“No, you’re solving a problem,” I mumble between kissing and nibbling on his neck, wishing cologne tasted like it smelled.
“A problem?” He’s breathless from carrying me up the stairs and fighting with a tight shirt, and tighter pants.
“It’s been over a year,” I admit, softly enough that I don’t need to hear the words thunder in my head.
“A year is a long time,” he says, freeing my pants from around my ass. His hands are warm, yet cool to the touch as they palm each cheek as if they’re meant for gripping. He lifts me up, forcing my legs around his waist, and carries me to the bed.
He’s a storm made of heated sensuality—soft and hard, and excited but reserved sensations, if that makes any sense. His movements are like a panther—slow, planned, and acutely accurate to achieve the imploring moans and whimpers emerging from my throat. I realize I’m the only one who’s naked, and I need more of him.
I tug at Logan’s shirt, peeling it slowly up his chest, admiring the ripples and ridges of his athletically toned and chiseled body. It’s as perfect as I imagined. It’s like I’m unwrapping the most awaited for gift on Christmas morning as I run my fingertips up and down the uneven surface, grazing the muscles with the tips of my fingers while admiring his bewitching craft.
With an ache between my legs continuing to grow, I reach for the button on his fitted jeans, unclasping, unzipping, and freeing his substantial boner from its constraints.
He presses my arms above my head, mounting me before lowering himself down. “Wait,” I tell him.
“I don’t want to,” he says. His lips fall to my neck as his cock feathers against my thigh. My chest heaves with anticipation, but the coarse texture of his jeans are rough against my legs, enough to steal pleasure from the moment. I reach forward to tug his pants down more, needing him to be as naked as I am. “Stop.”
“What’s the matter?” I ask, concern filling my breathy voice.
He’s holding himself above me with a look of intent, yet hesitation at the same time. Logan lowers himself and rests his head on my chest, bringing this encounter to an intimate moment rather than the heated passion we were sharing just seconds ago.
“Can’t I just keep my pants on?” he asks.
Totally blindsided by his bizarre question, I can’t help the snort exploding from within my nose. “You want to keep your pants on?” Laughter is still rolling in of its own accord, but seriously, what is this man talking about?
“Yes.” He is as serious as a caged lion.
“Well, your jeans are a little rough to maneuver around—hey, so, why do you want to keep your pants on during sex?” Never have I ever just had a casual conversation about sex, right before sex, with a hot man who wants to have sex without removing his pants.
Logan sighs and rolls onto his back, placing his hand on his chest. “I told you I was injured and that’s why I don’t play anymore.”
“Yes, you told me.”
“I can’t—” he continues.
“You can’t …”
“I just can’t.”
Okay, that’s why he’s interested in me. I’m the type of person who doesn’t need a pretty penis to get off … I’ve got nothing else.
“You can’t keep it up?” Just taking a stab. Probably best not to say that out loud, however.
“Oh, no, I can—” he laughs, coyly, “I can keep it up, sweetheart.” While mentally going through a dozen or so possibilities of what he can’t do, he calls me sweetheart, and I melt a little, feeling the need to “aww” out loud. Although, I should note the fact that he was referring to me endearingly while assuring me he can keep his dick hard. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Okay, so you can keep it up, but you …” I’m fishing here.
“It’s just—,” He grabs one of my pillows and smothers his face. After a long four-seconds, he tosses the pillow off the bed. “It’s not pretty down there.” Don’t laugh, Hannah. Be an adult. Do not giggle. I exhale slowly to suppress the rumble working up the back of my throat.
I was right. “You have an ugly dick?” That was way louder than it needed to be.
He turns his head sharply, giving me a pointed look. “Is any dick pretty?”
“Well, what defines a pretty dick?”
“I don’t know. Jesus, what kind of question is that?” he asks.
“I think a pretty dick is shiny, firm, smooth, and soft. On the contrary, it has no wild hairs, colors, or veins.”
Logan presses up on his elbow, giving me either a “confused as hell” look, or a “Shit, that’s what my cock looks like,” look. “Wow,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t realize there were so many guidelines to having a pretty dick.”
“Well, if any of the latter descriptions apply to you, you can always just tie a bow around it, and call it a day.”
“No, I don’t need to tie a bow around it. According to your standards, I have a pretty dick, I guess.” He looks slightly amused and mildly proud, yet his pants are still on.
“Great, so what’s the problem?” Oh, I know. Men are so sensitive about their asses sometimes, and I don’t understand why. “It’s natural to have hair on your ass. Is that it?”
“No, I don’t have a hairy ass.” Thank you, God. I couldn’t do that again. Rick’s ass has scarred me for life. I could braid the shit out of that lion’s mane. Rick was what I once considered to be hot … on the outside, at least, but then when the darkness was revealed, so was a whole lot of hair.
“Okay, I give up.”
“Can we just cuddle tonight?”
“Cuddle? Like, spooning—spending the night in bed and waking up next to each other?” So, normally, I’d get down on my knees and beg a man like him to cuddle with me, but my curiosity of why he won’t sex me is clouding my desire to be held in his arms. At thirty-three, I need sex, then cuddles. There’s no rearranging the whole desire for events in that order, even if it makes me sound like a whore. I have needs, and they haven’t been met, seen, heard, or thought of by anyone in over a year.
“I can go if you want,” he offers, despondent expression and all.
“You need to just be honest with me because right now, I’m getting a complex.” I tug at my blanket and cover my naked body.
“You don’t need to do that,” he says, grabbing the thick material from my hand.
“I don’t want to be lying here naked while you’re hesitant to take your pants off. It’s weird. Don’t you think? Especially after you saw me in my most vulnerable state yesterday.” It’s more than freaking weird. I’m not a model posing in front of an oil-painting class. Nor would I ever be chosen for such a job, unless it was for idolizing the effects of motherhood and how it wreaks havoc on a once perfect body.
“Tell me your wildest fantasy,” he softly suggests.
Another loud laugh bucks from my throat. “I don’t know, eating ice cream in a bathtub without a child screaming, ‘Mommy?’”
“That’s not the kind of fantasy I meant.” I know what he meant. I don’t have an answer because what the hell have I had to fantasize about lately?
Logan leans over to the nightstand and hits the light switch. “Never mind. Let me see if I can correct this fantasy issue.” What? He just asked if we could cuddle.
Why are men so confusing? How in the world do they get away with calling women—
Oh. Oh, okay.
His hands are colder than I realized, and they’re around each of my thighs, urging them apart. A breeze sweeps up the insides of my legs as movement encircles my body.
I don’t have a moment to wonder what his plan is because his tongue is tracing a line up my right thigh but suddenly stops.
Did you wax? Brielle’s voice echoes in my head. Oh no.
I place my hands on Logan’s face and pull him up. “Cuddling sounds good,” I tell him.
“What?”
“Just—let’s take things slow.” My dark hole is pruning at the moment, closing in on itself and pulsating with
anger. I was just about to experience the most incredible moment of my life, and I didn’t freaking wax.
“I can go slow,” he says.
“From up here?” I counter.
His fingertips glide up toward my center, and I’m clenching my eyes and teeth in preparation for the recoiling of his hand when he meets the wooly mammoth I’ve allowed to grow in down there. I’m debating if I should stop him. I could ruin everything right this very second.
“You look like you’re afraid this might hurt,” he says. How can he see my face in the dark? I open one eye halfway, noting it’s not completely dark in here because there’s a car parked outside with the lights on. Lovely, let’s shine some light on this subject.
“I wasn’t prepared …” I try to warn.
“Relax.” That’s what my OB always says. Don’t say that. I even clean up down there for her. He scoots up, bringing his body parallel in position to mine, which comforts me a bit more. His lips are against my ear. “If you don’t relax, I’ll have to make you relax.”
I don’t think he’s going to have a choice at this point. His fingers slip inside of me without pausing for a moment to acknowledge the situation down yonder, which allows my mind to slowly filter out all the terrifying thoughts, allowing me to focus on the warmth of his girthy fingers that are gliding in and out of me at just the right speed. Another finger joins the others, and I’m nearly climbing up the back of my bed, expelling moans so loud, the neighbors can probably to hear me. Asshole neighbors.
His thumb presses on my trigger, and my hips thrust against his hand, bucking wildly off the bed. “Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Yes. Don’t stopppp. Right there. Yes, yes. Yes!”
Limp as a rag, I collapse like liquid into my plush mattress, riding the quivers that are running through every nerve in the lower region of my body. “Thank you,” I cry out in the form of a plea as if he has solved all my world’s problems with just his fingers.
“I almost got off just watching you get off,” he murmurs.
“Let me help with that,” I reply.
I slide off the bed, bringing myself to my knees. I pull his cock out of his unzipped pants and hold it firmly within my hand, noting it is as pretty as I described. He isn’t stopping me, so maybe there really isn’t an issue with his dick. We’ll see, I guess. I just hope the zipper on his jeans doesn’t do any damage. Usually, the pants are off for this part of the night.
With a firm grip around his shaft, I lower my mouth over the tip and lick gently while following my hand as it glides down his long, really long, wow, okay—dick until the tip hits the back of my throat. His hands tangle in my hair, and his fingers tighten and loosen with every flick of my tongue.
With a glance up at his face, I hope to catch a glimpse of his expression, but there’s no more light filling the room, so I’m left with my imagination.
His grip grows tighter the faster my hand and mouth move around his cock, and growls scrape against his throat as his body moves in rhythm with my lips. Logan’s hands find my face, and he squeezes gently. “I’m going to—”
“I suck him in a little harder, feeling the instant relief of warmth dribble down the back of my throat.”
“Shit, Hannah, I don’t even know what to say, other than that was probably one of the hottest moments of my life.”
That’s a nice compliment, and somewhat unexpected. “Thanks.” I sound mousy, shy, and not like the woman who just sucked him off like it was my job. Nope because my job is to be his boss, but I’m better at getting him off.
And, I’d probably do it again.
Chapter Fourteen
If it were any other Friday, I would be getting ready for work, but instead … there’s another job to be done, and it’s not the one I had in mind.
WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHAT? I will my eyelids apart, trying to get a better scope of my situation, but I can’t figure out what’s happening. I can’t breathe. Or move. It’s still kind of dark, but I see sunlight.
Last night.
Oh shit.
That was nice.
I twist my heavy head to the right, finding Logan asleep with his arm draped over my naked chest and his hand cupped around my left breast. Maybe that’s why I slept so well all night. Is having warm breasts the answer to a good night sleep? If so, I’ve been doing it wrong my whole life.
I move my legs around to get the blood circulating, and my bare toes run along the coarse material of his jeans. He’s still wearing his freaking pants. Why?
I have to pee.
With an attempt to roll off the bed, Logan’s fingertips seem to stick to my nipple, and he isn’t any more aware than he was a minute ago. Yup, I’m pretty sure it’s going to rip right off if I don’t lift his hand. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and lift slowly so I can adorably tuck and roll like a sea lion—that’s what I imagine I look like at the moment. Thank God he’s asleep, and I can put clothes on before the daylight reveals the truth.
I tiptoe to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt from the pile that’s still resting on top of my hamper from when Logan folded them the other day.
My feet hit the cold tiles of my bathroom, and I softly close the door while flipping the light switch. As I face place my clothes down on the counter and look into the mirror, I can only think that I look like a scene from a horror movie when the innocent character looks at their reflection to find a zombie in its place. I need to figure out how to deal with this situation before he wakes up.
A shower—that’s the answer to all of life’s problems. Hopefully, it doesn’t wake him up. I slip in behind the glass door and crank the water up. The warmth erases some of my humility from last night, but as memories float through me, one by one, I realize I don’t have much to be embarrassed about, except for the whole post-child body in comparison to his iron stealth.
I lean my back against the shower wall, drowning in the cascading water. How did I get myself into this situation? I have to see this man every day now, and he knows what this disaster looks like. As if I need extra reminders, I look down at the tattoo I got when I was eighteen. It was a small tribal circle with the symbol of life inside. Now, it looks like a child finger painted on my right hip with black ink. This is why marriage is supposed to last. “Through thick and thin.” Well, Rick got the goddamn thin, and now he’s left me with the thick part I was sure no one would want—but now there’s a man who won’t take his pants off, and I’m not sure whether to call it a win.
With exhaustion draping me, along with the steam, I close my eyes to clear my mind. Blindly, I grab the shampoo bottle and pour the liquid over the top of my head. I let it sit there for a minute before I weakly lather it through my hair that has grown longer than I’ve ever let it before. I’ve never been a short hair kind of person, but lately, I haven’t had the time to blow dry and flat iron the kinky waves I have. Maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe I need to make myself look twenty-something again. Brielle has been whining about me doing something with myself for the past year now, but I’ve been diligently tuning her out. She doesn’t get it. Though, in all fairness, she is the one who gets laid several times a week.
Onto my next thought of why I’m up so early on a free day when I don’t have a child to take care of. I’m busy burning out my thought engine already, I guess that’s the reason. Does anyone else talk to themselves as much as I do? Does anyone just have a clear head for extended periods of time? Am I like, broken? That must be what this is. Maybe I need drugs. The head doctor did suggest it when I first started going to her after Rick double dipped. Oy.
I rinse the soap out of my hair and push the strands away from my face, feeling a freshness take over the gross layer I couldn’t seem to shake yesterday. Everything will be okay. I just have to go with the flow.
A thundering bang scares the shit out of me just as I’m getting the last of the shampoo out of my hair, and some of the suds seep into my eyes. I turn in every direction, reaching for the handle on the door
so I can grab my towel, but I stop when I hear a thud.
What the hell was that?
The shower floor is vibrating against the loud thuds following the crash. “Hello?” Then, the sound of porcelain hitting porcelain pierces my ears. “Logan?”
I poke my head out of the fogged-up shower door and peek with my one non-soap-burning eye, seeing the half-naked, stealth-clad man on his knees, vomiting. Oh shit.
For some reason, I can’t move. I’m frozen, watching this all happen like an asshole. It’s not like I can do much, but watching isn’t nice, so I close myself back into the shower and bite down on the tip of my fingernail. What should I do? “Can I get you anything?” I shout out.
He answers with a gag, and the slop-hitting-water sound effect informs me he isn’t done yet. I reach my arm out of the shower and grab the towel hanging from the rack. My lip is already curled into a snarl because I hate vomit more than I hate boogers and poop. I know parents are supposed to be used to all that, but my stomach reflexes don’t agree. There hasn’t been a time when Cora has gotten sick that I haven’t felt the need to mirror her expelling situation.
I turn the water off and wrap the towel around my body, close my eyes, and pull in a sharp breath. I can do this. Man vomit is so much worse than child vomit, but he was there for me the other day. I can’t be a total ass. He’ll take the assumption of my divorce to another level if I don’t do the right thing. I am a caring person.
I step out onto the plush bath mat and slowly approach him from behind. He’s hugging the toilet with his head hanging over the bowl, and I place my wet hand on his back while kneeling beside him. I do my best to ignore the sight in front of us. That needs to be flushed, or we’re both going to be vomiting. I reach over and flush, forgetting to move back in time to avoid the recoiling splash. Uh, no. It’s just a couple of drops, but I just got out of the shower. Come on, really?
“I think I’m sick,” he says with a groan.
“I’m so sorry, Logan. This is all my fault.”
Man Flu Page 13