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“Good.” Her hands went to the top of her towel, holding it in place. “How was your date?”
He blinked and looked up at her face.
“Charlotte? The raffle winner?” Her fingers toyed with top of the towel as if she’d realized what she was doing to him, standing there, damn near naked, with the promise of sex tonight burning between them. “Ice cream?”
Logan turned to the fridge. He wanted to take her out before they lost their clothes. Pulling out a beer, he used the opener on his keychain to pop the top. “It went well.”
“You can tell me all about it over dinner.” She paused in the archway separating the kitchen from the hall. “Right now I need to get in the shower. I was about to when someone from my publisher called. We started talking and now I’m running late. But since you’re here you can tell me where we’re going.”
Logan held the beer bottle to his lips and smiled. “Surprise.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What should I wear?”
“Whatever you want.”
Sadie looked him over, noting his clean jeans, T-shirt and cowboy boots. She nodded and disappeared down the hall, her hips swaying beneath the towel.
Closing his eyes, he rested his hand on the butcher-block counter. It was going to take a miracle to get through the dinner date he’d planned. Sadie set him on fire. And sure, a big part of it was the way they got so close that his body burned with anticipation, only to be interrupted. He’d been replaying the first night, here on the couch, over and over in his mind. The way her shirt had ridden up her thighs, the feel of her skin beneath his hand, the sound of her voice as she’d issued commands— If he didn’t start thinking about something else he was going to need a cold shower before they went out.
Logan opened his eyes and set his beer on the counter. Outside the window, the sound of a bull kicking metal made him jump. His hand knocked the bottle, spilling the remaining beer over the counter and onto a stack of papers.
“Ah, hell.” He sprang into action, locating the paper towels and mopping up the mess. Glancing at the paper, he cursed again. He’d soaked part of her book. Wiping the pages with the towel, the words caught his attention.
Logan froze, the soggy towel in one hand and her pages in the other. He should ask before he read this. But he couldn’t put the paper down. The words drew him in, refusing to let go.
His hands hold my thighs, pressing them apart. His mouth hovers an inch above my bare flesh, waiting for my command.
“I want to feel your mouth on me. Now.”
He buries his face between my legs and I close my eyes. This man—the one who burst into my life and demanded a place—he answers to me now. The heady feeling, knowing I control him and not the other way around, coupled with the first brush of his tongue, pushes me close to the edge.
He is powerful, inside the bedroom and out. His associates in the business world admire and fear him. But at night, he comes home to me. He strips off his expensive suit and kneels before me—the girl who once let a man take and take until she barely recognized herself, until she no longer knew the sound of her own voice.
I am not the quiet girl willing to let the men in my life walk all over me. Not anymore. I found my voice. And I intend to use it, in the bedroom. Especially there. I will tell him everything he needs to know to drive me wild. I will not let him leave until I am completely satisfied. I refuse to settle—refuse to let any man dismiss my needs and desires. Not tonight. Not ever again. If necessary, I will tie him to the bed.
His tongue glides back and forth over the sensitive nub, a thrilling mix of gentle brushstrokes and pressure.
> “Your fingers,” I say. “Use your fingers.”
He runs one hand down my inner thigh. His index finger circles my opening before sliding inside.
“More,” I demand. “I want to come. Now. Like this. I’m so close.”
Logan set the beer-stained paper back on the counter. If he read any further, they would never make it to dinner. After that one page, he was about as close to exploding as the girl in the story.
Staring out the window, he tried to count back from one hundred. But it didn’t help. His dick ached, begging for release.
He shook his head. And to think he’d been worried she was a reporter. But this, the erotic scene so unlike any fiction he’d ever read, was just as threatening. Maybe more so. It was as if she’d looked inside his mind and discovered his deepest desires, things he’d never told anyone.
“I’m ready. Almost,” Sadie said, rushing into the kitchen. “I need to grab my purse.”
Logan turned away from the window and watched her move around the room, her heels clicking against the wood floors. Her boots ran up to her knees, then bare skin up to her mid-thigh. She’d chosen the same skirt she’d worn that first day in The Quilted Quail. He didn’t look to see if she wore the same top. He didn’t care. He wanted to push her skirt up and sink down to his knees before her spread thighs.
“Logan?”
“I spilled beer on this. I tried to clean it up.” He picked up the papers, turning his gaze to her face. “Is this what you write?”
Her eyes widened with surprise. But only for a second. If he hadn’t been watching her closely, he might have missed it. She buried her shock with a resigned look. Her hands fell to her sides and she dropped her purse to the floor.
