Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

W e spend a week in an odd domestic stasis. Eating. Sleeping—together, but not sleeping together . He doesn't touch me with sexual intent and I do not attempt to instigate it either. We both know we need time between you and me and Logan and me. We go grocery shopping. We pick out a new TV and new bedside table lamps. I accompany Logan to work and act as a sort of personal assistant, out of boredom and a desire to be useful. We go to dinner at restaurants, both fancy and plain.

He takes me shopping, and for the first time in my memory, I get to choose my own wardrobe. Bras, underwear, jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, skirts, simple cotton dresses, tennis shoes, sandals, flats, socks, tights, leggings, sweatshirts, shorts, workout gear. A whole new wardrobe of simple, attractive, comfortable clothes. He expresses his opinion on certain items, which ones he likes and which he doesn't, but leaves every decision up to me. Nothing is excessively expensive, nothing is formal or uncomfortable. They are clothes that reflect me , and it's a gift from Logan the value of which I don't think he or anyone can fathom. Just choosing my own wardrobe, it makes me feel like a real person, like a woman with her own identity. I have a style , and it is utterly and solely my own. And Logan expects nothing in return. That in itself is wonderful and amazing, to be given something freely. Always before, I felt like everything I did, everything I had came with a price, physical or emotional or psychological. Logan is content with a simple "thank you" and the happiness so evident in me.

He takes me to a movie at a theater—a wonderful first for me, an experience I want to repeat as often as possible. It is rapturous, transporting me into a world where I do not exist. A pleasing escape.

We take Cocoa for long meandering walks through Logan's neighborhood.

Logan writes up a business plan for me. Comportment , he calls the business. I'm not sold on the name, but it will do for now. He guides me in constructing a business vision and a mission statement. All businesses need those two things, he says. We scout for locations; he writes up the loan contract; we squabble about both.

We go to an outpatient doctor to have the pressure bandage removed and the area checked. It's healing nicely, we're told. Wash it gently with warm water, don't rub it too much. Leaking tears are normal, and so is a little blood in the tears. Logan refuses the prosthetics offered, both temporary and permanent. Not the way he wants to go. Not going to pretend to have an eye.

Beth has come by a few times over the last week with patches—leather, silk, combinations of materials, plain, ornate, and everything in between. Logan sorts through them, discarding some and keeping others.

He vanishes into the bathroom at the doctor's office and emerges wearing a patch that, to me, suits him perfectly. It is made from thick, aged brown leather, hand tooled with ornate swirling designs, the rim of the patch itself lined with brass rivets.

He grins at me expectantly. "So? What d'you think?"

I can't help but laugh at his eager expression. "It looks great."

"I'm glad you like it." He glances at me. "I didn't want anything boring, but I was worried it'd be too much."

"You make it look . . . cool."

He scrapes his hand through his hair, tosses it dramatically. "That's me. King of cool."

I snort. "Not anymore. Dork."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were teasing me." He quirks an eyebrow at me. With the eyepatch, the effect is even more dramatic.

We're at his SUV now; yes, he drove, carefully and with prior approval. Just leave extra stopping distance , he was told, until you get used to the change in depth perception . He climbs up and in, starts the engine while I buckle. Out into traffic, music on low.

"You act as if I'm a stick-in-the-mud, Logan. I do have a sense of humor."

"Not a stick-in-the-mud, babe. Just... serious. As if it doesn't always occur to you to laugh or crack jokes."

I turn my gaze out the window, away from him. "Well, my life up until recently hasn't precisely lent itself to frequent jocularity."

"‘Frequent jocularity.'" He laughs. "See? That's what I mean? Who says things like that?"

"Me?"

He reaches out and squeezes my knee, takes my hand. "Yes, you. And I love it. You speak with concision, with eloquence and elegance. It's amazing. It's almost like you have a script writer feeding you lines, but it's just the way you talk."

"My reeducation came from classic literature. I had to relearn how to speak, and for a long time, after I finished speech and physical therapy, the only person I spoke to was Caleb. And he is... formal. Always. And that is something I really never even truly understood until I met you. You're the opposite. Not in a bad way, just... different. You are the polar opposite to Caleb's upright, formal, precise manner. It's... refreshing. As if I can let loose. Let my hair down, metaphorically speaking."

"I get it. As much as I can, at least."

Home, then.

Home?

Home.

Yes, Logan is home. Logan is freedom. Logan is where I am learning to be me. Learning who I am. What I like, what I don't like. I exercise when I want to. And when I don't want to, I don't. I eat what I like, when I like. I have a taste for unhealthy food, I discover. Pizza, nachos, potato chips. Logan has to step in, remind me that I can't eat all that stuff all the time. So I find a balance, gradually. Revert to healthy food. Organic, locally produced. Lean meats, vegetables, very little bread, very little processed food. But I splurge once in a while on yummy unhealthy food, just because I can. I exercise, but my way, at my pace, my routines. I like to run, I discover. I could never do that, before. But now I run. With Cocoa and Logan, I run. Logan got me an iPod and earbuds, and we run miles and miles and miles, not talking to each other, just running, breathing, pounding pavement endlessly. I can tune out the world when I run, focus on the music and the rhythm of my soles on the concrete, and not think about you or Logan or my addiction to you or the fact that I should have gotten my period two days ago.

It's only two days late. I've been stressed out. Life has been chaotic and painful and impossible, and such things can throw off a woman's cycle.

It's only two days.

Nothing to worry about.

A week and a half late.

I'm refusing to panic. Refusing to worry. Burying my head in the sand. Not even thinking about it. Any of it.

If I let myself start thinking about it, I will lose all control over everything. I'm unbalanced. Tripping along the edge of a cliff, arms windmilling wildly.

But I know, deep down, that I am going to fall.

With my period now two weeks late, I find myself ill in the morning. Nauseous. Stomach roiling. Sometimes I barely make it to the toilet. Fortunately, Logan is an early riser and follows a regular routine: up at five, eat a quick breakfast and drink a cup of coffee, then upstairs to work out. In the shower by seven, out the door to work by eight, in the office by eight thirty, usually.

My illness—I know the term, but refuse to think it—usually happens around six thirty. While Logan is in the gym upstairs. Sometimes later, while he's in the shower. Or after he's gone. It hasn't happened while he's been around to see it. He'd know what it means—what it might mean. Could mean.

He has me stay at his house, working from home. Writing out lesson ideas for my business, creating materials, my own version of the informational pamphlet Indigo clients received.

The sickness usually passes once I've vomited, but I have to eat directly after. Light food. Fruit, an egg-white omelette, tea. No cheese; I tried, and my stomach rebelled, which is odd because I usually love cheese. I tried a sandwich for lunch one day and couldn't keep the lunch meat down. Or, no red meat. White meat was fine. But not red. No red meat, no cheese, nothing too salty or too sweet. Bland food, then. Unusual, once again, because I typically prefer rich, flavorful food.

My moods are unpredictable, too.

Weepy and sad one moment, for no reason. Irritable the next. Giddy and manic another.

I steadfastly refuse to consider what it all might mean.

Logan comes home early from work one day, when I'm nearing three weeks late. Lays a garment bag across the back of the couch and just grins at me.

I put on the dress. It's sexy, alluring, a little risqué for my usual taste, but I decide I like it. Black, low cut, edgy lines, a slit up the left thigh nearly to my hip, fabric gathered tight across my torso into a bunch over my left hip.

When I emerge wearing the gown, Logan's eyes go wide and rake over me. And, for the first time in nearly a month, there's lust in his gaze. Not that it's been absent all this while, but he hides it. Tamps it down, refuses to act on it.

This time, he slides close to me, wraps a palm around my back, low, just above my buttocks, and tugs me against his front. "Gorgeous, Isabel."

"Thank you," I say. Breathe a moment, feel his heart thumping, feel his fingers dimpling against my spine, edging lower to the swell of my bottom. "What's the occasion?"

"A business associate of mine had extra tickets to an opera performance at the Lincoln Center tonight. I managed to wangle a table at a fancy dinner place near it, so we've got a fun night out."

"Opera sounds delightful. I've always wanted to attend a performance"

Logan shrugs, makes a face. "I dunno. Opera isn't really my thing, I don't think, but you don't turn down free seats to the Lincoln Center, especially not when they're prime seats. So we'll go and be fancy."

I notice now that he's changed into a tuxedo, and has replaced his eyepatch with a black one that somehow adheres to his face without a strap. The tux is bespoke, with glinting sapphire and titanium cuff links, an expertly tied bow tie. Hair slicked back, bound low at his nape. He looks sleek, elegant, and powerful. Virile. Indigo eye matching the jewels in his cuff links. Indeed, his eye is brighter, more arresting and iridescent than the sapphire.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his tuxedo, pulls out a long thin box: a necklace, sapphire and titanium to match his cuff links, and his eye. He glides behind me, and I can suddenly feel him everywhere. His heat, his hard body looming behind me. His hands tickling across my breastbone, laying the gleaming blue pendant just above my cleavage, clasping it at my neck. Setting the box aside, reaching into his trouser pocket for another box, this one smaller, and square. Earrings, to complete the set. Gentle, sure, nimble fingers sliding the post through my earlobe, attaching the back.

And then his palms are carving down my hips. Pulling me back against him. Lips to my ear. Not whispering or speaking or kissing, just a momentary resting of his lips against my ear, a pause on their downward journey. Back of my ear, the knob of bone just there. And then to my neck. The curve where neck becomes shoulder. Feather-light kisses. Drifting touches of his lips.

Goose bumps pebble my skin.

My nipples ache.

Thoughts leave me.

He continues to press soft slow careful kisses onto my skin, neck, shoulder, my back where the cut of the dress leaves my flesh bare. And his fingers, at my hips, gathering the fabric of the dress. The hem rises. Rises. I gasp and focus on his kisses, and on the cool air on my bare flesh as the hem of the dress glides upward.

Breathing becomes difficult, then.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my panties. They are simple, and new. Plain cotton briefs. Comfortable, and not at all attractive; I hadn't gotten around to changing into anything more fancy yet. This thought too is blasted away as he lowers the undergarment. I step out. And now I'm bare for him, the dress hiked up around my waist.

"Nothing underneath, tonight." His voice in my ear is low, a murmur, a growl.

"What?" I gasp.

"No panties tonight."

"Logan—"

He nips at my earlobe. "Hush."

I go silent on a breath, an outrush of surprise. His fingers are dancing over my hip bone. Over my belly, to my opposite hip. Teasing. Lower, lower. Tickling my thighs, outside to inside. Tracing across my pudendum.

I whimper.

I want his touch.

It's been so long. A month of celibacy, for us both.

I feel wild with need. Frantic. I've buried it under worry, brushed it aside in favor of ignoring everything, pretending this is life, running, exercising, eating with Logan, sleeping with Logan, working on material for Comportment.

But now, with his fingers easing closer to my core, feathering over my labia—I need him. Need.

"God, Logan."

"What, baby?"

I can't help gyrating my hips. "Please."

"Please what, Isabel?"

"Touch me."

He doesn't answer with words. His middle finger slides into me, slides deep into my wet, hot core. Curls, moves, withdraws. I ache now. Ache all over. I'm shaking. Lay my head back against his shoulder and widen my knees. He touches me again, this time applying a gentle pressure to my clitoris. I whimper, gasp, and my knees buckle as lightning sears through me.

It feels like an eternity since I've felt Logan thus, felt this touch, this bliss, this connection I feel only with him.

A rising, expanding violence within me. A detonation, impending. A susurrus in my ears, a roaring of blood in my veins. Heat in my belly. A rush of sensation.

He slides that one finger into me again, withdraws it. Smears my wetness over my clit. One hand is holding up my dress, keeping it out of the way, the other at my core, his thighs hard against the backs of mine. I'm leaning back against him, limp. Capable of nothing but the motion of my hips as he slides his finger in, and out. In, and out. Against my clit. In, and out. Two fingers, then, suddenly.

Climax burgeons.

I'm gasping, arching my spine, fully giving in to the bursting wildness.

And then he stops.

Lets my dress fall down around my ankles, and crouches behind me. He's fetched a pair of my shoes to match the dress, black Blahniks with a three-inch stiletto heel. He circles my ankle with his strong fingers, lifts my foot, slides the shoe on. I transfer my weight, let him ease the other shoe on, next. I'm out of breath, aching, a little angry that he stopped.

"Logan . . ." I start.

He stands up in front of me, brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone. "Isabel?"

"You stopped."

There's a knock at the door. Logan leans in, kisses me. A brief, scorching scouring of his lips against mine. Too short, but intense. "Time to go."

"I haven't done my makeup."

"Don't need any. You're fucking sexy just like that. And I guarantee you'll be the most beautiful woman there, makeup or no."

"I can't go to the Met without makeup on, Logan. It isn't done."

"Dinner is in forty, and we'll be pushing it with traffic like it is."

"I can be quick."

Another knock.

"Grab some stuff and bring it with. Do it in the car."

"I'm not ready, Logan. I—a quiet dinner, maybe. But the opera? The Met? People will be watching. You can't just—just spring this on me."

He moves past me, into the bathroom. I hear makeup cases and tubes clattering, a zipper closing. And then he's hustling me out the door, a black leather case in his hands. I glance behind me as he's closing the door. The last thing I see are my panties on the floor of his living room, a pile of gray cotton, abandoned.

My core aches. I don't want to go. I don't want to sit through a dinner and an opera. I want Logan. I want him to finish what he started.

There's a long black limousine waiting, a driver at the open passenger door.

Logan waits while I lower myself in, and then he's beside me.

I lean close, whisper in his ear. "Logan. I'm not wearing any panties."

He nips at my earlobe. "I know."

"I don't like it."

"You will."

"I haven't done my hair."

"Don't need to."

"I don't have any makeup."

He hands me the case, unzips it. My makeup, all of it, including my compact mirror. "Gotcha covered. Anything else?"

I take a moment. Breathe. Focus on applying makeup, just a little. Lipstick, blush, mascara. Check it in the mirror, and then close the leather case, set it aside. Breathe in silence for—I don't know how long, trying to gather myself.

"You stopped," I say, at last.

He checks that the privacy glass is in place, and then turns to me. Faces me. Leans against me. Presses his face into my cleavage and inhales. Tugs the straps of the dress off my shoulder, pulls the bodice down to bare my breasts.

"Logan!"

"Keep quiet, Isabel."

His fingers slide into the slit of the dress at my thigh, steal inward.

God, here?

Oh God.

I slide lower in the seat, spread my legs. I want it. I don't care. I can't think of anything but the orgasm I almost had, of getting there.

There's no toying, no hesitation. He slides his finger into me, and I gasp.

"Hush, baby." His breath is warm on my nipple. "No sounds."

I bite down on my lip until it hurts.

He nibbles at my nipple with sharp teeth. Slides his lips over it. Tugs. Licks. It's already hard and standing tall, but every lick and touch of his teeth and tongue make my nipple harder, more erect. Until it aches. And then he moves to the other, and works it the same way. And all the while, his fingers are busy. Sliding in and out, pressing against my clit, circling, pinching, sliding in.

Lips, fingers, breath.

They are my world, Logan's lips, Logan's fingers, Logan's breath.

When I come, I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, and Logan kisses me, swallows my whimper and licks at my lip, soothing the hurt. But his fingers continue to circle my clit as I come, working me harder, faster, bringing my climax higher, pushing me to heights of wildness that leave me breathless, that leave me aching and limp.

And then he withdraws his fingers from my core, lifts them, dripping my essence, to his mouth. Licks them clean.

"Better?" he asks.

I can only gasp against his tuxedo coat, smelling his cologne and the faint acridity of cigarettes, the tang of cinnamon gum.

Logan scent.

But I am still afraid of this night. Being out, with Logan, in public. Not just to a movie or a little diner. Something... public .

On his arm. There will be pictures, probably.

I'm not wearing any underwear.

I've just had an orgasm, so I'm flushed and breathless and feeling on edge, wild, rife with lust.

I'm scared witless.

But I feel beautiful, because Logan's touch always does that. Makes me feel needed. Wanted. Beautiful. Even when he doesn't say a word.

He adjusts my dress so I'm covered.

There is silence, then, in which I attempt to quiet my nerves.

The limo pulls to a stop, and there is a moment of waiting as the driver exits and circles, opens the door. Logan rises up out of the limousine elegantly, easily. Extends a hand to me, lifts me out. A black awning, doormen in uniforms with brass buttons on their coats stand to either side of the doorway. I adjust the drape of my dress, feeling the soft swish of the fabric against my backside, against my bare, still-tingling core. I feel as if everyone who sees me will know I'm not wearing anything under the dress. I even glance down at myself, but... it isn't as obvious as it feels to me.

Logan threads his fingers through mine, pulls me closer to his body, so I'm flush against him. Held up by him. His arm goes around my waist, almost inappropriately low. Claiming me as his.

"You are exquisite, Isabel," he murmurs in my ear. "The loveliest woman in any room. And you're on my arm. Makes me the luckiest man in any room."

"Thank you, Logan."

"I love that you can take a compliment with grace," he remarks.

I'm unsure how I should respond, so I don't.

A ma?tre d' greets Logan by name, guides us to a booth in a shadowed corner of the back of the restaurant. A single candle provides some illumination, but not much. All the other tables are similarly cloaked in shadow, providing privacy for each booth.

I am uneasy. Off balance. This feels right, but... something is off. Within me.

I ignore it.

Peruse the menu.

Logan does not suggest anything, and when the server appears to take our orders, Logan allows me to speak for myself. I like that. Deciding what I want, making my own decisions.

Dinner is long, broken into several courses. I refuse wine, which perplexes Logan, but he doesn't push it, and also does not order anything for himself.

And he doesn't ask why.

I wonder if he will begin to suspect what I fear.

When dinner is over, we return to the limo, which drives only a couple of blocks and then slides to a halt in front of a grand building, soaring arched windows gleaming with blazing light in the night. Red ropes, red carpet laid over the stairs. Someone opens the door, and Logan emerges. Camera flashes sparkle blindingly. He waves, smiles, and then assists me out of the limo. I try to smile, cling to his arm, and tell myself to breathe.

Logan, Logan, who's your date?

What's your name, sweetheart?

Who is she?

Are you two an item?

What are you wearing?

Questions come hard and fast, and Logan ignores them all, nudges me into a walk.

Who is she?

What's your name, sweetheart?

I do not have a real, legal identity. I have no ID card. No social security number. I suppose that information exists somewhere, but I don't know where. Or how to get hold of it. Some research online told me these are the basic ways to establish one's identity. And I do not possess that information.

Who is she?

How would he answer that?

Am I his girlfriend? Are we an item?

This is utter foolishness. Appearing in public, with Logan, where there is media, press. Cameras. Questions.

Former clients, even, perhaps.

In the theater lobby itself, there are more cameras. More posing.

I barely put on makeup.

I'm not wearing panties.

I did my hair hours and hours ago, and I only ran some light mousse through it, finger-styled it. Not expecting to go anywhere, to meet anyone, much less appear at a very public event where I would have my photograph taken a hundred and fifty times per second.

I'm panicking.

Grip Logan's arm with all the strength in my hand, and force breath into my lungs. Force myself to breathe. Expand chest, contract. Breathe in, breathe out.

"You're okay."

"What the fuck were you thinking, Logan?" I hiss this, nearly sotto voce.

"Fake it, Is. You're gorgeous. Flawless."

"I am utterly unprepared for this. What if someone recognizes me as Madame X?"

"We're together now, Isabel. Your name is Isabel de la Vega. That's all that matters now. I won't let anything happen to you."

I feel the back of my neck prickle. Turn, and there is Jonathan. A former client, and sort of friend. Tall, handsome, in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, with a stunning blonde clinging possessively.

A shocked expression mars Jonathan's handsome face.

Moves to stand in front of Logan and me. Mouth works, but no sound comes out.

"Hello, Jonathan." I smile. Pretend to be at ease. Fake it till I make it.

"Madame—"

"I go by Isabel now." I speak over Jonathan.

More shocked silence. "Isabel." Extends a hand, ingrained manners taking over.

I take the proffered hand, intending to shake it, but Jonathan turns my hand palm down and kisses the back. It is an archaic gesture, strange, and out of place. But the way Jonathan does it, it comes across gentlemanly, respectful. I am impressed.

"Pleased to meet you, Isabel." This is said with a dash of irreverent humor.

Jonathan's date is confused. "Jon? How do you know her?" Jealousy, barely restrained, a French accent.

"Isabel and I are . . . former business associates."

"Oh." The blonde relaxes, jealousy assuaged.

True enough, I suppose. Our true relationship to each other would be nearly impossible to explain, even if either of us were inclined to discuss Indigo Services.

Jonathan remembers his manners, once again. "Oh, sorry. Isabel, this is my girlfriend, Brigitte." He says it Brih-ZHEET .

"Pleased to meet you, Brigitte."

"You as well." I am still receiving a cold stare from Brigitte, despite the gorgeous man at my side, arm around my waist, scanning the crowd.

Jonathan extends his hand to Logan. "I think we met, a while back. At the auction."

Logan shakes, firmly, briefly. "Yeah. Logan Ryder."

"Jon." Just Jon. No last name, none of the pretense I saw when Jonathan was my client. He is at ease, confident. Well dressed, polite.

A success, then.

Jonathan and Logan are discussing something to do with business. I've tuned out, thinking about Jonathan when we last met, the arrogant posturing and callow shallow hubris, now turned into pride and confidence and an attractive charm. How I did that. I taught him that. Perhaps Comportment will be a success after all. I vacillate often, sometimes thinking it will be the best thing I've ever done, and other times that I should just give it up as impossible.

I let Logan lead me to our seats.

The opera is not what I expected. It is beautiful, rapturous. Transporting. Logan, however, is impatient.

And even as much as I enjoy the music, the spectacle... seeing Jonathan shook me. Gave me pause. Reminded me.

So I am distracted.

It is over before I know it, and I am following Logan through the crowds, down the steps, to our limousine, which is waiting for us, door open, driver with a hand on the door.

The ride home is quiet. Silent.

Neither of us speaks.

Logan's hand rests on my knee. The closer we get to home, the higher up my thigh his hand goes.

When the driver halts outside Logan's home— our home—he is nearly touching my core.

And I am in a fit of confused, weltering emotion.

Aroused.

Aware that I am—that I might be—

I can't even think it, can't even think the word. Don't. Won't. Can't.

I push that aside. I know I have to face it, but not now.

I'm thrown off by Jonathan. Seeing him with Brigitte, a stunning girlfriend who is clearly possessive of him. Not by Brigitte, but more just... Jonathan. By all he represents. The only one of my clients I've ever really cared about. I'm not even sure why Jonathan's presence tonight has thrown me off as much as it has.

I feel dizzy.

As if life is whirling around me, as if the entire world is rushing in crazed circles just beyond my reach, and I cannot quite find a way to join the frenzy, stuck somewhere in a silent, lonely bubble, at the eye of a hurricane.

Even Logan seems . . . distant.

As if our connection has faded, or changed.

Lessened, or vanished.

Been broken, perhaps.

We are inside now.

I don't remember coming inside.

Logan is in front of me. Looking down at me. "Isabel?"

I blink. Look up at him.

I am afraid of losing him. I'm afraid I've ruined us. That my weakness for you, Caleb, has broken whatever potential Logan and I may have had. The thought of having to make my way without Logan is... impossible. Too painful to consider. I couldn't do it.

And the way he's looking down me, as if I'm... delicate—it makes me panic.

Like he doesn't know me.

And if Logan doesn't know me, who does?

Who am I?

Isabel.

I'm Isabel.

Am I pregnant?

The thought strikes, just as Logan speaks again. "Talk to me, Isabel."

"I—"

No thoughts come. No words.

I can't tell him. I don't even know yet.

"I—I feel lost, again."

"You're right here. With me."

"But I feel like... like there's an ocean between us."

He presses up against me. "I know I said I needed time. And I did. I've had time. That's what this afternoon was about. I'm okay with it all. As okay as I can be. We're here. We're together. We work, as a couple. Even without sex, you and I work, as a couple. Even without sex, I enjoy your company."

"But I feel like there's space between us." A dam is cracking open, words pouring out I hadn't known existed within me. "Like the connection we had is... not gone, but—different. The way you look at me, the way you touched me this afternoon. It was... different. And I just feel... off. Everything feels off, ever since Caleb let me go."

"Isabel—"

"Nothing is right."

"Isabel—"

"And there's so much I—so much I need to say, but I don't know. So much I need to do, but I don't know how. I need an identity, Logan. Even just legally. I'm not really a person, legally. And... inside, I'm just—I'm a mess. And I don't know how to fix it. I love being here, with you. Living with you. Sleeping beside you. Eating with you. But tonight—it was... I don't know."

"Listen, Isabel—"

"I feel like there's so much in the way between us. Caleb is between us. My weakness, where he's concerned. What happened. The fact that he shot you. Almost killed you. Cost you your eye. That's my fault. You can say what you like, but that's how I feel. And that scares me, that there's so much between us, so much inside me I don't know how to express, even to myself. I want us. I want you. I want how easy it was, before. I'm afraid I—I'm afraid I ruined things."

"Goddammit." This is under his breath.

And then he kisses me. Abruptly, almost violently. He takes my face in his big warm hands, and his lips crash against mine. His tongue steals between my teeth.

Heat suffuses me.

I collapse forward, and my arms wind around his neck. I cling to him. Just touching him, thus, it centers me.

I have to touch him. Feel him. Feel us .

I am pushing at him. At his clothes. At his tuxedo jacket. It softly thuds to the floor in the foyer. His back is to the door; the alarm is beeping. Logan reaches past me, jabs at the green-lit buttons, and the alarm goes quiet. Cocoa is whining, barking.

Nothing matters.

I am obsessed. I need him. I need his skin. I need to know that this , the physical, mental, emotional connection that binds us, I need to know it still exists. And right now, the only way I know how to find that is by touching him. Filling myself with his body, his scent, his heat, his hardness. To feel him. To know. To relearn him.

I have his tie untied. Tossed away. Tear at the buttons. I hear one pop and clatter on the floor.

"Whoa, Isabel, honey, slow down a second—"

I kiss him silent. Shove the shirt off his shoulders, and he fumbles with the cuff links, shoves them in his trousers pocket. I have his belt gone now, the buckle jingling onto the floor at my feet. The double clasp and button closure of his trousers, the zipper. He kicks off his shoes and he lifts his feet free, and now, finally, God finally I have him bare, naked in my hands. His abs, his broad back, his hard round ass, the hot rigidity of his cock. I caress him all over, just touching him. Lean in, and kiss him. His shoulders. His throat. His tattoos. His scars. Fondle his erection, grasp him. Stroke him.

Logan gently but firmly pushes me back, stares at me, confused. "Isabel, babe. What's going on?"

"I need you."

I don't think, don't hesitate. Unzip my dress and step out of it, nude now except for my heels, earrings, and necklace. A moment, as he stares at me. Nipples peaked, core wet. I can smell my own desire.

"Logan, I need you," I repeat.

"Why do you seem so . . . desperate?"

"I don't know why, but I am. I'm desperate for you. I need you."

I reach for him, cling to him. Kiss the shell of his ear. His temple. Tug his hair free of the ponytail and spear my fingers through his blond wavy hair. Drag his mouth to mine. Kiss him with every molecule of my being.

"Is this good-bye, Isabel?"

"No," I breathe. " Fuck no. It's—It's..." I pull back but don't let go of him, cling to his hair and his cheek. "It's me saying, ‘Love me,' Logan. Love me. Please... just love me. Show me. Remind me. I need us. I need us ."

He bends at the knees, grabs the backs of my thighs, and lifts. I wrap my legs around him, lean in and devour his breath. Touch my forehead to his as his back hits the door. We groan in unison as he fills me. He moves to kiss me, but I steal it from him. Take the kiss from him. Bite his lower lip as he impales me, seats deep, sunk to the root. Hips to hips. Mouth to mouth. Heart to heart.

"This is what you need, Is?"

"Yes, God yes."

He moves. Carries me to the kitchen, sets me on the island, buttocks right at the edge. Grabs my hips, and pulls. Fills me with a thrust. Breathes onto my lips, groans, and kisses me. Pulls back, his one brilliant blue indigo eye on me, staring at me. Letting me see into him, as he always does, when we're like this. When he's inside me.

Still wearing my black high heels, I use my feet to pull him against me. As if he could get closer, as if it were possible to go deeper. It's not, but I try. As if him being deeper will unite us more. As if feeling more of him, as if being filled more completely by him will bind us more tightly. As if to love him thus—wildly, desperately, furiously—could erase my sins, could cure my addiction.

It won't, but I try.

Oh god, God, gods—I try. To erase, with Logan. To cure, with Logan. To remake myself, with Logan. He is inside me, but yet I am in him. Wound up, delved deep, tangled up, woven in. I writhe then and feel his cock slide through my stretched and burning and aching core, and I lean forward. Collapse against his chest, lips to his breastbone. Curl my hand around his ass and pull. Urge him.

"Love me, Logan."

He moves then. Thrusts. Pulls me closer. I lean back, close my eyes, push my hips against his, angle away. Hook my high heels around his calves and clutch the cool hard round bubble of his muscular buttocks and let him move. Just feel it. Feel him move. Feel him fill me.

But it's not enough.

I push at his chest.

He lifts me, pulls out of me, and sets me down. And now I push him again, shove him to the couch. He falls backward to the cushions, and I fall onto him. Straddle him. Kneel over him. Drape my breasts against his face, drag my aching nipples against his mouth. Reach down between us and guide his cock to my entrance. Don't waste a moment, not a single second. Impale him into me. Sink down on him. Grip his shoulder with one hand and the back of the couch with the other. Knees in the back of the couch, taking my weight. Lift up, sink down. God, so deep. So full. So thick. So much. I lean back, stare down at our bodies as I rise, watch his shaft slide out of me, gleaming and wet and slick and wide, and watch as he thrusts up and buries himself into me, watch as that thick beautiful erection disappears into me. He has my breast in his mouth, tongue lapping at my nipple. Licking my tits. I arch my back and beg him without words to never ever stop doing that.

I ride him, frantic, frenetic, and wild. He grunts, moves with me, but this is all about me. I'm taking this. I need this. This is mine. I cling to him, both hands now. On his shoulders, almost gripping his throat. His hair is loose and wild, in his face. I leave it that way, obscuring him. The patch is black through yellow strands, his eye is ultrablueblueblue. His skin is golden, his hair the color of the noonday sun. Body hard and lean and strong and perfect, and all mine.

I kiss him, quickly. "You are mine."

He laughs. He laughs . "Yes, Isabel. I am yours."

His hands grip my hips and urge me to move harder, faster, to sink him deeper. And this, his hands thus on my hips, it is him saying without words— and you are mine . He doesn't need to say it, and if he did, I would hate it. I've heard those words far too many times from someone not him, and I cannot hear them again, not from Logan. He knows. He sees. So he says it another way, he tells me with his hands. He slides his big rough palms up my torso to cup my big, heavy, bouncing breasts. Mine. He brings one breast to his mouth, kisses it, devours my nipple, the areola; mine. The other; mine. Hands grazing now down my sides, cupping up under my buttocks, gripping them, lifting me, letting me fall down to bury him deepdeepdeep, so deep; mine.

Then—while we move, while he drives up into me, while I sink down on him, while my tits sway and bounce in his face, while he stares into me with his one good eye, the one eye now more arresting and piercing than ever—he puts a thumb to my lips, a palm to my cheek, his fingers through my hair; mine. Grips my hair in rough fistfuls, suddenly, and kisses me so hard I forget to breathe, and thank God for that because in this moment with Logan Ryder I'd rather kiss than breathe, need his kiss this kiss more than oxygen, more than life, more than anything, however elemental.

Because this, us, we are elemental, thus. Bonded, connected, soul to soul;

MINE.

A jealousy, a possession going both ways. Ownership freely given, rather than taken.

I will myself to him. I would with all my soul belong to him and only him forever.

Our movements become ragged. Mine, his, ours. I feel his breath come as gasps. His grip in my hair and on my hip goes bruisingly beautifully rough. If I was loving him—not just moving, certainly not fucking , but loving him —wildly before, now I am primal. Feral. Mad. I even make sounds that aren't quite human. Sounds of need, sounds of utter abandonment. Bliss. Perfection. Beauty. Raw love being created between us.

He is growling.

I am whimpering and whining and snarling and clutching at him everywhere.

A hand in his hair, fisted in his sun-locks. Biting his lip. Eating his breath. Sucking down nipping dipping kisses.

I feel him come, and I explode around him in that precise moment. I feel him release, hear his lion's roar of ecstasy, and I give my own orgasm vent. Loud, crazed. We are clinging to each other. Mouth to mouth, kissing as if kissing were breath, were life, and we were drowning without it. He comes and comes and comes, and I am thrashing above him, squeezing him as he orgasms, undulating above him, driving him deeper and harder as I come so hard I see stars, go dizzy, nearly faint with the shattering power of it.

When he has finished his orgasm, and I have also, I grip his hair in both hands and yank his face back so he cannot but look at me. He lets me do this. Enjoys it. Stares up at me unblinking, unwavering, and roams my body with his hands while I gaze into his soul.

"I love you, Logan." I whisper it, raggedly. "I love you."

A moment, fraught, rife.

And then we're twisting and falling and I'm lying on his chest and his arms around me and holding me tight and he's holding me together. Keeping all my pieces together.

"Isabel... Isabel." A thumb across my temple. A palm on my back, broad and warm and comforting. "I love you."

In that moment, I feel like just maybe things might be okay, somehow, someday.