy, I looked down at him. He stilled, groaned, and I could feel his cock pulse inside me as he rode out his own release. Once our breathing slowed, he pulled me to his chest and held me tightly. Kissed my head. I didn’t ever want this to end but soon, sleep pulled me under.
Early in the morning, too early, I awoke in my bed—alone.
On the pillow beside me was a note:
I had to go to New York City. Not sure when I’ll be back. I’ll be in touch.
The blood in my veins felt like ice water.
He wasn’t going to be in touch. I knew this. I felt it. Hell, I knew it from the moment he set foot inside and told me he needed time.
Still, I couldn’t stop the flood of emotions. Anger surged through me. He’d left me—again. He didn’t even wake me to discuss things. He made the decision for us to face what might never come—separately.
Suppressing any tears that threatened to spill, I pressed my fingertips to the place where his head had lain last night and said out loud, “Screw you.”
Screw you. Ri
ght, I thought with a small huff of laughter, as I was on my way to New York to bring him home.
To be fair, I’d held onto my anger for a good solid six hours after I’d read the note. I’d gone to work, tried to make it through the day without thinking about it. But then the anger began to subside and the tears fell. Somewhere around noon, I rationalized that he was scared, and the only way he knew how to deal with fear was to run. After all, he’d done it his whole life. And so had I. Moving from job to job, from country to country, trying to escape my childhood. But no more. If I wanted him in my life, I had to go get him and make him see it was time for that cycle to end. For him. And for me.
I’d enlisted the help of his father. Sean thought Tommy could be making empty threats, but wanted me to be cautious and reluctantly agreed to give me Logan’s address in New York City. He also called the doorman and told him to let me up when I arrived. Miles was much more hesitant about my impromptu trip. Still, he brought me to the station and promised not to tell Logan. In exchange, I promised to call him on my way back so he could pick me up, in case I came back on the train—alone.
That was how I’d come to board the train exactly 215 minutes ago on this Sunday afternoon. The Amtrak Acela Express came to a screeching halt at Penn Station and my heart started to pound. Logan was everything I needed in my life and nothing I’d known I was looking for. Not a white knight or a prince charming but a man I loved fiercely, and who loved me with equal fierceness. He didn’t have to say the words I love you for me to know that he did—it was in his voice when he said my name, in his eyes when he looked at me, and in the way he touched me with a protectiveness that somehow I’d grown to need.
I exited the train with no luggage in hand but a mission in mind. When Logan and I were together, everything in the world was right no matter how wrong things were. And that was why I was here—to remind him of that.
To catch him if I could.
Walking fast to keep up the pace of the other passengers wasn’t a challenge because it would get me to him faster. The smell of food permeated the air, reminding me just how hungry I was, but my mission didn’t allow for stopping.
Madison Square Garden was my point of entry into the city and I quickly hailed a cab. “Eighty-third and Fifth, please,” I told the driver.
Even though it was late afternoon, the traffic was still stop and go. It seemed to take forever to get to the Upper East Side and my nerves had started to rear again. When the driver finally arrived at my destination thirty minutes later, my pulse was pounding. I paid, and once I was standing on the sidewalk, I began to second-guess my decision. I’d never been inside this part of Logan’s life. This was the elite half, the high-society side he didn’t care for very much. But it was still a part of him.
But what if he didn’t want me inside this part?
With a deep intake of breath, I decided if I had doubts like that, I should probably find out sooner rather than later.
I looked up at the building he lived in. It was magnificent. The tall limestone structure had solid lines of big bay windows stretching across its façade, beautifully landscaped sidewalks, and large lanterns on either side of the covered steel awning that led to the giant glass double doors.
I felt a little like royalty as I walked beneath it.
“Good afternoon, Madame, can I help you with something?” the doorman dressed in classic red asked.
“Yes, hi, I’m Elle Sterling, here to see Logan McPherson.”
“Oh, yes, Madame, his father called ahead. I’m to send you right up.”
I smiled at him but my stomach rolled with worry that Logan would send me away.
Pushing my doubts aside, I followed the doorman. He led me to the elevator and ushered me inside before he pressed the button. “Mr. McPherson lives in apartment 12A,” he told me and then he tipped his hat. “Have a good afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
The ride was the longest elevator ride of my life.
Finally, standing outside his door, I hesitated. Should I just give him what he asked for? Was I being unreasonable coming here? I thought I wanted to save us, but maybe what I really wanted was to save him—from his past, his demons, because I couldn’t save myself from mine. And was that really far of me?
Time passed, seconds, minutes.
With the ugly truth coming to light, that this was more about me than us, I turned to head back toward the elevator. I might have taken two steps, maybe not even one, when I heard a lock turn and the door swing open.
Divine intervention?
A cosmic twist of fate?
I didn’t know, but I’d take it.
“Elle,” he breathed, exhaustion clear in his voice.
The flip in my belly was from the sound of that voice, and that voice alone. No one had ever made by body react the way he did. No one had ever made me feel the way he did. And no one had ever loved me with the intensity that he did.
Slowly, I turned back. With just that one glance, I knew instantly I had to try to make him see things my way. I loved him way too much not to. Dressed in a designer suit, crisp white shirt, and sharp tie, I wanted to lunge for him but settled on staring as I slowly approached him.
His gaze raked down my body and took its time drinking me in on the climb back up.
As always, the air between us was thick. I drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “Logan,” I managed as sternly as I could, considering that my entire body was shaking with need from head to toe. “We need to talk.”
With a slow nod, he stepped aside to let me in.
My feet moved but I don’t remember telling them to do so. I wasn’t even sure they were mine.
Suddenly his hand pressed against the small of my back and my body hummed in delight, making me more than aware of what was mine.
I entered his spacious apartment and felt that just by doing so I had entered his other life. It was a strange yet satisfying feeling. Like he had invited me into his other world, although I knew it was really that I had barged in.
My eyes darted toward the huge expanse of windows. The place was grand in its natural form, yet it reflected who he was. The furniture was sparse, and what was there was simple and functional. There was a lot of black, a whole lot of glass, and not a bit of color, yet the windows were magnificent and the light shining through them more than spectacular. On the walls were photographs of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from many different angles, including an incredible aerial shot. If photos could be sexy, these were super-sexy.
Curiosity rose within me. I was just about to ask him about them when the ding of the elevator from the hall struck me as odd. I stopped looking around. Then, I turned and noticed he hadn’t closed the door behind me, which made me wonder if he wasn’t expecting me to stay long.
Someone cleared his throat and my eyes darted to my right. That’s when I noticed Logan wasn’t alone. Oh God, I’d been so involved in him, in his place, that I’d never looked anywhere but at the room in front of me.
My belly flipped again, and this time the feeling was unpleasant.
What if I’d interrupted something important?
A distinguished older gentleman was now standing next to me with his umbrella in his hand, looking as if he was about to leave.
I realized then that Logan had been seeing his guest out when he opened the door. It wasn’t some cosmic intervention or crazy twist of fate.
The handsome man was without a doubt Logan’s grandfather, the wealthy Logan Ryan. He looked to be almost six feet tall, not as tall as my Logan, but almost. He was long and lean, like my Logan. His hair had gone silver at the temples but remained dark everywhere else. And he was dressed in a finely tailored suit, nothing ostentatious but very professional looking.
My eyes landed on the watch he wore, which was almost identical to the one Logan wore, except his band wasn’t made of rubber but rather a fine metal.
Logan’s job here in New York was with his grandfather’s company, the Ryan Corporation. His t
itle was Associate Counsel, Litigation and Employment. Which meant he pushed a lot of paper—something he really didn’t enjoy. About six months ago, he started to go to Boston two days a week to work with his father, whose family law practice was in trouble due to an alcohol problem that was now under control. Working at his father’s practice was much more hands-on, and Logan really enjoyed his work there.
Starting sometime last month, though, his grandfather demanded he commit fully to his job in New York. Logan refused and told him that he wanted more time in Boston. That’s when his grandfather began to cut him off financially, revoking his access to his trust fund, and most recently putting a hold on his paycheck. Logan’s personal savings had just about been depleted. He must have been meeting with his grandfather over his finances. I knew money was of concern to him, but only because he needed it to buy information and hire help to assist in whatever quest he had masterminded in his head.
Glancing between the older gentleman and Logan, it was odd because I could see pieces of him in Logan, just as I had when I looked between Logan and his father. Different pieces, though—these were the more refined ones.
“This must be the lovely young lady you were telling me about,” the older gentleman said to Logan.
Logan’s hand spread wide against my back and the possessiveness in his touch sent delicious chills up my spine. “Yes, Grandfather, this is Elle Sterling.” Logan spoke with a pride in his voice that had my heart swelling. He was talking to his grandfather about me.
“Logan Ryan,” the distinguished older gentleman said, offering me his hand.
“Mr. Ryan, really nice to meet you.” I smiled, taking my red hat from my head. Suddenly, I became conscious that my attire was anything but appropriate for meeting a powerhouse like Logan Ryan. He was a legend in the business world and here I stood before him dressed for comfort in a pair of black leggings, a white blouse, and a red sweater with matching red ankle boots.
Logan’s body seemed to unconsciously drift closer to mine. Like the two magnets we were, we couldn’t stay far from each other.