But he was still Logan, older, wiser, and even better with his hands, mouth, and cock.
And as fucked up as it was, I had to admit I was getting off on the game in my own way. I was not in control of it as I was in control of every millimeter of space around me, every aspect of my work, every second of my life. I had no idea when he’d show and when he showed, what he’d do.
I just knew what I’d get.
His attention. As damaging as it was, it was still Logan in my space, eyes on me, mouth talking to me (and doing other things), hands touching me.
And I’d get all that as well as the orgasm he’d give me and the orgasm he’d have that I gave him.
Of course, thinking all of this, I did not snooze, so when the alarm went off again, I was wide awake and had so much to do that day I couldn’t take the eight more minutes another snooze would give me.
I hit the Off button on the alarm and threw the covers back, hauling myself out of bed. I went right to the bathroom, doing this again thinking I needed cats. Another presence in the house. Someone to talk to. Someone to take care of. Someone to love.
Sure, feeding them would add time to my morning routine but to have all that, to cut through the loneliness I’d been denying was weighing on me, I’d do it.
I scratched searching for kittens on my mental list of things to add to my physical list written on a pad on my desk in my studio as I did my preliminary bathroom business and walked out to put coffee on.
I did this thinking about my desk and the time it had taken to right everything after Logan left the day before.
I told myself it was annoying, especially since he’d destroyed my weekly delivery of flowers, got water everywhere, decimated several blooms, thus it took more time to clean up and the arrangement looked like crap after I put it back together and I was good with flowers.
But it wasn’t annoying.
It was hot.
God, I was crazy.
No, I was fucked up.
And I was fucking myself up, letting this go on when I was supposed to be sorting myself out.
I sighed as I moved to the end of my kitchen counter that delineated the living room from the kitchen.
It was then I felt it.
No, I felt him.
I stopped dead, my head came up, and I stared at Logan leaning against the counter by the sink, mug of coffee in his hand, his Chaos cut thrown on the marble beside him, wearing his uniform of jeans, motorcycle boots, and black thermal Henley, looking gorgeous.
“Mornin’,” he greeted casually, then lifted the mug and took a sip.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“Nope,” he answered after lowering the mug.
I looked to the back door, then to him. “You broke in?”
“Yup.”
He broke in.
To my house!
I didn’t have time for this.
Further, it was time to end this.
Now.
Intent on doing just that, I tossed my hair, feeling the loose bunch of it wrapped around a ponytail holder at the top back of my head wobble around and Logan’s eyes went to it.
I felt my thighs start tingling.
Damn it!
“You need to leave,” I informed him.
He looked from my hair down my body, then back up to my eyes.
His were grinning when he noted, “Nice jammies,” before he took another sip of coffee, his gaze never leaving mine.
Rough, edgy, biker, bad boy, hot guy Logan “High” Judd saying the word jammies was both hilarious and a total turn-on.
Though he was right. They were nice jammies. Petal pink with ivory lace, another cami and pants that were so awesome, they should be illegal. This pair had lace edging the hem and sides of the pants—sides that were cut in overlapping slits all the way to my upper hips.
Sometimes I got tangled in them when I was sleeping, but they looked crazy-awesome on, especially when I was walking around, so I put up with the tangling.
I’d never had anyone to appreciate them.
Until now.
And Logan’s appreciation worked, as it always did.
However, I told myself firmly, I would be happy with just my own appreciation.
And maybe the detached, feline approval of a Burmese cat.
Perhaps a Persian.
Yes, a Persian. A Persian would go better with my house.
I tore my thoughts off Persian cats and focused again on Logan, repeating, “You need to leave.”
He didn’t leave.
He stayed right where he was, lounging against my kitchen counter like he did it every morning, and asked, “What’s the gig with your house?”
Even though I didn’t quite understand his question, I did know he wasn’t going to catch me in this again.
“Please leave,” I requested politely.
He ignored me and threw out his hand holding the coffee mug toward my kitchen/living room.
“Babe, this place looks nice, but it’s not you.”
“It’s one hundred percent me,” I retorted, doing it wanting to kick myself because I should not engage. I should instead ask him to leave (again).
I knew this to be even more true when he took in the length of me again before catching my eyes.
“New you, that getup, this house,” he muttered. “Old you, I got my dick inside you.”
That did it, the dirty talk that was not all about dirty talk, the good kind that was sweet and fun and had one objective that was also sweet but mostly it was fun. Instead, it was dirty talk that was only partly the good kind but not intentionally so. Mostly it was meant to wound by taking more than it was giving and leaving bruises with the blows.
Therefore I stomped to the island, put my hands on it, and didn’t share I had a busy day and I needed to prepare for it because he’d proved yesterday he didn’t care about that, which was another indication he didn’t care, at all, about me.
Instead I stated, “I’m not doing this again. This is over, this game we’re playing. You need to leave. And I’m being serious, High.”
Humor lit his brown eyes when he returned, “You’re bein’ serious?”