He did.
Up the stairs, down the hallway, to my bedroom.
Like two magnets, we were together as soon as the door creaked closed.
My bedroom was a reflection of me, much like my boutique. Nothing too frilly. Various paintings hung on the walls that I had collected from all the favorite places I’d been and loved. They were my treasures. In addition to the paintings, throughout my home I had sculptures, pottery, and various items I’d collected in my travels as well. In this room was also the last piece of my childhood I’d brought with me—the oval braided vintage rug that had belonged to my mother. My father had wanted to throw it away after she died, but I couldn’t bear to see it discarded. I’m not sure why I kept it, but I did.
Whereas my home was a reflection of who I was, my bedroom was even more of a reflection of my inner being. On the walls were the places that I’d searched for myself and found peace. Sharing this part of me with Logan seemed appropriate.
Logan tugged my shirt off. I pulled his over his head. I wanted to feel his smooth skin against mine, to touch and caress it.
Our lips crashed together again before our clothes even hit the floor. My head was spinning from the delicious taste of him alone, but the sensual feel of his hands on my bare skin made me even dizzier.
As our teeth clashed, he moved me backwards until the back of my knees hit the bed and I tumbled onto it. He didn’t let me fall, though—he was right there to catch me. For the first time with him, my back was against a mattress and his body molded to mine exquisitely.
We were all hands as we kissed some more. His were on my breasts. Mine were digging into his back, pressing against each muscle as it flexed.
I was so ready for this.
So was he.
I was surprised when he rose on his elbows and broke our mouths apart. I even tried to pull him back down to me, but I stopped when I saw him gazing into my eyes.
Warmth spread through me like fire.
His expression was so intense.
Without so much as a blink, I took the time to study him. His eyes appeared so vibrant, green rimmed in chocolate brown. Mesmerizing. I reached up and smoothed my fingertips over the arches of his brows. I could feel words sticking in my throat. I felt this urgency to speak. Something about the pain I saw in the depth of those pools. It was so strange. I’d never, ever wanted to talk to a man while he was hovering above me.
Garnering all of my courage, I urged myself to ask him about what I saw. It was now or never.
Before I could make my lips move, he tenderly pushed some hair from my face. The soft touch was unexpected, and I closed my eyes and let the feeling absorb into my whole being.
“I need to be inside you,” he murmured.
My eyes flew open. I became disoriented. Fuzzy. Unclear. Flickering emotions cascaded through me as a whirlwind of terrible memories sliced through my soul. Shocked, panicked, unable to breathe, I shoved him off me and bolted off the bed. “You need to leave.”
“Elle?” he asked, clearly concerned.
Gasping for air, I didn’t answer him. I didn’t look at him. Instead, I grabbed my top and ran down the stairs as the first fifteen years of my life assaulted me. My father. My mother. The words I heard spoken through the thin walls. The crying. The yelling. The grunts and groans. It was too much.
“Elle,” he called again, right on my heels.
It was dark and my mind started to spin. I turned, backing myself up against the door. Frightened. Afraid. I just wanted him to stop.
The silhouette came closer. I put my hands out. “Please, leave me alone. I won’t do it again,” I cried.
“Elle, what’s going on?”
The voice had no shape.
White knuckled, I dug my fingers into the doorframe. “Please,” I begged. “Please leave me alone.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
The voice amplified. It sounded angry. His eyes flashed. He was a tough guy. Too tough to let a woman tell him no. Too tough to let a little girl try to stop him.
Every muscle in my body was taut. I stayed still. Very still. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Maybe if I were quiet enough he’d just leave me alone. Leave her alone.
“Elle, it’s me. Logan. What’s going on? Where are you?”
I blinked as that soft voice broke through to me. “Logan?”
With tentative steps he approached me. His voice now soothing. “Elle, yes, it’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
My eyes began to readjust as I broke from the horror I dreamt about every day after my mother died and my sister left. “Logan,” I said again, needing to be sure it was him and not my father.
His fingers were on my face, stroking away my tears. “Yes, it’s me. Yes, it’s me. It’s me.” His voice broke as he repeated himself over and over.