Chapter 14 #2
She scrunches up her nose, heaping salsa onto a chip.
“Please, Logan doesn’t say anything to anybody.
He’s practically mute . . . unless he’s talking to you.
Which should have been your first clue. Think about it.
He punched your ex for bringing you roses.
I’m tellin’ ya, he’s not going to let another man near you. ” She pops the chip in her mouth.
I consider her argument, his words still echoing in my mind .
. . Recalling the set of his jaw when he said he doesn’t like thinking about me with other men.
Our photo shoot, and the way his strong thighs bracketed my hips—hell, that alone has had me crossing and uncrossing my legs all week.
And those piercing hazel eyes didn’t give off “friends.” No, his stare pinned me to the floor, unrelenting and . . . ravenous.
The heavy air in the restaurant is suffocating. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the ambient noise around us. My gaze snaps to Frankie’s, and her face splits in a wide smile, like she just witnessed the realization slam into me.
“What am I gonna do now?” I ask.
“Oh no. My super-hot best friend has a crush on me, whatever will I do?” she mocks, cupping her cheeks in faux shock.
I drop my face into my hands, mumbling “Thanks for your support,” before lifting my chin to see her finishing a bite.
She waves as if to clear the air. “You know what you need? A good book,” Frankie suggests, then takes a sip of her margarita.
“Like a self-help book?”
“Basically.” She nods. “Charge your vibe, read some smut, rub one out, and then get a good night’s rest.”
“Call the doctor in the morning?” I chuckle, swirling the straw in my drink. “I don’t think I can masturbate my way out of this problem.”
Ironically, Logan is essentially both my problem and my solution.
“No, but it’ll give you a clear mind so you can listen to your feelings without sexual tension influencing your decision. Because, whew, that man . . .”
She makes a solid point.
“I can’t jump into a relationship the second I get out of one, that’s insanity.”
“Is it, though? In some ways, it’s like y’all were already dating. You hang out all the time, talk about everything, work together . . . You’re basically in a relationship without the sex. Which is a travesty if you ask me.”
I shake my head. “No way, that’s different. It was platonic. This would change everything. If it didn’t work out, it could put the shop at risk.”
“Sometimes change is good . . .” She spoons more of the street corn onto a small plate. “Do you think it would be for the better?”
“I don’t know.” My head falls back and I stare at the ceiling as if the answers are scrawled on the plaster above us.
“I’m still trying to come to terms with the concept of it.
I don’t know what to think about anything.
” When I look down, I snatch up my margarita, bringing it to my lips and taking a substantial gulp.
“I bet he’s good in bed. Controlled . . . calculating . . . firm—”
I choke on my drink. “Okay, okay, okay. That’s enough,” I sputter.
Forming a small circle with my lips, I blow out the matchstick after lighting the last candle.
My Now That’s What I Call Fucking, Volume 6 playlist hums through the Bluetooth speakers in the background.
With my e-reader in one hand and a vibrator in the other, I focus on releasing the pent-up sexual tension that’s been swelling since the photo shoot with Logan.
He’s kept me in a steady state of arousal since our night together.
It’s as irritating as it is erotic—provocative, in every sense of the word.
Leaning back into my pillows, I take a deep cleansing breath to relax, returning to my “self-help.”
With the touch of a button, the silicone toy whirs to life; I drag it over my flesh, skating across my inner thighs, and climbing higher, where all my tension lies.
My cheeks flush with heat as the words on the illuminated page play out in vivid detail.
I lean into the sensation, focusing on the book, the characters, and nothing else.
Letting my brain empty of questioning his intentions.
My only goal is to relieve stress and let go of the events that occurred over the past week.
My legs extend, heels pressing into the mattress as my back arches. Don’t think, just feel.
My pulse quickens and my breaths come faster as the vibrations hum over my clit.
Heat curls inside me, my stomach tightening and ass clenching as I concentrate on the needy ache between my spread thighs.
The need to come grows more urgent by the second.
My jaw relaxes as I surrender to the thrum of pleasure.
And then the buzzing ceases.
Dead air.
My battery-operated boyfriend dies.
“No!”
Frankie was right, I should have charged my toys ahead of time.
Frustrated, I toss the useless tool and e-reader aside, taking over manually.
I resort to my go-to mental imagery with the highest success rate.
A tall, faceless stranger stands before me.
I’ve fucked him countless times in my fantasies—he’s top notch.
Tosses me around like I weigh nothing, fucks with abandon, and edges mercilessly.
He’s rough and obsessive. Demanding.
“Hands and knees, sweetheart. Let’s see how well you follow directions.
” He forces me onto all fours and spreads my cheeks, his fingers digging in—hard.
He spanks my ass, like really spanks me, until it hurts.
With each brutal strike of his palm to my sensitive flesh, my pussy contracts. “Aww, are you blushing, Chaos?”
My eyes shoot open. That voice. Fuck, all these years it’s been his voice. It wasn’t until that nickname that I was able to place it. Realized. He’s not the faceless stranger anymore.
Fuck it. I’m too close. My conscience warns me this is a bad idea, I won’t be able to take it back, but I crash that train of thought before it gets too far down the track. My need to come is stronger, and what’s the harm in indulging in a little fantasy?
As soon as the voice of reason shuts up, my thoughts run wild—shameless and starved. He flips me on my back, teases, taunts, and marks me with handprints before devouring every inch. He’s the cruelest form of bliss.
My abs tighten and my thighs stretch wider as I approach the finish line. Almost there . . .
Figments of him become clearer as I ride my hand; he gives that sinful smirk of his, amused by the power he holds over me. His mouth finds my neck and he licks and sucks while viciously fucking my body.
The pressure builds and builds, with the thrill slowly overtaking me.
My back arches into the pillows cradling me and I moan, coming to the image of him braced above, working me over with a wicked grin.
But it’s more than his masculine voice, appearance, and stellar imaginary performance I get off to who he is as a whole; his stoicism, his artistry, his natural dominance. I want it all.
The tension in my shoulders dissipates, and I lie there, soft and spent, gradually coming to terms with my own feelings toward Logan.
If post-nut clarity exists, then pre-nut psychosis must also.
This isn’t that. There’s no regret. I’m physically satisfied but could go another round with the same daydream.
This was supposed to stop me from thinking about him that way, clear the persistent hormones that hijacked my control panel. Somehow, I’ve gone and done the opposite, and I’m left even more confused than before.
Fuck . . .
Fuck!