Bad Love (Modern Romance Book 2)

by Piper Lawson

  Fueled by adrenaline and conviction, I brace her against the wall, reach my hand inside her bra, and rub my thumb over her tight nipple. Her head falls back.

  Kendall grinds her hips against me, her hands slipping on my neck.

  "Tell me you want me, Peach. Tell me the only thing on that list you wanna do is me."

  My words make her moan because my Kendall likes words.

  I’ve learned a lot of things she likes here, when she's half-naked and meeting me impulse for impulse.

  I notice every response, record it where it'll never be erased.

  I'll build a shrine to every sweet and filthy thing she craves.

  My hands are teasing and deliberate. Every swallowed moan, every arch of her body, every trembling breath makes me want to possess her.

  Unable to postpone any longer, I carry her to the bed. Her eyes flare with heat as I drop her down. I yank the button of her jeans, then the zipper.

  "You can't break those," she teases breathlessly.

  "Don't tempt me."

  The jeans are pulled down her legs, off her feet. She tries to sit up, and I stop her.

  "What?"

  "Socks,” she says. “We can’t do this with socks."

  I lift a brow. "Why not."

  Her breathless laugh softens something in my chest. "It’s not sexy.”

  “Wrong,” I correct. “Everything you do is sexy. You could wear a paper bag to work, and I’d still want to fuck you, Peach.”

  Her eyes gleam. “Paper bag, huh? It would save laundry.” She cocks her head, considering.

  But before I can stop her, she reaches for her socks in a lunge, tossing them across the room.

  She shifts back with a half grin, as if I'm being an unreasonable captor she’s narrowly evaded. "There. That wasn't so bad.”

  God, the way she's looking at me melts me.

  Since I took on the marketing director job, I have some sense of her life. What it's like for her to work her ass off on projects that don’t go away. It makes me respect Kendall even more.

  It’s ironic as fuck. I was worried about her getting attached, yet it’s me staking my claim as if she’s my last stand.

  My gaze drags down her body, her lace bra askew and her bright-yellow lace panties the only thing between her and me.

  In one move, I flip her onto her stomach. I slap her ass, and she squeaks. "That’s for disobeying.”

  "Logan! Can you be quiet?"

  "You're the one protesting, Peach. Ass higher."

  She complies, and I drop to my knees and inhale between her legs. I rub her through the lace panties, and she wiggles her hips.

  "Where's the vibe?" I demand.

  Her gaze cuts to the nightstand.

  "Get it."

  Her lips part.

  “You're going to fuck yourself with it until you're ready to admit that you need me more than it."

  Challenge sparks in her eyes as she reaches for it. "It's a good vibe," she says with the smugness of the person who made it. “And I don’t think you’re that patient.”

  Fuck.

  She holds it out, and I get it wet with my tongue, watching her eyes darken. Finally she switches it on, holding it under her body. Her hips jerk when she does, and I'm grinding my teeth already.

  It takes everything in me to hold back because, fuck, she’s so sexy like this.

  But this is about her. Giving her pleasure's only part of it. I want to take her further, deeper, than any man ever has. To make her understand that I'm the only guy who can.

  She moans, grabbing a pillow and yanking it in front of her face.

  "Good plan," I murmur against the cheek of her ass.

  I reward her by tugging the panel of her panties to the side and sliding a finger inside her. I want her slippery and desperate when I fuck her.

  I catch our reflection in the mirror across the room and nearly come. She's face-first in the mattress, and as much as I miss her gorgeous expression, it's worth it for the sight of her ass in the air as I rub her pussy while she buzzes herself into oblivion.

  I press two fingers inside her, feeling her squeeze around me and nearly swallow my tongue. "You're dripping, sweetheart. You think the other moms at school have this to come home to?"

  Her smooth thighs tremble when I press that spot deep inside, and she mumbles something against the pillow. Her low moans as she writhes have me hard as a rock.

  "How many fingers is that?" she asks.

  "You still care, so it’s not enough." I'm being a sadist, but apologies are the last thing on my mind as I press a third finger inside and watch her back arch as she twists around me.

  I want her to beg.

  I don't care what for.

  Kendall reaches behind her, swiping for my jeans, but I brush her hand away.

  My cock is harder than it's ever been, my body tight everywhere from the effort of holding back as she pants in time with my thrusts.

  I can't picture an eighteen-year-old Kendall being so unrestrained. She's not a kid in love for the first time. She's a woman. She's independent and fierce and capable and fucking beautiful.

  And I want her.

  Tonight.

  Tomorrow.

  For a lot of fucking days after that.

  “You ready to say it?” I grind out as I strip my shirt over my head and reach for my jeans.

  She twists so I can look in her flushed face. Her eyes are at half-mast, the light from the bedside lamp turning them dark green, and it hits me in the chest like an anvil.

  “You said I’d beg for a night with you,” she whispers. “You first.”

  “I don’t beg, sweetheart. Not even for you.”

  But isn’t that what I’m doing? Begging her with my hands, my mouth, my body?

  She takes advantage, flipping onto her back. Like I’ve lost some of my power over her. But I can’t bring myself to complain, because her guilty gaze goes immediately to my jeans.

  This girl.

  “You want to see the cock I’m going to fuck you with?”

  Her lips tremble. “Yes.”

  The jealousy fades away as I slide a finger under the waistband of my shorts.

  Kendall reaches toward the thick outline of my erection through the fabric, the dark spot where I'm already leaking from touching her. Her fingertip presses lightly against that spot, then rubs a slow circle against my cock head through the fabric.

  I swallow a groan, my hand fisting in her hair. She rubs me, a slow stroke all the way down to my balls. Half of the pleasure's from watching her do it, the look of desire and delight on her face.

  I love thinking that I'm corrupting her. That she gets to be this way with me.

  "Feel good, Hunter?" she taunts.

  "Your pussy's going to feel better.”

  Her hand slips inside the top of my shorts, and she wraps her fingers around me. "Like that?"

  "Hotter. Wetter." My voice is rough.

  I take her hand and press it between her thighs, then bring it back to my cock. She strokes down again. "Like that?"

  "No." I swallow, suddenly feeling as though I'm the one out of my depth. "Because I'm so deep inside you, you can't get me out. Because you love it as much as I do."

  Her lips find the head of my cock, taking me by surprise by giving it a hard suck that makes my eyes roll back in my head.

  Then she lifts her gaze to mine, full of wanting and something vulnerable. "Trust me, Logan. I love this as much as you do."

  My heart cracks.

  I don't want any man to have her look at him with that expression. But more than that, I don't want any other woman to look at me that way either.

  I don’t just want her to be mine. I want to give myself to her.

  I want her to accept me, all of me.

  I shove off my shorts, then grab a condom from my jeans and roll it on as she watches.

  I jerk her hips toward the edge of the bed, spread her legs, and settle my cock between her smooth thighs. She's so we
t already, and her lips fall open when I brush her there.

  My throat works as I rub my lips across hers. "Tell me I'm it."

  Her trembling mouth curves. "What?"

  "Fucking everything. I need to hear it."

  Confusion flickers across her face. "Logan, I—"

  Her voice cuts off as I sink into her, holding her hips up so I slide home in a single thrust. The only sound is her panting breath, my hoarse rasp.

  I force myself to still for a moment as her body adjusts. But I don't wait long. The second her eyes flutter open, I'm thrusting. Her wet heat drags me in, holds me there even when I pull back. And fuck if there isn't anything better than being inside her like this. But if there was, I'd want that too.

  Because I'm greedy and I want all of her.

  The heavy drag of our bodies. The sight of her flushed cheeks and breasts, her eyes drugged with pleasure. The smell and taste of her skin that washes over me when I bend my lips to her sweaty neck.

  "Come on, Kendall," I murmur as I build her up, as I feel her getting closer with every stroke that feels as though it's never going to end. With every clench of her body, every tightening of my muscles, until the world is here and now and her.

  When she comes, I hear the words, "You're everything. We're everything, Logan."

  As I come down from the high, my limbs heavy on the bed, I realize something profound and a little crazy.

  I'd do anything to keep this feeling.

  20

  No one died.

  It’s something I used to tell myself on the days I thought Rory and I wouldn’t make it.

  And that's my first thought when I regain consciousness.

  I'm still here. My heart is beating, and the apartment is silent. The street noise echoing outside the window feels a lifetime away.

  My entire body feels bigger than it was, as if it’d been stretched thin and draped over the world. But when I look at my hands, my boobs, everything is normal sized.

  I blow out a breath, hyperaware of the man next to me. "That was… amazing."

  When I roll onto my side, I’m grateful my subconscious had me turn the light on, because Logan’s body is breathtaking. What he does with it—criminal.

  The expression on his face isn't some frat boy’s smugness. It’s a man’s satisfaction. He knows he took me apart and pieced me back together with his hands, his mouth, his body. He knows he could do it again.

  Deep in those chocolate eyes, there’s something more. Something I want to name but can’t.

  I knew Logan had something up his ass from the second I told him Blake moved in next door to my parents’ place. But I couldn’t have guessed how that would play out.

  If he’s normally graceful, easy, commanding, tonight he was jerky, harsh, insatiable.

  I don’t understand where it came from. I’ve never had someone want me, fight for me, like that.

  Because that’s what it was. A battle.

  I drop my head against his chest.

  "Kendall." The vibration of his voice makes me shiver.

  "Yeah."

  "There's a party next weekend at my family's. Saturday night. Come with me."

  My heart kicks against my ribs, and I sure as heck missed the turnoff for that hard right. How he got from telling me to lift my ass higher to talking about a family party, I have no idea. “I'd need to find a babysitter for a few hours and—"

  "More than a few hours. It's on Long Island."

  My eyes are wide, staring unseeing across the room as Logan’s chest hair tickles my cheek.

  "You want me to come home with you," I echo, not trusting my brain.

  "Yeah. It might be fun."

  Logan Hunter, who specializes in every kind of casual, is asking me to attend a family party with him. Stand next to him. Drink beer on a lawn somewhere. Laugh with him, enjoy being close to him. Hear his take on everything, see the world through his eyes.

  The possibility is tantalizing. But as quick as I see that beautiful panorama, I can see the downfall on the other side.

  I’m not interested in being left behind to pick up the pieces—of my son or of me—when Logan decides he doesn’t want to be tied down.

  And I like him too much for him to become another mistake I’ve made.

  I follow Logan’s gaze to my nightstand, where a little origami flower rests next to my alarm.

  “I wanted to make you one,” I blurt. “That’s my prototype. The next one will be better.”

  “What if I want the original?”

  “It’s not perfect,” I protest as he lifts it.

  It’s his slow smile at the simple fact that I made the origami he bought me that chips at my resolve. “You’re wrong.”

  Logan takes the paper flower and skims it down my skin. Over my breasts, across my stomach. Settling it between my thighs.

  He leaves it there, his attention lifting to my face once more. “Tell me. What’d you dream of before you made your adventures list?”

  I turn it over. “A home. A family. And…”

  “What?”

  “I had this picture of a park in Paris from a magazine.” I duck my face as I remember it. “I stuck it on my bulletin board in high school. I thought I’d go one day.”

  “You still could.”

  “I could, but it’s not important anymore. Dreams change, Logan.” I reach up to run my fingers through his messy hair, loving the feel of it in my hands. “Rory’s my big adventure now.”

  “And what am I?”

  I turn it over. “You’re beautiful,” I say at last, pressing my lips to his.

  These last few weeks with him, I’ve found myself more willing to take chances. Some choices require more risk than origami.

  Logan pulls back first. “My family’d love meeting you.”

  The idea of family approving of me is something I never considered. Though there's no guarantee they'd even like me, and if they did? When this ends, they'll be gone too.

  I drop back on the bed.

  My heart kicks as I feel the warmth of his hand still holding mine. "What're you wearing to the party?"

  "Probably a shirt. Pants."

  "Socks?"

  Logan laughs under his breath. "I’ll let you decide. That a yes?"

  My heart squeezes. "Yes."

  Friday night, I take the round-trip train with Rory to his grandparents. They're thrilled to have him, and Mom says Blake’s gone for the weekend.

  After getting back, I clean the house, answer some emails for my committee work, and sign off for the weekend. I lose track of time until Logan texts.

  Hunter: Carpool leaves at ten tomorrow.

  Crap. I'm going to Long Island, and I have put zero thought into what to wear.

  I google "Long Island party," and that does not help. Now I'm outright panicking.

  I yank my closet door open and riffle through. Nothing in here is Long Island appropriate. It's pitching-a-client appropriate or cleaning-up-vomit appropriate. There’s no medium. There’s surely no "it's a holiday, so help yourself to Patrón cocktails" appropriate.

  I go online, but I can't have anything delivered by tomorrow morning even if I could stomach spending the money. Which I can't.

  There's only one thing to do.

  Forty-five minutes later, Rena’s at my door with an armful of garment bag.

  "I'm sorry to call, but… what is all this?"

  "Wardrobe options." She hangs the garment bag on the back of my door before unzipping it with a flourish. "You did the right thing."

  I peer past her, morbidly curious about the peeks of fabric.

  She slaps my hand. "No! This is quid pro quo. You try, you talk. I want one piece of information per dress." As she pulls out dress after dress, my throat goes dry. "First, how did you not tell me you were going to Long Island with Logan Hunter?"

  I take and try on the first dress. "I did. Just now."

  "Ugh. That's cheap."

  "It's the truth. He asked me a couple nights ago
."

  The dress isn't my style. I unzip it.

  "And you've been looking me in the eye at work all week saying nothing. But fine. Is he introducing you as his girlfriend?"

  Then I wiggle into the second dress. "He might introduce me as his cock seller for all I know."

  "I'd pay money to see that. Oooh, that's cute."

  I twist my mouth. "It's too elegant."

  "You're elegant."

  "I'm… earnest." I eye a third dress. It’s bright coral and sleeveless with a scooped neck and a hem that looks like it’d end at midthigh. "That one."

  She holds it out of reach. "Are you exclusive?"

  The word sends shivers down my spine. "We haven't talked about it."

  I snatch the dress out of her grasp and unzip it.

  I’ve been keeping the jealousy at bay because Logan hasn’t done anything to make me think he’s been with other women at the same time, even though we haven’t talked about it. But the idea of Hunter offering that sexy grin—or any other part of him—to another woman makes me bite my cheek.

  Hard.

  Rena laughs as if she can tell.

  I cast her a dirty look as I step carefully into the dress.

  "You're supposed to be talking me down,” I grumble.

  "Why?"

  "Because you're always pragmatic when it comes to guys. And Wes is pragmatic when it comes to… everything. You're like two-thirds of a Jeopardy! contestant panel."

  I adjust the dress and smooth it down.

  "Oh, that's perfect." Rena’s voice is unusually hushed.

  "Yeah?"

  "Logan's going to swallow his tongue."

  "That would be terrible. I’d miss the barbell."

  Her jaw drops. "When did you become such a dirty girl?"

  I meet her gaze in the mirror. I can't argue. Every time we're together, I feel a little freer. And a little more unhinged.

  Like how I constantly imagine stuff I want Logan to do to me. Things I might even work up the courage to ask him for someday.

  Someday? What is this?

  "There's no future with a man like that," I say—to me or Rena, I'm not sure.

  "What, with a tongue piercing and a wicked smile? Who's to say that man doesn't deserve a happy ever after?"