The Mistake

I nod and stroke him again, and a tortured moan slips out of his mouth.

“Fuck, hold on.” He shifts on the mattress, and my heart stops when he unzips his pants. He eases them down just low enough to free his erection from his boxers, then tugs on the waistbands of my PJs and underwear.

A second later, his hand grazes my bare sex, and my hips lift involuntarily, seeking closer contact.

Logan teases the tip of his index finger over my clit. “Better?” he says, his voice thick and raspy.

So much better. And so good it makes my head spin, limiting my response to a breathy mumble of nonsense.

Smiling at my incoherent answer, he leans in and kisses me again. With his free hand, he grasps my right hand and brings it to his erection, gently wrapping my trembling fingers around the shaft. He’s long and hard, his smooth, hot flesh sliding easily inside my closed fist.

My body is on fire. Waves of arousal swell in my core, and when he pushes his middle finger inside me, my inner muscles clamp around it, the pressure so intense I forget how to breathe.

We don’t stop kissing. Not even to come up for air. We’re both panting, our tongues tangling and our hands hard at work. His thumb presses on my clit as his finger moves inside me, and the pleasure spiraling through me gathers in strength, a tight knot of anticipation that causes the movement of my hips to become even more erratic.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. I have no idea, because I’m too caught up in the incredible sensations. I stroke his erection, squeezing the blunt head on each upstroke, until his hips start moving too, and a rough command leaves his mouth.

“Faster.”

I quicken the pace and he thrusts into my fist with a low groan, his breath tickling my lips as he breaks the kiss. His eyes are closed, his features taut and his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

“I’m gonna come,” he mumbles.

Excitement ripples between my legs, and I know he can feel how wet I am because he groans again and his finger plunges deeper, faster. A few seconds later, he sags into me, his forehead resting on my shoulder as his hips flex forward one last time before going still.

As wetness spurts onto my hand, his eyes slowly open and the sleepy pleasure swimming in them takes my breath away. Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sexier than the sight of John Logan right after he’s had an orgasm.

His breathing is still labored as he meets my gaze. “Did you come?”

Crap. Right. His finger is still lodged inside me. No longer moving, but a reminder of the orgasm I’d been about to reach before I got distracted by the way he looked when he was coming, the restless grind of his hips and the sexy sounds he made.

But I’m too embarrassed to admit I didn’t finish, and since he already did, I feel awkward asking him to keep going.

So I nod and say, “Uh-huh. Of course.”

A shadow of doubt passes through his eyes, but before I can blink, he sits up abruptly and says, “I should go.”

I ignore the equal doses of disappointment and irritation that tighten my belly. Seriously? He can’t even stick around for a few minutes of post-hook-up small talk? What a prince.

It’s even more awkward now. He grabs a tissue from the box on the end table and cleans up. I pretend to be cool and composed as I pull up my pants and watch him do the same. I even manage a casual smile as he uses my phone to call a cab. Fortunately, he gets through right away this time, which means the awkwardness doesn’t last long.

I walk him to the door, where he hesitates for a beat. “Thanks for having me over,” he says gruffly. “I had fun.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Me too.”

A moment later, he’s gone.





5




Logan


I walk into my bedroom after my morning shower to hear my phone ringing. And since everyone my age texts instead of calls, I know exactly who it is without having to check the screen.

“Hey, Mom,” I greet her, gripping the edge of my towel as I head for the dresser.

“Mom? Holy shish kebob. So it’s true? I mean, I thought I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy twenty-one years ago, but that seems like a distant memory. Because if I did have a son, he’d probably call me more than once a month, right?”

I laugh, despite the needle of guilt pricking my chest. She’s right. I’ve been a crappy son lately, too busy with the post-season and term papers to call her as often as I should.

“I’m sorry,” I say with genuine remorse. “It always gets crazy busy at the end of the semester.”

“I know. That’s why I haven’t been bugging you. Are you studying hard for your exams?”

“Sure.” Yeah, right. I haven’t even cracked open a book yet.

Mom sees right through the noncommittal response. “Don’t BS your mother, Johnny.”

“Fine, I haven’t started yet,” I admit. “But you know I work better under pressure. Can you hold on a sec?”