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“Fuck. You,” I say clearly, pushing myself away from the door.
And fuck my embarrassment too. I have no reason to be ashamed of what I do in private. They’re the ones who should be ashamed for spying on me and invading that privacy without my consent.
I pull my shirt over my head and run my hands up my sides to cup my breasts, exactly as I’d do on stage, then drag my finger over the small scar between my breasts.
The healed slash from the knife wound Logan put there doesn’t hurt anymore, but it definitely makes me feel something to touch the mark he left. Another sign of how fucked up my reactions to these men are, but right now, I’m happy to roll with it.
They want a show? Fucking fine. They’ll get one. But it’s not for them. It’s for me.
My nipples tighten as I rub my fingers over the little nubs, and all the uncertainty and heartache of the last twenty-four hours starts to fade into the background as my body responds.
I need this, and fuck all three of them and their voyeuristic tendencies.
I’m taking it.
9
LOGAN
Riley is…disruptive. I don’t like it. Should, in fact, be repelled by it.
The fact that I’m not unsettles me.
Watching her through the security feeds after retreating to my room is easier. It puts some distance between us and allows me to analyze her more clinically than when I’m confronted with her passionate, chaotic nature in person. But as I watch her trail her finger over the scar I put on her chest, I don’t feel clinical. I… react.
It takes me a moment to identify the feeling.
My cock is twitching. Filling. Responding to not the sight of her naked flesh, but to a possessive sense of satisfaction at the knowledge that I’ve marked it.
The feeling is dangerously addictive, so I quickly flick the monitors off, frowning as they go dark.
She’s trying to fuck with me, that’s clear from the way she deliberately looked around the room, cognizant somehow of the cameras even if she clearly doesn’t know where exactly they’re placed. But turning off the monitors doesn’t stop my body from responding to the knowledge that she and I are connected now. I’ve touched her. Left permanent proof on her body. And failing to observe her after the volatile way she’s reacted to the situation with her sister could put us at risk.
It’s the only justification I need to turn the monitors back on.
The moment I do, my eyes zero in on the scar again.
I’m no more used to feeling guilty than I am to the way the sight of her like this affects me, but that doesn’t stop both reactions from being true.
The scar bothers me. I hate knowing that I wasn’t able to repress the monster inside me when I put it there. That I lost control the night I marked her.
But I also wouldn’t change it, because it doesn’tonlybother me.
It also turns me on.
I press my hand against my cock as Riley slips her pants off and stands in the middle of the room defiantly naked. She is… very aesthetically pleasing. But it’s the defiant lift of her chin as she deliberately scans the room again, eyes narrowed as if she’s still trying to locate the glimmer of the hidden camera lenses, that intrigues me the most.
She hasn’t found them and most likely won’t. I’m very good at what I do. So it makes no sense that I’m annoyed at the way her gaze is off center. That, not knowing where to look, she isn’t facing me directly as I stare back at her through the monitors.
I want to see her eyes.
I want to see what’s in them as she shows herself to me this way.
I move without taking the time to consider why that matters, leaving the order and serenity of my room and letting my feet guide me toward hers before I can second guess myself.
I open the door to her room without knocking, and Riley spins to face me.
I smile. Yes, this is better. Having her eyes on me. Watching the rise and fall of her chest as she meets my gaze with a courage and composure that I know for a fact is rare to find.
