I knew that if I climbed in that bed—with her—I was jeopardizing everything I had worked hard for the past year. And even with that thought weighing heavily on my mind, I close the door behind me and walk straight for my bed.
“How do you smile when your heart is
falling in love with the wrong man?”
~ Emerson Chase
The bed moves as he climbs in; his warm body against mine.
“Logan,” I whisper, desperately trying to ignore his lips that have already found their way onto my skin. “You really do need sleep.”
“I need you more.”
Four simple words that crushed any hope I had of keeping our arrangement platonic.
I
came to London for the show. Despite Logan living here, his mood swings and lack of communication made it clear: we had fun and that fun was over.
That night with Wes (on the couch) ended in disaster. It started off heated and with our clothes off until just before he slid himself in, I froze and remembered where he had been and the trail of possible diseases that tagged along with him.
It killed that moment and even frightened Wes. It wasn’t just the possibility that he was carrying something nasty—it was the guilt of being with Logan. Wesley didn’t deserve me as much as I didn’t deserve him. That was the cold hard truth.
From the moment I saw Logan walk into his apartment, I knew that everything between us had changed. My heart did something. A pitter-pat, flurry of madness, that could only be described as something dangerous. It was invested in him. It craved attention from only him. All the things that it shouldn’t be feeling.
And tonight cemented that. I didn’t want him looking at anyone else.
I didn’t want him touching anyone else.
I just didn’t know how to hide my feelings.
Lying here with him, his body pressing against mine with his cock rock hard and grinding on my hip, would only mean one thing, and I knew I didn’t have the strength to fight it. I wanted him buried inside me, thrusting hard and owning every inch of my body.
“You’re not supposed to have sex before a game,” I remind him.
“That’s an old wive’s tale.”
“Somehow I don’t think old wives were screwing soccer players. I’m sure there is a medical explanation as to why you shouldn’t shoot your load into my vagina.”
He pauses, withdrawing his kisses and raising his head. “How about I shoot my load into your mouth?”
I smack his chest, laughing simultaneously distracted by his hand sliding beneath my shirt, squeezing my breast. “No shooting of your load anywhere.”
“Damn.” He nibbles on the sensitive spot of my lobe. “There’s several places I’d love to shoot my load.”
I’m unable to hide my grin, grateful for the darkness that lays between us. “Like where?”
I could hear the smile in his voice; the cocky bastard knew he had the upper hand right now.
“Let’s see.” He keeps his head positioned near the base of my ear, trailing his finger along my chest. “Here.”
Keeping a straight face was hard, holding back the giggles was even harder. “Yeah, I guess so. If you like the whole pearl-necklace thing.”
“Hmm . . .” He traces my collarbone then switches in the opposite direction, moving south until he stops on my thigh. “How about here?”
“For a soccer player, you have a shitty sense of direction. Maybe go northwest.”
His teeth graze on my lobe, biting down with slight pain that pleasures me. The tip of his finger trails north, just like I had directed him, then moves west and in between my thighs until it brushes with my clit and in a sudden thrust, enters me causing my back to arch. I hold in the moan, biting down on my lip tasting blood.