5. Tess
Tess
My phone buzzes, dragging me out of a dead sleep. I silence the alarm before it can blare again.
Dismissing it, I check the time and curse my own decision to stay on schedule. Seven a.m., like clockwork.
You're supposed to be on "vacation."
I laugh at that, glancing at the empty side of the bed. Logan slept on the couch last night.
Logan...what the hell was that?
Just thinking about it makes heat pool low in my belly. The way he teased me. Touched me. I've never felt anything like it—actual, real arousal.
Not like that, anyway.
I'd started to think I landed somewhere on the ace spectrum, that maybe sex just wasn't in the cards for me. But this wasn't nothing. This was something.
A lot of something, apparently, when it comes to Logan.
Maybe he just hits some checklist buried in my subconscious that I never knew existed.
Except he also fled that closet like it was on fire and took the world's tiniest couch instead of sharing a bed with me. So whatever that was, I'm guessing it's not happening again.
Which is good. We don't need the complication.
Even if his voice is going to live rent-free in my head until the day I die.
God, he was so demanding. So dominating. Do I actually want that?
As shocking as it is, I think I do.
"You'd love to be my good girl."
A shiver rolls through me, and I shove the thought away hard. We are not doing that again. It was a mistake the first time.
I sit up, setting my phone on the nightstand so I can get dressed.
Another long day of nothing stretches ahead of me. Life on the run is not for me. I don't have a choice, though. Not until the trial. Not until every last Cilento is behind bars.
My phone buzzes twice—my signal for a text. I grab it off the nightstand and check the screen.
Andrew. From work.
That's weird.
We've worked stories together before—he sits two desks down in the bullpen—but as far as the paper knows, I'm on vacation.
Why's he texting now?
Andrew: Hey, Tess. Checking in. I heard something big about Cilento. Don't want to text the details. Can we meet up?
Me: Oh, shit. Really? Yeah. Tell me where. I'll leave now.
The dots pulse as he types.
Andrew: Can't today. Got shit to handle first. Tomorrow. I'll send the location. Yeah?
Me: Yes. I'll be waiting.
My stomach knots—nerves and excitement colliding. If something big is happening with Cilento, I have to know.
Yes, it's a risk. Yes, Logan will be furious. But I'll slip out while he's asleep. Meetings like this always happen after dark anyway.
I throw on leggings, tall socks, and an oversized sweater. No reason to give Logan any ideas after last night.
We're professionals now. That's the plan.
Downstairs, Logan's already at the island, eyes locked on his laptop. A mug of black coffee waits with the creamer beside it. I pour some in and take a seat.
"We need to hit the store this morning. I want to grab a few things to tighten up security."
"After coffee. You know the rules."
It comes out sounding like flirting before I can stop it. Logan just rolls his eyes and nods, letting it slide.
Once I've finished my coffee, we head out.
"What exactly do we need? Doesn't the house already have a security system?"
"Yes. I'm not happy with the locks."
I roll my eyes. Logan talks like a man who's seen everything twice. Knowing what little I do about him, that's probably accurate.
Truth is, I barely know anything real about him. He's older than me. Works for some private security outfit with a reputation that skirts the edge of legal. And from the one glimpse I got of him shirtless, he was military.
I recognize the tattoos—same style as the vets I interviewed for a piece on post-service care. My chest aches thinking about it.
Logan cuts down an aisle, and I have to jog to keep pace. We land in the hardware section just as Bradley, from across the street, rounds the corner.
Oh no.
Logan pulls me against his side before I can react, all warmth and easy affection as we drift toward the deadbolts.
"Well, if it isn't the newlyweds! Upping the home security?"
Bradley's smile could blind a man this early in the morning.
"Anything to keep the love of my life safe," Logan says, and damn if it doesn't sound completely real.
"Smart." Bradley pulls a doorknob set off the rack. "Make sure they match. Wives get testy over mismatched hardware."
We both force out a laugh. Is this really how people live out here? Like a rerun from 1955?
"That's why I brought her. Can't go wrong. I trust her judgment."
"Aren't you a peach." Bradley's eyes flick to me, brows raised. "You landed a good one."
I feel the spotlight land square on my chest, but I lean into Logan anyway, into that solid, steady warmth.
"I did." The smile comes easy. Too easy. Something's shifting between us, and I think we both feel it.
Then I remember his mouth on mine last night, and my whole body goes hot.
Dammit, Tess. Focus.
"I'll leave you two lovebirds to it." Bradley winks and heads off. "Don't waste the honeymoon phase!"
My face burns, but Logan's already moving, gathering deadbolts, padlocks, and a biometric panel like nothing happened.
"Come on, sweetheart."
Back at the house, I watch Logan install everything, quick and thorough, testing each piece before moving to the next.
I feel safer. I also can't help but notice how much care he's putting into a house that isn't even ours.
Love of my life.
The words won't leave me alone. It's the kind of thing people dream of hearing. I never thought it'd be said about me—not even as a cover story.
I know none of this is real. But hearing him say it still did something to my chest.
His touch from last night hasn't left me either. I can still feel the ghost of it on my skin.
I've officially become his errand girl too—handing him nails, holding the level steady, learning more about deadbolts than I ever wanted to know.
"That's the last one." Logan straightens, twisting the final bolt into place. "Thanks for the help."
"Oh, sure. I was a huge asset. Held a nail. Go me."
He sets the screwdriver down and looks at me—really looks—and my skin catches fire under it. We've been circling each other all day, and something's about to give.
He's traded the suit for faded jeans and a gray tee, tattoos peeking from his sleeves. No one looks at this man and thinks just okay.
Chiseled. Tall. A face that shouldn't be legal.
"And look at that," he says, leaning against the island, "you were my good girl the whole time."
Heat rushes through me so fast my jaw drops. Did he really just say that?
He clocks my reaction and chuckles—low, dark, and far too sexy for his own good.
I'm speechless. Rare for me. He notices that too, pushing off the island and closing the distance until I have to tip my head back to hold his stare.
"Cat got your tongue?"
Something's shifted in him. Maybe it's all the hours standing close. Maybe it's the moment my chest brushed his shoulder while he knelt to check a lock.
Oh no. I didn't even see this coming.
"I—"
"What, sweetheart?" His voice drops to a rumble that reaches somewhere low and unguarded in me. "What's going on in that pretty head?"
What is happening? Do I even care anymore? God, I want to feel him again.
"Touch me." My voice comes out small. I clear my throat. "Like before."
His eyes widen, like he didn't expect me to take the bait. "Tess, I don't—I shouldn't have teased you. I—"
"Stop." I step in, hands flat against his chest. "You don't get to back out now. Put your money where your mouth is."
Shock flickers over his face, then vanishes—replaced by pure hunger. He surges forward and hauls me in.
His mouth crashes into mine, rougher this time. Less patient.
I moan into him, my leg hooking around his hip on instinct. Then he spins me, bending me over the island, and my pulse roars in my ears.
"You're going to be my good girl, aren't you?" I whimper out a yes. "That's right. You'll do exactly what I say. Pull that sweater up. Let me see you."
My hands move before my brain catches up, dragging the sweater high enough to bare my chest.
"Good girl," he growls.
He frees my breasts from the bralette, and the cold marble against my skin has my nipples pulling tight.
"Fucking hell, sweetheart. Look at you." His hands roam, slow and sure, until they find the waistband of my leggings and drag them down with my panties.
"Oh!" The exposure hits me like a live wire. I know exactly how wet I am.
"Fuck," he breathes, palms gliding over my ass. "So slick for me. Don't move, sweetheart."
I don't. I just watch over my shoulder as he drops to his knees, still impossibly tall even folded down like that. His breath ghosts over me.
"Logan, I don't think you should—"
His tongue drags through me, back to front, slow and deliberate, right there in the kitchen.
I don't even know if the drapes are shut. Knowing him, they probably are.
A moan tears out of me. I can't think past what he's doing—the flick of his tongue, the way he works me open with it.
This man—gorgeous, sharp-jawed, older than anyone I've ever wanted—has his mouth on me like I'm the only thing that matters.
He's my bodyguard. My fake husband. Nothing about this feels fake right now.
His hands spread me wider, chasing every inch, and I grip the edge of the island as the pleasure builds and crests.
I'm close. I lean forward until my chest presses flat against the cold counter.
"That's right, sweetheart." He pulls back just enough to speak. "You're going to come for me. Right now."
"I—"
"Do what I say, Tess. Be my good girl."
The words hit somewhere low and electric, and when his tongue returns—slow, steady, relentless—I break apart completely.
"Fuck!" I come hard against his mouth, losing myself entirely.
It's the first real orgasm of my life.