by Mia Carter
“Sorry,” his warm voice says, and I turn, smiling up at him as he moves closer to me to let another couple pass. “I was held up.”
“It’s fine,” I say, tucking my phone back in my impromptu clutch for this evening—my galaxy-print makeup pouch. “Everything okay?”
There’s worry in his eyes, and my gut instantly tells me he’s holding something back, but he nods and says, “Yeah, fine, nothing to worry about. You wanna go in?”
“Sure.”
Logan holds out his arm to me, and I take it. He leads me inside, writes my name on a “Hello My Name Is…” tag and gently taps it to a space well above my left breast, studiously avoiding a grope. Ever the polite gentleman. I glance down at the tag and smile a little. Even his handwriting is nice. Mine’s a barely legible scrawl. An artist’s scrawl, that’s what my dad calls it. Either that, or a calling to go into medicine. My prescriptions would require a Rosetta stone.
We go into the ballroom proper, music from a band on the other end of the room greeting us. It’s a four-piece group, playing mellow jazz. Not my favorite but it’s nice. Adds to the atmosphere. Walking beside Logan who is looking absolutely delicious yet again, I feel so second-class. Like the girl everyone humors, walking in with the homecoming king as a favor, a kindness. Like I’m something to be endured or put up with, never someone’s first choice.
But Logan holds my arm and doesn’t let me go. It feels nice to be wanted. Nice that he doesn’t want me to leave any more than I want to go. I could get used to this, extending my trip day by day by day. Letting him keep me, like a pet—
No, that isn’t fair.
He hasn’t demanded anything of me, although the part of me that comes out after two or more shots of tequila kind of wishes he would. We’ve spent only a few moments together, but in each of those moments I’ve felt something. I can’t explain it, and it’s probably all one-sided.
I glance over at him and note his closed-off expression.
Of course it’s one-sided. We’re not even in the same stratosphere in terms of our lives.
But he keeps wanting to spend time with me. So where is this heading? Where can anything that began so strangely end up? Eventually, he’ll get tired of me. And I’ll deal with that when it happens. But for now, I turn away from the glittering lights and the mirrors and the guests in their much nicer attire. And focus just on him.
“Do you want to get a drink first?” Logan says, eyes shadowed, voice guarded. His shoulders are set square and tense.
“Sure,” I say. Something is definitely off tonight. Maybe it’s just the setting, being uncomfortable in a crowd, I don’t know. My intuition stands up, pricks its ears, and goes on high alert.
Logan leads me over to one of the two open bars. The recommended drink of the night ends up in my hand, a French 75: local rye gin mixed with French champagne and a curl of sugared lemon peel.
“Just soda water for me,” Logan says, and I look up at him in surprise. “I’m—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to explain.”
I understand you, I think. Even if I don’t know what’s up tonight. I can guess at some of it: the brief reference to his father and a bar. The way he’d kept to just one glass of wine with dinner. We all have our weaknesses, our fears. I understand his, even just a little. Logan relaxes, and his look softens.
“Thank you,” he says.
Another guest slides in next to me, angling for the bartender’s attention and moving a little too close. Logan’s warm expression cools a bit, and I feel his hand settle on my waist, then slide to my lower back, palm flat and broad and oh so warm even through my thin jersey dress. With a gentle push, he guides me out of the way.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I reply. “And you don’t ever have to drink if you don’t want to. I can get something else if it—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, his intense eyes on mine, softening once more. “You’re fine, get what you want. I’m trying to stay clear-headed tonight.”
Ah. Work, the presentation, the demo—he’s worried about the people he’s going to inevitably reconnect with here tonight. That makes sense.
I sip my drink as we mingle. It’s strong, and nobody questions the plain soda with lime in his hands. I’m introduced as his assistant, met with pleasantries, but more than one person hesitates, scanning me up and down and clearly comparing the two of us as if to wonder, is that his girlfriend? I know that look well, and I hate it.
“So, have you given it any thought?”
I start at the sharp, almost teasing voice beside us. And even before I turn, I can feel Logan’s arm tighten, holding me closer to his body, almost shielding me from the man who approached.
“No,” Logan says. “I don’t need to.”
The beady-eyed man who’s come up beside us looks to be somewhere in his seventies and vain about aging in the way a once handsome but still insecure man can only be. He’s wearing a nice suit, his blond hair somewhere between silver and gold, with faint lines in his face that have been set off by what I’d guess is a relatively recent, slight tan. His nametag reads Burke. Uncertain, I look from it to his face to Logan’s dark eyes.
At Logan’s response, the man sighs, clearly bemused and disappointed.
Then his cold eyes flick over to me. His gaze crawls on my skin like something that sticks to your legs when you swim in a murky lake.
“Are you going to introduce me to your lovely date?” the man says, eyeing me with that look on his face.
Logan’s body is solid beside mine. I’ve never felt someone get possessive, protective, like this.
“We were just going,” Logan says, and when he turns, the way he’s holding me, I have to follow.
Ten steps away from Burke and his beady eyes, Logan realizes that he’s still holding my arm.
“Sorry,” he says, releasing it like it’s porcelain, face shifting to concern. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No, of course not,” I say. If anything—though I’d never in a million years admit it—I kind of liked it, being held close so assertively. No guy’s ever guarded me like that, and it’s kind of a turn-on, which is probably weird, but there it is.
“I’m sorry,” Logan repeats, shaking his head as if to clear it. “My demo didn’t go too well today. Actually, it fucking bombed mostly because of him. But also because of me.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
All that stress and trouble, and things still didn’t go right. It’s unfair and I want to defend him, protect him, because—
“Let’s get some air,” I say, and Logan, still fuming, lets me clasp his big hand in mine and lead him off to one of the open balconies.
We make our way over there, parting through the long velvet curtains and breathing in the crisp, night air. It’s a welcome relief from the heat and press of the ballroom.
Logan keeps walking, setting his drink down on the wide railing, then propping his elbows on it and putting his face in his hands.
I don’t know what to say. I know it’s not my job to say anything, but it hurts to see him so frustrated. I wish I could fix it.
“You okay?”
He pulls his head out of his palms and gives me a wan smile. “I’ll survive.”
I’m glad we’re secluded for this moment. I couldn’t bear to see him so downcast in front of his peers and colleagues. Out here, nobody can see us. And it has the added bonus of being dim, which makes me relax and stop worrying that my breasts are going to pop out of my dress at any moment.
Even if they did, the way we’re standing, Logan is the only one who would see. But now is not the moment.
I take a step closer. “So, what happened?”
“Things…” He trails off with a sigh. Looking left, and then right. “We’ve been dealing with some unusual security breaches. Information slipping out, accidents. And Burke knew. He knew somehow, and he waited for me to fuck up so he could look magnanimous, swoop in, and offer
to buy me out. In front of everyone there, everyone I respect. Everyone whose respect I wanted to earn.”
I consider this for a moment. The wind is cool around us, with traffic noise on the street below mingling with music and voices from inside. Finally, I give voice to my thoughts. “Well, fuck.”
Logan laughs. “Yep.”
“What are you going to do?”
He sighs and straightens up a bit. His hands clasp the railing, and he stares out into the darkness. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want him to buy you out?”
“No,” he says, and shakes his head, the answer coming swiftly and surely. “No. WhiteLight is special. I’m not going to be pushed out like this—by a mistake, one I know I still have a chance to fix. And I can’t let my team down. Burke doesn’t have the best reputation when it comes to things like this.”
There’s a sudden understanding, a realization that, like the choice of drink tonight, adds a resonance to his words. I’m not here to talk shop or fix his past or tell him he’s not like his father, so instead, I just lean into him, feeling his warmth, selfishly breathing in the cedar and woodsmoke scent of him that still clings, faintly, to his clothing. I look up. His throat is working, a swallow of drink or emotion, a press to his lips like he’s holding back.
I don’t pry.
His suit is soft under my touch, his body firm and solid. He doesn’t push me away, just lets me have this. Give this to him, a quiet comfort, one human to another.
“I’m sorry,” I say, when a long, content moment has stretched out between us.
“It’s not your problem to worry about.” His words are not unkind, and his eyes are warm as they search my face. The weary slump of his shoulders and the haunted look in his eyes says more than words could express.
I understand what the words mean. Pushing someone away, so they leave before you can hurt them. I see myself in their sound, and that likeness calls to me. I want to comfort him, tell him it’s going to be okay. I want to show him that I can be someone to lean on, someone strong, maybe not like him but strong in my own way. His equal.
His.
I straighten my spine and refuse to let him retreat. I want this moment, whatever this moment is, to last a little bit longer.
“Still, though,” I hear myself saying, lifting my hand to gently brush along the edge of his tie, because I can’t allow myself to touch his face. It’s too much, too intimate. I swallow, thickly. “You don’t have to… I’m here.”
See me, I think. See me. There’s no one else out here, nobody who can see us. For a moment, it feels like we’re the only two people alive in the whole world.
The wind teases at the edge of my dress, a cool finger along the inside of my thigh in the darkness. I can’t trust myself right now, because every sense, every irrational craving inside of me, is telling me a lie. It’s building an illusion that he’s looking at me like he wants me, the way I want him.
Reason flees and I feel like I can’t breathe when he steps closer. Broad body moving with a contained sort of grace, a power that I just know would be intoxicating if he ever chose to use it. To let go and just feel and be, and—
“Logan,” I start to say—and my belly lurches as if the whole secluded balcony has been struck at its precise resonant frequency when his eyes sweep down to my softly parted mouth.
My body clenches. It wants.
It wants him.
“Chloe, you’ve been the best part of this whole mess,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want to go,” I say, nonsensically, because I couldn’t walk away right now, even if I tried. He has me pinned to the spot, dark eyes piercing me and holding me fast with the force of his—
“What are we—?” I start to say, before Logan’s hands find my hips, turning me, sweeping me into his arms.
In an instant, I’m surrounded by him—taste and touch and smell, so overwhelming it’s almost impossible to process all at once. The taste of lime and his tongue teasing mine. The broad warmth of his hands, holding me close. The sound of a soft noise—surprise or need, mine or his, I can’t tell. I’m tangled up in him. And he consumes me.
I step back, needy for support, and weave my hands into the front of his jacket, clutching at his lapels. The metal railing connects with my lower back, and he jolts into me as I pull him close. Mouth slanting against mine, he kisses me like I’m the answer to a question that neither of us know how to ask.
Are you mine?
Or, maybe: Will you stay?
He nibbles at my lower lip, and the sharp sweetness of his barely contained desire sends a pulse of need right to my core. Again. He hears my unspoken plea, interprets my little moans, kisses me deeply and urgently—a prelude for more.
We kiss. Such a small, four-letter word, incapable of describing what’s really going on. He tastes me, and I let him. I open for him, give as good as I can get. Keeping up with his eagerness, welcoming him, until a low, contented growl rumbles in his throat. We kiss and kiss and kiss.
His hands—oh God, his hands, sliding up my skirt, tugging at the fabric, seeking out where I’m warm and wet and needy for him. I can’t believe this is happening, I think—and then, More, yes, please, higher.
Logan groans when his right hand finds its way between my legs, cupping me there easily. It’s a steady pressure, a tantalizing, frustrating promise of more. I realize that I’ve been trying to unbutton his shirt, and when the little mother-of-pearl buttons refuse to yield, I all but whimper into his mouth.
He pulls back, dark eyes wild, staring down at me. Lust clouds his eyes. Then, he blinks. And with his hand still snug at the juncture of my thighs, he mutters, “Oh shit.”
Oh shit? Not what you want someone to say when they’re a heartbeat from fingering you.
“Shit,” he says again, raking his free hand through his hair, significantly contributing to the whole “debauched prince” look he’s got going on, what with the damage I’ve done to his jacket, tie, and shirt. His mouth is full and I want to kiss it again and again, forever.
“Chloe, I am so sorry—”
Everything inside of me threatens to wither. Rejected, not good enough, he doesn’t want this, or want me. But there’s something that rises out of that raw need, a courage that drives me to ask him, “Why are you sorry?”
“I shouldn’t have… I took advantage…”
At this, at the feel of his hand still warm and perfect over my center, I grab his tie and bring him back down for another bruising, hungry kiss. Showing him exactly what it is I want, what it is I welcome.
He kisses his way down my jaw, scraping his teeth across my frantic pulse, his tall body bent over mine like a tree in a windstorm. I run my fingers through his hair, holding fast, tugging him closer.
“Does this feel like taking advantage?” I whisper, and his teeth nip hard enough to make me whimper. “Logan, I want this. I want you.”
It feels insane to say it out loud.
But if it’s insane, then it’s an insanity that we’re both eager to reach for. Emboldened by this, he pushes the elastic edge of my underwear aside with his searching right hand, his left hand cupping my jaw, tilting my mouth where he wants it. I like it when he takes control. The idea of his thumb covering my throat, not to add pressure but simply to stake his claim, the force of his need, it makes my nipples harden and all the hairs on my arms rise up. I meet him kiss for kiss, taste for taste. And between my legs, two thick fingers part my sex, finding me wet and eager.
“Yes,” I moan, completely shamelessly, against his mouth. “Yes, yes, Logan, please.”
“Chloe.” My name sounds like an ancient prayer in his fervent mouth, the opening to a sacred hymn, and he’s a devoted worshipper of my body.
He makes a high noise, a sharp intake of breath, and lets out a string of barely intelligible curses and praise on his next exhalation as his fingers dip between my folds. I’m so wet for him, and any remaining part of me that is embarrassed by how wet I am instead of gr
ateful is cheerfully drop-kicked off of the balcony. Fingers circle my clit, which has been throbbing for him for the last few hours now, if I’m completely honest with myself.
“Yes,” he murmurs, as I cling to his jacket and let him draw the pleasure out of me like a street vendor spinning sugar into candy floss. “Can you come for me, Chloe? Can I feel you when you come around my fingers?”
I sob into his jacket. It’s too much, a little harder and different from how I touch myself, but he’s a quick study, and my moans and movements become his curriculum. He slips down farther, finding my entrance. With his big hands, it’s a tight fit, and the angle isn’t quite right.
Logan feels the way I tense up and gentles me with a whispered promise. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Can you show me how you like it? Please, I want to feel it, please.”
A few more tight circles around my clit and I’m coaxed right up to the edge of pleasure.
“Kiss me,” I beg, too far gone to have any fear or worry about how needy I must sound. “Logan, kiss—”
My words are devoured by his hot, plush, kiss-bitten mouth.
And like that, everything contracts, and pleasure ripples through me like an explosion of color and sound and sensation. I feel myself clench down, tightly, on the fingers he’s slid inside of me—it’s good, with thick fingers like his it’s damn good, but it’s still frustrating, a distant echo of what it could be like if he was inside of me right now where I want him to be. But good, so fucking good. I shudder and writhe and ride it out against him, until his fingers slip out of me, laying against my parted, slick folds.
I breathe into his jacket.
Holy shit.
My heart is still racing, body trembling. Two seconds later, I realize what we just did, and where—we’re practically out in public as the aftershocks begin to subside. Anyone could’ve walked in on us, anyone could’ve seen—
Logan withdraws his hand and my dress falls back down into place. If anyone looked now, they’d see us standing close, dancing, maybe. He’s still holding me, though, which is a wonderful feeling. I am not even sure I can look him in the eye. What if it breaks the spell?