I take her in my arms, weak and heavy-limbed with the knowledge that she’s safe. I scan her body, skim my hand over her, checking for injury. “Are you hit? Did he hurt you?”
She shakes her head, then cries, “Logan, you’re bleeding!”
“It’s just a scratch.” I guide her towards the door, my shoulder throbbing.
Ellie grabs a shirt off the bed as we walk out into the hall. I lean against the wall, sliding down to the floor. She yells for help, and there’s commotion as people rush to us and into the room.
Ellie tears her shirt into two pieces and presses one to my shoulder and one to my arm, and I groan—because it fucking stings.
“You’re bleeding a lot.”
Huh. So I am. The white cloths are quickly turning red.
I shrug. “Two scratches. Don’t worry.”
But she is worried. Her full little mouth is set in a tight frown and her brows are puckered.
I tilt my head at her. “You’re looking very pretty today, Ellie.”
Her eyes spark brightly and her eyes flare.
“Seriously? Are you high?”
I grin, feeling a bit high. “Kiss me, love.”
She yells at me instead. “You’ve been fucking shot, Logan!”
I crook my finger at her, drawing her closer. And I wink. “That’s the very best time for kissing.”
Then I pull her to me with my good hand and cover her rosebud mouth with mine, kissing her deep and long.
And then . . . I black out.
Two weeks later
LOGAN IS GOING TO BE knighted by the Queen. For outstanding sacrifice to the Crown. We got the official proclamation today. He’s going to be “Sir” Logan soon.
I haven’t thought of the details yet, but I have a feeling the title will be part of some titillating bedroom role-play in our future.
The story’s been in all the papers. How he saved the day—protected Princess Olivia and her babies and her sister too. He’s a hero. Not that that’s news to me, he’s been my hero for years, but now he gets to be Wessco’s hero as well.
When it comes to recovering from the gunshot wounds in his shoulder and arm, however . . . he’s a big fucking baby.
Typical. Men.
I think he acts that way on purpose. My bandage itches, my soup is cold . . . My cock is hard—how about you come over here and help me out with that, lass?
The doctor said no strenuous activity, but Logan’s idea of strenuous and mine are two different things. He hasn’t ripped his stitches, but it’s not for lack of trying.
He’s a terrible patient. Sexy and broody and too sweet for his own good.
He tells me he loves me every day. Every. Single. Day. First thing in the morning, last thing before we drift off in each other’s arms. And it thrills me, makes my heart throb every time.
Logan’s accepted having security around the house—because the day he got out of the hospital, I moved in with him. Being the protected as well as the protector no longer eats at him like it did in the beginning.
Seeing a gun held to my head changed that for him.
Now, Logan’s okay having a small army surrounding me, guarding the house and the new life we’re building together. He’s gotten friendly with the guys on detail—telling them when they’re doing something wrong, calling them out when he catches them looking at my ass.
He hasn’t made any big employment moves yet, but he’s leaning toward starting his own security consulting firm. It’s something he’s good at, something he knows—it’s his calling, his duty, he says. For now, he’s okay money-wise, living off savings and focusing on finishing the house and recovering.
Whatever Logan decides to do, he’ll be successful—he doesn’t have it in him to be anything less.
The Queen was right. Love isn’t a cure; it doesn’t magically solve every problem. But it makes solving those problems worth it. Love is our inspiration, our motivation . . . and our reward.
Two weeks later
“Fucking Christ, do I love you.”
Logan’s voice melts against my ear, his breath tickling, his strong chest pressed against my back, his words making me wetter, where he’s hot and hard, inside me. My head lolls against his good shoulder and my arms rise to wrap around his neck behind me.
“Logan . . .” I sigh.
His fingers trace my lips and I suck one into my mouth, scraping the pad with my teeth. Then he slides his hand down, caressing my breast and pinching my nipple. It sends a jolt of sensation between my legs and my pleasure builds and builds. I turn my head, seeking his mouth—wanting his lips on mine.
And he kisses me, because he knows that’s what I need.
His hand slides lower, finding my clit, petting me in perfect time to the thrusting of his cock.
“Yes . . . yes,” I breathe against his mouth, my voice reedy.
I climb and climb and then I peak—soar. My back arches and everything tightens and contracts as waves of hot, blissful sensations tear through my body. Logan holds me to him with his strong arms as I spasm around him.
Then when I’m weak and chasing my breath, he gently guides my upper body down to the bathroom vanity counter. Resting my cheek against the cool marble, tenderly running his fingers through my hair.
Then, he fucks me.
Grasping my hips, hard and fast, he lets go, losing himself to how good it feels, grunting as he pounds into me. I love it when he comes—I can feel it, the hot pulse of his cock as his semen fills me, so deep inside. His rough, harsh gasp against my shoulder blade when he folds over me, thrusting and jerking one final, glorious time.
Then it’s all feathery kisses, soft and sweet and adoring. This is how we start our day.
Not too shabby.
After he slips out of me, I turn in his arms and kiss him fully on his minty-fresh mouth. And then I see the time on his watch.
“Shit! We’re going to be late. We can’t be late.”
I slip away from him and turn the shower on full blast.
Logan gives me a teasing grin. “So that’s how it is, huh? You got what you wanted from me.”
I giggle, turning back towards him to peck his lips. “Yeah, I really did.”
His pinches my ass, playfully. “I’m just a piece of meat to you.”
“No—you’re a sexy piece of meat to me. And I love you.”
His mahogany eyes go warm and light, almost golden. It’s how he gazes at me whenever I say those words.
After one more quick kiss, I hop in the shower—because we really do have to hurry. If we’re late, I’ll never hear the end of it from Livvy.
She wanted us to sleep at her and Nicholas’s apartments last night, but I wanted to stay here, in Logan’s house—our house. It’s my favorite place to be, even more favorite than a palace.
In record time, I’m out of the shower, hair dripping, my T-shirt sticking to my still-damp body, running out the door to the SUV in the driveway. My dress and Logan’s tux are waiting for us at the palace, where the glam squad will make me presentable.
Harry, a young, carefree security guard with shoulder-length brown hair, argues with Bartholomew, a bulkier bodyguard, in the driveway.
“You don’t have it in you, mate.”
“Oh, I have it in me—you can believe that.”