by Frost, E J
Logan smiles back at me from the screen. He has full, soft lips for a man. Expressive lips, whether smiling his hungry, wolfy smile, or feathering softly over my skin. I believe you, those lips seem to say. I believe in you.
Belief that’s echoed in his dark eyes.
I blow his picture a little kiss, then tuck my phone and journal away, pull out my laptop and open my current manuscript. It’s another highlander historical romance, my eleventh, and it was feeling pretty stale until I met Logan.
Now I have plenty of fresh inspiration as I put my fingers to the keys and begin to type.
* * *
Seven hours later, having followed Logan’s schedule to the minute and feeling surprisingly well-hydrated and refreshed despite the long flight, I bounce into the baggage claim area. I spot Logan immediately, twirling a cart around on its back wheels idly while he waits. He smiles when he sees me and opens his arms so I can run to him.
He’s such a big man, eight inches taller and a good eighty pounds heavier than I am. He scoops me straight up off the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and pepper his face with kisses.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I say between smooches. “First class was awesome.” I remember the British phrase for thank you that he’s taught me. “Ta very much. And I followed your schedule to the minute.”
He chuckles and stills me with his big paw on the nape of my neck to claim a deep kiss. Then he lowers me to the ground.
And I realize something’s very wrong.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes that were so hot and wanting even through the phone on our video-call this morning have gone cold, bracketed by deep, tight lines. Those weren’t there this morning. Under his summer tan, his skin is gray. He’s holding himself strangely. He’s still military-straight, but his stomach’s tight, like he’s clenched against a blow.
“Sir, is everything okay?”
He collars me with his hand on the back of my neck and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“I’ve missed you,” he says. “I found a sushi place not too far from the hotel, but I couldn’t get a reservation until eight. I know that’s crazy late for you.”
And him. Some of his strain might be from jet lag, but there’s definitely something else going on.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m really looking forward to it. A California roll in California? Do you think that’s too trite?”
He chuckles and kisses me again while I watch his expression closely. So much strain. “No, baby. You have your tourist sushi.”
I go up on my tiptoes and nuzzle into the warm spot under his jaw. He still smells like sandalwood, but there’s something else, too. Something acidic and a little bitter, like the white part of a lemon rind. Is he getting sick? I have First Defense with me; I always use it when I fly. Maybe I should offer it to him.
My big, yellow suitcase appears on the conveyor belt. It distracts me, and I tug Logan towards it. He retrieves it, and my smaller suitcase, when that arrives on the conveyor, and loads them onto the cart. I lay my backpack on top of the suitcases and take his hand when he offers it to me. That he can wheel the laden cart with one hand doesn’t surprise me. That he wheels it to a handicapped bathroom, after we get through the outer gate, does.
He pushes the cart inside, draws me through, and locks the door behind me. “Over the sink. Ass up, shorts and panties down, if you’re even wearing any panties,” he says, but it’s a pale imitation of his sexy growl.
I am wearing panties, because I feel indecent without them. I move into position, there’s no way I’m hesitating even for a heartbeat, not with him in this mood. As I’m sliding my shorts down, I ask, “Sir, can we communicate?”
He stops what he’s doing—unbuckling his belt from the sound of it, a noise that’s like Pavlov’s damn bell to a submissive and has me practically drooling between my legs—and draws in close behind me. “Yes, Emmy, what’s wrong?”
There’s no way to tackle this but head-on. Trying to be subtle with someone as honest and straightforward as Logan is just insulting. “Please, Sir, has something happened? I don’t—I don’t feel like your heart is in this.”
He puts a warm hand in the small of my back. “Bad day, baby doll, but you’re going to make it all better.”
“I’ll do anything you want to make it better, Sir.” And I mean that. If he wants me to drop and blow him, even here in a public bathroom, I will. If he wants to hit me with his belt, I’ll take it without making a sound. “But please don’t do this if it’s not what you need.”
He blows out a long breath and pulls my shorts up. “Turn around.”
I do, and the pain is stark in his eyes now. It pierces my heart like a red-hot needle. I reach for him. “Oh, Daddy, please, what happened?”
He picks me up, sliding his big hand under my bottom. When I wrap my legs around his waist, he turns and walks us the two steps to the door. With my back propped against the door, he leans in and kisses me, slow and deep.
When he lets me up for air, I stroke his face, freshly shaved for me, again. He smiles back at me. This time, it reaches his eyes. “How’d you know?”
“You look really strained. Are you jet lagged? Are you getting sick?”
“Just jet lag.” He tips his head to the side, pushing his cheek into my hand. It’s not just jet lag. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
That’s why he was texting me all night. “I saw your texts. Do you want a nap? Do you want to go back to the hotel and have a nap? We could just cuddle.”
He gives me a chuckle that has absolutely no humor to it. “What happened to me being so rough with you when you land that I fuck you without any foreplay?”
I don’t know what happened to that. All I know is that he looks wrecked and not at all in the mood to play.
“Please, just tell me what you need right now. Please let me help.”
He pecks the tip of my nose. “I need you.”
Typical male evasive answer. “Communication? Please?”
He blows out a breath. “You want to know the truth, Emmy? I don’t feel like playing right now. I want to go back to the hotel and hold you tight. I want to feel you all over me. I want to know you’re with me. You’re with me and you’re going to be with me in five minutes and an hour and tomorrow and the day after that.”
Oh, good Lord, something did happen. Something way beyond jet lag. I tighten my arms around his neck. “Please, let’s go back to the hotel.”
“Okay. I’m sorry about this, little girl,” he says as he steps back from the door and lowers me to my feet.
I stretch up and kiss his jaw before letting him go. “I’m not.”
Outside, we find the taxi stand and as he’s loading my luggage into the trunk, I tell him I’ve read that Uber plans to have flying taxis in Los Angeles within the next few years, which is the only amusing thing I can think of at the moment. His eyes lighten a little and when we get in, after he buckles my seat belt and gives the driver our destination, he puts his arm around me. I hug him tightly. I don’t say anything. If he wants to talk, he will. In the meanwhile, I give him the quiet comfort of my body. He stares out the window at the passing palm trees for a few minutes, occasionally turning his head and kissing my hair. I can feel the tension in him slowly ebbing.
Finally, he murmurs into my hair, “I’m really glad you’re here, Emmy.”
“I’m glad to be here,” I respond softly, twisting a little so I can look up at him.
“I interviewed Bill Black’s widow this morning.”
I knew that already. I give him a moment to see what else he’ll say, and when he doesn’t continue, I ask, “Did it go badly?”
“No, she was forthcoming. Too forthcoming.” He shifts and I can tell he’s uncomfortable with what he’s about to say. “Interviewing widows bites. It’s the worst part of my job. Their loss makes every word a punch in the gut. I feel like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight.”
I rub his c
hest, warm and firm under his black T-shirt. “I can understand that.”
“I have no idea why I should care. They’re strangers. I don’t even know the person they’ve lost. But it gets me every time. Fuck, I don’t know if I should even say this.”
I tuck my face into his neck, so he doesn’t have to look in my eyes while he admits something painful. “You can tell me anything.”
“I know I can. I’m not afraid of you judging. I just don’t want to hurt you.”
Why would his sensitivity to a stranger’s loss hurt me? “I promise I won’t take it the wrong way.”
“It makes me hot,” he whispers against my temple. “It makes me insane to discipline them. I want to beat all that grief out of them. Fuck them until they smile through their tears. I know how wrong that is, but that’s what I want. Wanting it, and not being able to do it, guts me. It’s like I’ve got a giant fishhook right here.” He slaps his hand over his flat belly. “And it keeps twisting.”
I stroke his chest, his abdomen, smoothing my hand over and over the planes of his body, so he can feel my acceptance. “Please take it out on me, Sir.”
He cups my head and presses his lips hard to my forehead. “Thank you, baby doll.”
* * *
He doesn’t take it out on me. Not at first.
Once we put my luggage in the bedroom and he shows me around, he draws me to the swanky suite’s big, semi-circular couch. He cuddles me in his lap, then lies down with me, sinks into me, pets me, and kisses me, while he tells me what Mrs. Black said to him. How she kept using kink as a weapon to make him share her pain. And he had to just sit there and take it in order to do his job, while every Dom instinct screamed at him to punish her and let the physical pain relieve her emotional agony.
I know so well how crazymaking it is to have those internal voices screaming at you. I almost tell Logan about my internal voice, but this isn’t the time. I don’t want to make this about me. Instead, I return his kisses and caresses, rub his back, and try to say the right things.
I feel it when his mood shifts. When he’s no longer just kissing me but claiming my mouth. When he’s no longer just caressing me but working his hands under my clothes to rub and squeeze and pinch. My body shifts with him, muscles softening, nipples hardening. Ribbons of heat and need run from breasts to belly to clit. The sex during our first date was so, so, so good. I’ve barely thought of anything else for three days and I can’t wait for more.
But something about this feels off.
He works my shirt over my breasts, under my arms, but he doesn’t take it off. He pulls my shorts and panties down, but he doesn’t touch where I want him the most, that furiously burning place between my thighs. When I try to unbutton his jeans, he pushes my hands away. What does he want? I’m not sure, and he’s not giving me any direction. This isn’t at all like our first date, when he commanded me so precisely, controlled my every breath. I loved that and I want more, but he doesn’t seem to want to give it to me.
Uncertain, I watch him anxiously.
“Close your eyes. Don’t look at me,” he rasps.
Finally given an order, I obey. But I don’t like it. I don’t like that rasp, which is one tone away from disappointment, even though I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. The wrongness is inside him, and I don’t know him well enough to know what form it’s going to take as he lets it out.
He picks me up and carries me through the suite, his bare feet thudding softly on the thick carpet. The world tilts, and I force myself not to clutch at him as he lowers me. I feel firmness under my back and the silky rub of fabric on my bare back. He’s set me on the bed. He tugs my hips to pull me down to the edge, my legs dangling, my shorts and panties still tangled around my calves. I keep my eyes closed and listen as he unzips his jeans.
Then I hear something I don’t expect and don’t understand.
The rip and crinkle of a condom wrapper.
Why is he using a condom? We had unprotected sex in New York, several times. We’ve shown each other our tests, and he knows I have an implant. Why does he need a condom now? Does he think I had sex with someone while we were apart? Oh, fuck no, did he have sex with someone else while we were apart?
His hands close on my thighs, and I have to keep myself from flinching at the sudden contact. His hands move up my thighs, spreading me. I feel his tip nudge between my labia, then he’s thrusting into me.
There was plenty of foreplay while we were cuddling, and it feels like he’s using a lubricated condom. He pushes deep on the first thrust, all the way in on the second, his thighs pressing mine apart, my feet pushed hard against the side of the bed by his shins. I want to kick my panties and shorts off so I can wrap my legs around him, but I’m not sure if he intends for me to be in this uncomfortable position, so I don’t move, except to push my hips up into his thrusts. He could bottom out in me with little force. But he doesn’t. He leans over me, slides his forearm under my shoulders, and drops his face into my neck. Since he can’t see my face, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling—no mirrors, this place is way too fancy for that—as he starts fucking me.
Except he’s not really fucking me. He’s thrusting slowly and shallowly. Without any heat. Without any strength or force. His heart isn’t in this any more than it was in the airport bathroom, so why is he doing it? I wriggle, trying to get him to move faster, draw him deeper. The bite of his jeans against my thighs keeps me wet and open, even though his movement inside me isn’t anything more than okay.
This is what sex was like with Ash. Disconnected. Hollow. It never made me come; it barely even got me wet. Ashley never understood, but Logan does. Logan knows how to connect with me, how to create a level of intimacy I’ve never felt before. He must be doing this for a reason. Although I’m not sure what it is. Still, if it soothes his hurt, I can give this to him. Maybe he just needs gentle right now. I focus on him: caressing him everywhere I can reach, meeting his slow motions.
“Stop,” he groans. “Just lie still.”
He doesn’t want me to touch him? He wants me to just lie here and take his dick, like a blow-up doll? I drop my hands to my sides and try to be plastic for him, cold and still. He keeps working his cock in and out of me, a little faster than before, but it doesn’t even feel good now. I’m not even his fuck toy. I’m just a plastic hole in the bed, not good enough to touch him.
Is this his version of humiliation play? I know he’s a sadist. Has he forgotten that humiliation is one of my hard limits? Is this his idea of a scene that hurts me emotionally? Oh Lord, I hope not, because I hate this. It’s not a turn-on. I don’t want to do this. I want him to stop. My chin quivers, and there’s a hot rush behind my eyes.
“Sir, can I cry?”
“Yes,” he groans. He lifts his head a little and nuzzles my temple. The first tear smears against his lips. “Yes, cry for me.”
A second tear follows the first, then a stream. I’m not sure what he’s doing, what he wants, what he’s trying to make me feel, but everything about this is reminding me horribly of my marriage. Lying under Ashley and feeling nothing except shame at my own lack of desire for the man I was supposed to spend forever with. That’s not how I feel about Logan. But what he’s doing isn’t something I want, not even a little bit. And doing this, this horrible, hollow parody of the thing he does that makes me feel so good, is tearing me up.
Logan’s panting into my ear now, his thrusts still shallow but faster. Fast enough to give me just a little edge. I tighten my pussy around him, but he shakes his head. “Stop. Just lie there. This isn’t about pleasure.”
It’s not? What the fuck is it about? I don’t understand what he’s doing, and I hate it, as much as I hated sex with Ash by the end. I want it to stop, and I’m a heartbeat away from saying my safe word when Logan’s breath catches.
He doesn’t make any noise as he comes. Nothing like his usual full-throated groans. He just pushes a little deeper. I feel him flex, although there’s no ho
t rush because of the condom.
And then I realize that’s why he put it on: so I couldn’t feel him, and he couldn’t feel me.
I sniff, swallowing my tears. “Sir, are we done?”
That’s not what I want to say. I want to beg him to get off me so I can go take a shower. I don’t want to lie under him anymore, feeling the roughness of his clothes against my skin. I don’t want his rubber-coated dick in me. I want to get away, hide in the bathroom, and wash whatever the fuck that was off me.
But if it was me, and I was suffering like he is, I’d see that as abandonment. I’d sink, maybe when I’d just started to swim.
“Yes. It’s over now,” he says against my temple.
Thank fuck for that. I touch him tentatively, brushing my hands over his shoulders. He shifts and more of his weight settles onto me. He was holding himself up, preventing us from connecting the way we did in New York, his wonderful weight controlling me. I slide my hands down his back until I reach his skin. Clammy, and that’s nothing to do with the hotel room’s air conditioning.
“Do you feel better, Sir?”
Please, please, let that horrible fuck have exorcized whatever demon is riding him.
“No,” he says, his breath warm in my hair. “Now I feel as hollow as they do.”
Was it for nothing? Did I endure that for nothing? My eyes and nose sting. Fresh tears slide down my temples. I keep rubbing his back, not sure what else to say or do.
“I’m going to get rid of the condom,” he says finally. “Put your panties and a hotel robe on, sit on the couch, and wait for me.”
“Yes, Sir.” I’m sure he can hear the relief in my voice. Not just because I really want him out of me, but also because his rasp is gone. He’s speaking in his normal voice again. Hopefully, everything will go back to normal now. Because I really don’t want to meet that demon again.
He slides up onto his forearms and looks down at me, his dark eyes probing. “Are you okay?”
Kinda not, but I’m holding it together for him as best I can. I nod.