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I don’t agree with words because I’m afraid to open my mouth. I nod instead. It feels like the safer option.
Two minutes later, a man sits down opposite us.
He introduces himself, but I immediately forget his name.
“I need my hands.”
I look down to see my nails digging into Logan’s arm. That’s going to leave a mark.
I pull away and fiddle with the water bottle on my lap.
Satisfied, he dips the gun. It comes to life with a buzz.
Holy shit.
I grip Logan’s thigh because he said he needs his hands, and I need to hold onto something.
“You gonna let me take you to dinner first?”
He laughs under his breath, but when I look down, my hand is awfully close to the bulge in his jeans.
I’m going to pass out for another reason.
“Just do it,” I urge, my hand remaining exactly where it is.
He smirks at me. “Not what a man wants to hear.”
“Unless you want me passed out on your lap again, I suggest getting a move on.”
“Wasn’t that bad,” he says with a shrug before pressing the needle against the nameless man’s skin.
My head spins.
I tighten my grip on Logan.
He hisses, but when he stares over at me, I don’t think it’s from pain.
Scorching emerald eyes scan my face for one, two, three seconds, keeping me stuck to my chair.
Dragging his gaze away, he gets to work, and I, by some miracle, don’t pass out. I find myself watching Logan rather than watching what he’s doing.
It helps.
It does little for the somersaults happening low in my belly, but I don’t faint.
He’s three tattoos in before I remember why I’m here and take the camera from my bag to capture some shots.
When I finally stand, I’m steady.
“Good girl,” he praises, and those somersaults slide right between my legs.
“I didn’t faint.”
“You didn’t faint,” both he and Archer confirm with a laugh.
Ten minutes later and I’m a pro, needles be damned.
They could almost poke me with one.
