Waiting for the One

by L. A. Fiore

  “Good morning.” The words are barely past his lips before they’re working their magic again, sliding over my skin, causing chills to run down my arms. My legs spread to cradle him and then I move, rubbing myself shamelessly against him, but he is a man on a mission as that mouth moves from my neck to my shoulders before settling on my breasts, where he spends a good long time until I’m practically begging him to make me come. He slides lower down my body, but he’s had long enough to feast; it’s my turn. Rolling over, I straddle him, pressing my lips to his before trailing kisses over his pecs and abs. His skin is so smooth but hard, as his muscles flex in response to my touch. Looking at him through my lashes, I reach the part of him that’s standing at attention. He shuts his eyes on a moan when my mouth closes over him. His hips jerk up, pushing him deeper, and everything below my waist throbs. I’m just finding a rhythm, my tongue running under his shaft while my hands fondle the heavy sac between his legs, when he flips me onto my back. I’m so turned on, aching to be claimed. He kneels between my legs, his eyes watching his finger moving through the curls between my thighs. Slowly, he moves over that aching bud, teasing it, making it throb more. My hips jerk, wanting him inside me, but his focus stays on that nub. He pinches and pulls, squeezing it until I moan, my body desperate for him. One finger moves through my folds, tracing and pressing but not entering. I want to weep from the exquisite torture. He’s so hard, so fucking hard, and I want that in me. Spreading my legs wider, I touch myself. Logan’s hands fall away. His gaze locks on my fingers stroking my aching flesh. Pushing one finger in, my back arches, my breathing turns shallow and all the while my eyes are on the part of him I want where my fingers are. Shifting, he settles himself over me, the hard length of him running over my swollen, wet flesh, lubing himself. Sliding his hands under me, he squeezes my ass and spreads me even wider, then lifts my hips and drives into me.

  I cry out as my orgasm crashes over me. It feels incredible to be taken, and taking me is exactly what’s he’s doing, and I love every freaking second of it. He continues to move in and out so hard and so fast that my overly aroused body can’t help but come apart again and when I do this time, Logan comes too as my name rips from his throat with his climax.

  Minutes pass. Logan’s still on me and in me. My breathing evens out, making speech possible again. “I totally forgive you.”

  His chuckle in reply tickles my neck.

  In the kitchen later I’m grinning like a fool thinking I wouldn’t mind starting every day like we did this one. As I whip up some scrambled eggs, I hear Logan coming down the hall. I turn just as he enters and I am thankful that I’m not holding anything because I would have dropped it. He shaved and now his truly magnificent face is completely visible.

  “Wow.”

  His cheekbones flush a lovely shade of pink and the sight is both unexpected and endearing. I pull the pan from the stove and flick off the burner before walking to stand just in front of him. My fingers have a mind of their own as I trace his jaw, his cheek, his nose, his beautiful lips.

  “I like you as my yeti too.”

  His eyebrow raises slightly in response before he asks, “Yeti?”

  “That was how I thought of you: my seafaring yeti. You aren’t a fisherman, though, so I guess that description really isn’t accurate at all anymore.”

  “I’m not sure if I should be offended by that,” Logan says, and I laugh.

  “You have to admit you were really very hairy for a while and with you so tall, I think it was a fair description.” I stop talking because I remember the wave of women who had come to Harrington looking for the man standing before me. To be so sought after only because of your outer beauty, what a drag.

  “Thank you for shaving, but I’ll understand if you want to grow your facial hair back.”

  Surprise covers his face. “Why do you say that?”

  “I personally witnessed your fan club: women actually hunting you down solely because you have a face like that. If any of them realize that your outer beauty pales in comparison to your inner beauty, they’ll never give you a moment’s peace. That must really suck.” He quickly pulls me into his arms, his chuckle rumbling up his throat. “Is it any wonder that I am completely taken with you?”

  “Taken with me?”

  “Mmm.” His lips brush over my neck. “Totally captivated.”

  “Captivated, that’s even better,” I mutter. His lips are working down my throat to my shoulder.

  “Dazzled,” he purrs just before he presses wet kisses over my shoulder and along my collarbone. “Bewitched. I’d like to take you to New York City. Would you do me the honor?”

  “Yes.” My knees go weak, so it’s a good thing he’s wrapped his arms around me as he speaks.

  “I have a showing next Saturday, so we can leave on Thursday and come home Sunday.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  A smile spreads over his face before his eyes glance behind me to the eggs, which are now cold and congealed. “I’ll take you out to breakfast.”

  “Okay.”

  “But after,” he says.

  “After what?”

  He doesn’t answer with words, but turns me and bends me over the table. His hands move up my legs, over my ass, moving my nightie up and out of the way. And then his fingers are past the barrier of my panties, rubbing me and instantly I’m wet. He teases the nub before moving lower. My back arches when he slips one finger inside, in and out in a gentle glide. I moan when he adds another finger, pushing deeper as he grinds his erection against my ass. I’m panting when he adds a third at the same time he presses hard on that pleasure point.

  My hands are gripping the edge of the table, my hips pumping against his hand, my stomach tightening with my coming orgasm and then his fingers are gone. I hear his zipper seconds before his hands return to my hips; moving his feet to the inside of mine, he pushes my legs wider. I feel the tip of him right where I ache for him. A second later, he’s buried deep inside of me.

  I want to touch him but I can’t, my body is pinned under his and completely at his mercy.

  He presses my chest flat against the table, his hand splays over the small of my back as he pounds into me. His pace is hard and fast until I come in the most stunning orgasm. Having just had a mind-blowing one, that’s saying something. He continues to move hard and deep until the last of my orgasm ripples through me. Only when my orgasm subsides does he give in to his own, his powerful body going still as his release moves through him. He bends over me, his chest pressing into my back just as his lips touch my ear. “Can’t get enough of you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Logan and I drive the more than five hundred miles from Harrington to Manhattan at a single clip. When we arrive at The Pierre, my mouth drops. I may not travel, but I know a luxury five-star hotel when I see one. The fact that we’re staying here only adds to the magic of the trip.

  Logan helps me from the car as a doorman walks over and greets him by name.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. MacGowan, everything has been opened and aired.” He must stay here every time he comes into the city.

  “Thank you, Anton.” Logan reaches for my hand as Anton unloads the bags from the Porsche.

  “I’ll bring these right up.”

  “Thank you,” Logan says before he escorts me into the hotel. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. The black-and-white marble tiles are so clean it almost hurts to look at the reflection of the chandeliers off them. Logan walks right past the concierge desk and continues to an elevator landing that is separate from the others. It also doesn’t escape my notice that everyone we pass knows and greets him.

  “Frequent visitor?” I mutter. Logan glances at me and grins, but he doesn’t say a word. He hits the button and there’s no wait as the doors slide open to reveal a stunning gilded elevator.

  “Decadent, isn’t it?” I whisper and this observation earns me a chuckle. As soon as the doors close, his mouth is on mine, the kiss so consuming tha
t I’m surprised when the elevator doors slide open again. My surprise turns into confusion at the sight before me and not just because I’m a little brain-fried from that kiss. The place we’ve entered isn’t a hotel hallway. There is a large black marble double staircase with wrought-iron baluster just before us and hallways and rooms on either side.

  “What is this?”

  “The penthouse,” Logan says.

  I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “I realize that, but why are we here?”

  “I own it.”

  I’m convinced I haven’t heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

  He starts walking me around the staircase toward the hall on the right. “I own it.”

  I dig in my feet, forcing him to stop walking and turn to me. “You own this and yet you live in a small lighthouse in Harrington, Maine?”

  “Yes.”

  It’s only then that I realize just how much he hated the life he was living. “Why don’t you sell it?”

  “I won’t get what I paid for it, not in this market, so I rent it out to friends when I’m not using it.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’ll give you the tour.”

  Lots of dark woods and rich fabrics fill his home but the double height ballroom at the top of the staircase steals the show. I can imagine an old Hollywood-type–party being thrown there with women in beautiful gowns, gentlemen in tuxes, and the champagne flowing.

  “This is amazing.”

  “Yes, but I want to show you what sold me on the place,” he offers cryptically as he leads me to the stone terrace. On second thought, the view of Central Park leaves me breathless.

  “Oh my.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said.” He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “We’ve had a long day, so how about we check out the room service menu.”

  “Sounds perfect. I want to get changed and maybe we can watch a movie. You probably get movies still in the theaters here, don’t you?”

  His lips touch my ear as his warm breath brushes across my skin. “I do.”

  Dinner is delicious, prime rib, duck-fat potatoes, and watercress and smoked blue cheese salad, and for dessert we share my chocolate cake with saffron brittle and his Meyer lemon cheesecake with a berry salad. I’m glad I changed into my very loose-fitting cotton pajamas, since I’ve eaten my body weight in food.

  We take our wine glasses and the bottle of wine to the bed where we settle among the pillows as we scan the movie lists and I convince Logan to watch Woman in Black 2. I spend most of the scary movie under the blanket tucked so close to Logan I’m practically sitting in his lap, but he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. When the movie is done, we’re both so tired from our long day that as soon as we settle back, we’re sound asleep.

  The following morning Logan takes me to the Statue of Liberty. You really don’t get the impact of her until you’re looking up at her from the ferry. We take the steps up to the pedestal and then he surprises me with tickets that allow us to walk up to her torch. After our tour we go to the gift shop where he buys me a mug, a T-shirt, a mini statue, a puzzle, and a key chain. He’s being a total tourist for me and I love him more for it.

  Next we walk along Fifth Avenue where we duck into the Empire State Building and go all the way to the observation deck to see the marvelous view of the city. We resume our walk and pass the American Girl store, which is packed. The door constantly revolves as little girls leave the place with bright-red shopping bags and big smiles. We get a delicious slice of pizza, which we eat while strolling through Central Park and then we end the day touring through the Metropolitan Museum of Art. By the time we make our way back to The Pierre, I am exhausted. Logan needs to make a call regarding the showing tomorrow night, so I head into our room and though I only intend to lie down for a moment, I fall asleep, because the next thing I know I’m stirring awake at the sound of a pop.

  “Hello, sleepyhead,” Logan says with a bottle of champagne in one hand and the cork in the other.

  Sitting up, I feel a cool breeze that chills my skin, looking down to see that I’m only wearing my bra and panties. This discovery earns Logan a questioning stare.

  “You didn’t look comfortable.” If he feels contrite, I can’t tell from his expression. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.” I start to rise and he’s there with a soft, white robe that he wraps around me before leading me to the table and pulling out my chair.

  “I ordered the fish and chips. They’re amazing here.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “The showing tomorrow is at a little gallery in SoHo. I need to be there at half past six, so you can either come with me or I can have a car drive you there for the eight o’clock opening.”

  “I don’t want to be in your way.”

  He doesn’t let me finish as he reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You could never be in the way.”

  The next night I’m just finishing getting dressed and though I’m probably overdressed for the showing, I can’t deny that I love my new gown. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, minus the whole prostitute thing, earlier in the day when Logan took me to Bergdorf’s. People stood up and took notice when the owner of the penthouse in The Pierre was in the room.

  The saleswoman picked out several gowns and showed me to the dressing room. Logan sat in one of the chairs with his long, denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him and his head resting on his hand. He didn’t offer an opinion because he wanted me to pick the dress I liked, but when I tried on the gown I eventually picked I saw heat flare to life in his eyes. It was my favorite dress as well, so I was sold.

  I look at myself in the mirror; the Theia petal ombre gown starts as sea green at the camisole top, but gradually turns to royal blue as the dress hugs my figure to my hips and flares to a bias pleat at the knee before falling to the floor. On my feet I’m wearing royal-blue suede Jimmy Choos. My hair is pulled up into a knot and I found silver hair coils with stones the color of my dress, which I have artistically arranged in my updo. But what I love the most, what Logan surprised me with on our way back to his penthouse, is a Judith Leiber dolphin handbag. It doesn’t seem real how thoroughly Logan is spoiling me. There aren’t words to describe seeing firsthand how the rich and famous live. And thinking this, I know I can’t avoid dealing with the money Frank left for me forever. As much as I would love to go on a spending spree, I think his legacy should be more than new shoes and handbags.

  I turn at a noise behind me to see Logan standing in the doorway, dressed entirely in black—an Armani suit, black silk shirt and tie, dressy black boots and with his inky black hair down around his clean-shaven face, highlighting those wondrous emerald-green eyes. The question is out before I can stop it.

  “Do you get a lifetime supply of Armani clothes? I just bet their sales went way the hell up having their clothes on your body.”

  He chuckles and gives me the look he sometimes does, the meaning very clear to read: I’m adorable and crazy.

  “You look edible, Saffron. When I saw this dress on you earlier”—he walks toward me, desire blazing in his eyes—“all I could think about was helping you out of it.”

  Brushing his hands down my arms, he promises, “Later, I’m going to peel this off you and kiss every single inch of your beautiful body.”

  My brain stops working.

  He kisses me hard on the mouth and mutters, “Damn show.”

  Touching his cheek, I flash him a saucy smile. “After the show, we have all night.”

  He growls in frustration as he leads me from the room.

  The show has just opened, but in the hour or so before it did, I had the opportunity to view Logan’s work privately. There are no paintings here; every piece is a sculpture, either done in stone or metal. This is all David Cambre’s work and it’s stunning.

  Not long after the doors open, a woman comes breezing in. The way she moves around, as if she belongs
or owns the scene, makes it clear that she’s someone important. She’s tall, about five feet ten, and she’s willow-thin with gorgeous red hair and cornflower-blue eyes. Her dress amplifies her beauty—an emerald-green sheath that she’s paired with high-heeled jeweled sandals.

  She has a posse with her—three women and two men—all of them dressed to the nines. Part of me wonders if she’s famous. I notice the posse drops back while she continues on in the direction of Logan. And it is then that I realize this must be Darla. Sex just drips from her every move. She drapes those long, delicate arms around Logan’s neck and presses her lips to his. Even knowing he feels nothing for her, watching that is hard. Logan doesn’t miss a beat as he reaches up and removes her hands from around his neck before he takes a step back from her. I see the huge rock glistening on her finger: Logan’s engagement ring. Darla is still wearing it. She flips her hair back and then she pouts, a sexy little pout. A part of me wants to walk straight on over there and punch her in her pretty face, but instead I turn and head for the door. I simply cannot watch it anymore.

  I don’t make it to the door before a strong hand wraps around my arm. Logan’s lips brush over my ear. “Please don’t leave. She wasn’t supposed to be here.”

  My breath catches in my throat at the desperation in his tone, but I manage to whisper, “I was just getting some air.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  I turn to him but, before I can say anything, Darla appears and she wastes no time putting her arm around Logan’s waist.

  “Who’s this, darling?”

  Logan brushes her arm off and takes my hand, kissing my fingers.

  “This is Saffron, my girlfriend. Saffron, Darla, my ex.”

  Darla’s expression is not pleasant. Clearly she is not happy about being called his ex.

  “David, you and I have unfinished business. We need to talk. Let”—she eyes me from head to toe and back again and clearly finds me lacking—“your friend get a cab.”