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But as I lie here, cocooned in Logan’s warm, comfortable guest bed that smells way too much like him, all that other stuff just falls away. I need to sleep, and as the seconds tick on, I feel myself being dragged under the abyss of consciousness.
The last thing I remember is how magical this bed feels, and how I secretly hope I get to sleep in it again.
Don’t tell Logan.
Chapter Four
Logan
I stand in the doorway and watch her way longer than what would be considered appropriate by society’s standards. Yet, I don’t move. Even when she starts to lightly snore, I don’t move. Seeing her hair fan out across my pillow is fucking with my head. It makes me want things I have no business wanting, thinking things that are so far past the line of inappropriate, I can’t even see said line anymore.
Plus, my little head is sending dirty images straight to my big head, ensuring they’re on the same wavelength.
I should have suggested she change out of her bridesmaid dress. I’m sure she won’t be comfortable, but the moment I placed her in my bed, she seemed to settle immediately. Even though she called for me, the second I spoke, she snuggled into my pillow and proceeded to pass out for the night.
Needing to stop staring like a stalker, I head for the bathroom and retrieve two ibuprofen tablets from my cabinet before moving to the kitchen to grab her a glass of water. She probably should have taken it before passing out, but I think I was just so transfixed on seeing her in my bed, it sort of scrambled my brain.
I take the glass and tablets of pain pills she’s definitely going to want in the morning and return to my bedroom. Hallie’s right where she was a minute ago. Only this time, her mouth is hanging wide open as she snores. Probably going to drool on my pillow too.
Setting the things in my hands down on my nightstand, I slip over to my closet and grab a pair of joggers before quietly exiting my room, leaving the door cracked open as I go. The first thing I do is toss the joggers I’ll sleep in onto the bathroom vanity and then stop at the hallway closet to retrieve a sheet and blanket. If I’m going to sleep on the couch, I’d rather have my pillow, but there’s no way I’d remove Hallie’s head from it just so I could use it.
Also, I kinda like the idea of it smelling like her fruity shampoo.
I’m a masochist like that.
As I tuck the sheet under the couch cushion and grab one of the throw pillows that came with the couch, I realize I probably should have turned the second bedroom into one for a guest. But I’ve never really had a reason to. All my friends are here and have their own places. My mom lives in town still, and any distant family we have usually stays with her during a visit.
Once my bed for the night is ready, I return to the bathroom to shower. I’m pretty certain Hallie’s down for the count, but still, I try to be quiet. This house isn’t too old, but it’s a tad on the smaller size, sitting at about eleven hundred square feet, so I’m sure sound travels easily. I crank up the hot water and let it run while stripping out of my dress shoes, socks, slacks, and button-down. After tossing them in the hamper to deal with tomorrow, I remove my boxers and undershirt and step into the shower, adjusting the water before moving beneath it.
The heat feels like heaven. It’s been a long couple of days prepping and setting up for the wedding. From making the arch they stood beneath to moving tables and chairs and setting them up, it’s been quite the task, even for a small affair, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d do anything and everything they asked, just to see my best friend finally marry the woman he’s loved for years.
My cock is hard, reminding me there’s a woman lying in my bed. An untouchable woman, but one still. When was the last time a female joined me in bed? Way too long ago, if you ask me. I’ve dated off and on since my divorce, but nothing serious. I even engaged in a one-night stand about two years ago when I was out of town for a convention thing.
But I refuse to be that guy now. I’m not jacking off to images of the woman who’d rather douse me in honey and leave me outside to see what happens. So I ignore my dick and turn the water a little cooler, grabbing the soap and giving myself a quick wash and rinse. I do the same with shampoo and conditioner before rinsing all the suds from my body. When I’m finished, the water is turned off and I’m grabbing my towel.
As soon as I’m dry, I slip on the joggers and exit the steamy bathroom. I usually sleep in less than the sweats, but with having a guest, I don’t want to be walking around in my underwear, even just to sleep on the couch. So, although though they’re warm and a little constricting, I’ll deal with it for one night.
My mind conjures up more images of Hallie. How incredible she felt in my arms, and how natural she appeared sleeping in my bed. Of course, thanks to the half-hard dick in my pants, I’m also thinking about bending her over every flat surface in my house just to watch her amazing ass move. I’ve always been an ass man, which is another weird fact questioning my decision to marry Shay. She has no ass, or at least, not one as round as Hallie’s.
I know her weight has always been a sore subject for her. She’s not big by any means, just curvy in all the right places. Shay and her mean girl minions used it to poke fun at her when we were younger, but I’ve always found her curvy figure to be incredibly attractive. Case in point: my hard-on that won’t seem to quit.
When we were married, Shay was always dieting. She counted every calorie she ate, which in turn, meant I was always under the microscope. She refused to eat red meat and didn’t want it anywhere near our refrigerator, like it could contaminate her fresh chicken with its unhealthy, artery-clogging abilities.
I, on the other hand, didn’t give two shits. Sure, at first, I tried to abide by her strict diet rules she put in place for both of us, but after a while, I craved a juicy cheeseburger, an Italian beef sandwich, or a medium steak with mushrooms and onions sauteed in butter. Eventually, I started cooking what I wanted, adding in dishes she’d eat too. Why? Because she refused to cook. But I was determined to compromise and find even ground between her meal choices and my own. She still bitched and moaned every single night, but I didn’t care. I was trying to make it work, even when she’d throw continuous wrenches in my plans at living peacefully.
Hallie doesn’t seem to care what she eats. Yes, I’ve heard her talk about dieting over the years, but if she wants to eat half a pizza or a plate of nachos, she does. Plus, she always seemed to enjoy the hell out of her food. Whatever it was, she wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty and eating. More than once I wanted to lick barbecue sauce off her lips while she was eating wings from Shiner’s, but I figured that would have resulted in a knee to my balls, so I never did.
Just fantasized about it way more than any male ever should.
I bypass my living room and head straight to my kitchen. It’s midnight now, and even though I’m exhausted, I’m not tired. My mind is spinning and my libido too amped up to sleep. So I do the next best thing. Grabbing the bottle of tequila from the cabinet, I pour myself a shot and swallow the liquid. Then, I refill the small glass and take a second. It’s not like I’m leaving anytime soon, and two shots aren’t going to completely impair me; just help me shut off my brain and give me a nice little buzz so I can sleep.
I consider pouring myself a third shot but think better of it. I want to make sure I hear Hallie if she wakes in the night, and knocking myself out with tequila won’t help. I place my hands on the counter and exhale deeply. When my eyes close, I see her, which isn’t helping things below the belt, but I can’t seem to shake her either. I don’t know what it is about Hallie. One minute I want to shake the hell out of her for giving me lip and rolling her eyes, and then next I want to kiss her until we’re both breathless. It’s a vicious cycle, a merry-go-round of emotions I can’t seem to shake.
My shoulders are tense as I try to take a few calming breaths and crack my neck from side to side to try to ease the tension. What I really need to do is get laid, but that’s definitely not happening tonight. Maybe I need to ask out Jordan Lovejoy, the new boutique owner in town. Every time she’s come into the hardware store, she’s flirted a bit, letting me know she’s interested. She has dark hair, big green eyes, and always dresses like she fell out of a magazine. Perhaps that’s why I’ve barely given her a second glance, because she reminds me a bit too much of my ex-wife. Always put together like a model. But I should be able to put that aside for one night to see if there’s any spark.
“Are you pouring shots?”
My entire body goes rigid as her soft, sleepy voice washes over me like spring rain. Slowly, I push off the counter and turn around, but I’m not prepared for what I encounter when I do. Her long, coppery brown hair is messy, the soft curls from earlier flat against her head, and her makeup is smudged beneath her eyes.
