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I swallow hard, my insecurities peaking. “So, your dad’s seen it?”
I haven’t seen Mr. Harris since we moved away. Drugged and passed out in a stranger's bed is not how I want anyone to see me.
“Yeah,” he says curtly. “Sheriff Tomlinson too, I needed my threat to be as real as possible. Dad approached the matter as if you were pressing charges. We gave the Wells family an ultimatum. Withdraw Gunner and keep him as far away from you as possible and this all goes away.”
I look out at the water. The clear blue glass rippling, pushing the floats across the surface. A bead of sweat drips down my cheek. It’s freaking hot out. “And if they refused?”
“We threatened his parents with a good time in court. After showing them a tiny clip of the video and dad stressing that Gunner could be charged with a minimum of thirty years in jail for attempted rape, they agreed to our terms.” Logan smiles triumphantly.
I chew on the corner of my lip. Even though it sucks people have seen what happened to me, Logan’s plan was brilliant. I don’t have to look at that monster anymore. I don’t have to beat myself up for not seeing Gunner for what he really was.
Logan’s hand falls from my thigh as I scoot the chair back and stand. He eyes me curiously as I walk to the edge of the pool. Wordlessly I peel my shirt over my head and st
ep out of my shorts. I level with myself, being in my mismatched bra and panties is the same as being in my bathing suit. Still, my skin pricks from self-consciousness because I’m sure Logan is taking in every inch of my backside.
I cannonball into the pool, the water shocking my body. It’s not cold, but I wouldn’t call it warm either. I swim to the surface and take a breath. Wiping my eyes, I hear a splash and feel water moving beneath me. Logan pops up to my left, fully clothed, shaking his head like a dog to clear the water from his eyes.
I swim over to him and wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. Logan is treading water, but if he’s struggling, I’d never know.
“Hey, beautiful,” he purrs in that deep, husky voice.
I press my lips to his. His body stops swaying. I think he’s at a point where he can touch because his arms wrap around me. I pull back, pressing my forehead against his and whisper, “Thank you.”
Logan replies with another kiss. I take his hand, which is resting on my side, and slide it under my bra. My heart pounds in my chest, ready, waiting for a reaction.
Logan squeezes, pinching my nipple between two fingers at the same time and I moan against his lips. We stay like this for a while, kissing and touching when I feel his other hand slide under my ass. His finger inches painfully slow over the cotton of my panties and brushes against my center. I gasp against Logan’s lips, shocked not at the touch but at the heat rippling through me. Effing grenades.
He pulls back, lust-drunk eyes smiling at me. “Should I stop?”
I swallow hard but shake my head. Logan sinks his teeth into my shoulder. I arch in pleasure. He moves his hand off my chest and holds onto the back of my neck. A single finger slips under my panties, brushing against my folds. He peppers my neck in kisses and presses the tip of his finger inside me.
It’s been months since I’ve let anyone touch me like this. My last boyfriend and I fooled around, a lot, but he never made me feel the way Logan does. Pressure builds inside me that I’ve never felt before. I claw at Logan's back, arching my spine, instinctively trying to get away because the feeling is too intense. My whole body is tingling and the pressure at my center is only growing.
Logan holds me tighter against him. He sticks another finger in, moving the two in unison and the pressure building inside me explodes. I drop my chin to Logan's shoulder, panting. He moves his hand from my panties and grips my thigh.
“You okay?” he asks, exhaling laughter.
I nod. Still trying to catch my breath. “Yeah. What was that?”
Logan looks at me curiously, one thick brow arching upward. “Have you never had an orgasm before?”
“Apparently not.”
39
Danika
“Hey, baby girl,” Dad says hesitantly as I walk into the kitchen. The shirt I stole from Logan falls to my mid-thigh, just short enough to see the pink donut print of my pajama shorts. The first time I strolled downstairs in Logan’s clothes, Dad’s eyebrows shot so far up his forehead I thought they were going to kiss the roof. Now, he’s used to it.
I slump in the kitchen chair, not ready to be awake, but someone had to text me at the butt crack of dawn. Oh well. A ridiculously early text is a million times better than an unexpected-expected visitor. “Morning, Dad.”
“I got called into work tonight for a seven-to-seven shift.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug and reach for his cup of coffee. So the thing with Dad’s coffee, outside of a sip or two he doesn’t drink it. Every morning he would get up and make himself a cup of coffee. A full cup. Mom would then come into the kitchen, make me breakfast, pack me lunch, and complain about how Dad would waste a good cup of Joe. She’d then take the mug and drink it herself, also complaining that he didn’t know how to make a decent cup of coffee.
Mom would pretend to be irritated.
Dad would stare adoringly.
