“You’re good?” I manage, running my hands up her waist and higher, cupping her breasts.
She lifts her head with effort, eyes hungry. “I want you behind me,” she says.
Without a word, I lift her off me, help her onto her knees, and then slide back in, unable to keep from groaning, low and long.
I’m obsessed with the muscular lines in her back, the way her clit feels under the slide of my fingers. I’m obsessed with the way she moves no matter what position she’s in, with the sound she makes when she comes.
I know when this is over I’ll drive her home—because she won’t want to stay. But right now, the sex is good—it’s so good—and every time she turns her brain off long enough for her body to take over and collapse into orgasm, I feel some tiny shell chip away.
I want to see her tender pieces.
Fuck. It’s been forever since I wanted tender.
* * *
“WHERE’D YOU DISAPPEAR to last night?” Dylan asks.
I close the car door and lock it behind us remotely. “Went home with someone. What did you guys do?”
“Went back to Dan’s.” Dylan pulls the door open to Fred’s. “I don’t know how to describe the weed he had other than to say it made Jenny bark like a dog.”
I follow him in, not sure I heard his answer correctly over a hundred people yelling, and the loud, pounding music: “Did you say Jenny barked like a dog?”
He nods, his wild blond hair bobbing with the movement, and leads us to the bar. My chest tightens when I see Logan there, working. She looks hot: hair piled high and messy on her head, arms bare in a white tank top that shows off the shape of her perfect tits, a face free of makeup save for her shiny mouth. I feel like an odd mix of idiot and asshole for not anticipating that she might be here tonight.
I hope she doesn’t think I’ve come because of her.
But, shit. I also don’t want her to think I’d avoid her, either. I don’t think I want her to avoid me.
I make a mental fist and imagine punching myself in the jaw.
“Hey, Freak,” Dylan says to Logan with a grin.
They know each other?
She looks up, smiling easily. “Hey, Sideshow.”
She doesn’t react the way I expect her to after last night, so I assume she doesn’t see me behind him . . . but then she tosses two coasters down on the bar top and I realize she’s just greeting me like she would any other customer. It makes something in me grow tense at the same time something else unwinds. What did I expect? That she would suddenly go from a girl determined to have one wild night to a stage-five clinger?
She puts her palms on the bar and looks at us, waiting. “What can I get you guys?”
“A snack,” he says. She laughs, reaching for a cherry and tossing it into the air. Dylan catches it in his mouth, chewing it while he eyes her playfully.
Holy fuck. Dylan not only knows Logan, but he likes her?
Swallowing, he says, “And now an amaretto sour.”
“Amaretto sour?” Logan and I say in unison.
“They’re delicious,” he insists.
“Cultivating your feminine side?” I ask.
He shakes his head, dismissing me. “London makes the best amaretto sours. Seriously, try one.”
I open my mouth to ask him who the hell London is when Logan leans forward, handing him another cherry. “Aww, thanks.”
Every muscle in my body hits pause and my brain seems to trip over the sudden stillness.
She isn’t watching my reaction. Without asking what I want, she pops open some obscure IPA for me, sets it on the bar, and gets to work on Dylan’s drink. But I wouldn’t be able to tear my eyes from her even if someone shot a gun on the other side of the room.
“London?” I say, leaning my elbows on the bar. I grab my beer, taking a sip as she lifts her face to me and pours his shaken drink into a tumbler.
“Hmm?” she answers, blinking quickly to Dylan and then back to me, eyes tight with warning.
I lean in, giving her a tiny shake of my head. I told him I went home with someone, but not who. Besides, he’s distracted—as he usually is—nodding his head to the music and looking around the room as if it’s his first day out of the cave and he can’t believe everything that’s happening all around us.
“Your name is London?” I ask quietly, heart hammering while I try to remember how many times I said the wrong name last night. Trying—and failing—to remember whether I grunted out the wrong name when I came. “I’ve been calling you Logan.”
Her dimples appear a split second before a smile curls up the corners of her mouth. “You have.”
“You let me call you by the wrong name?” My smile feels like a bare flash of teeth. Inside I’m a chaotic swarm of reactions: amused, irritated, embarrassed, confused.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” she explains. “You got all the important details right.” With a wink, she takes the twenty I’ve put on the bar, rings up our drinks, and drops my change back in front of me. Without another lingering look, or even another word, she steps away and helps another customer.