Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

L ogan is asleep; I am not. I cannot. His digital clock says it is 4:30 in the morning. I should be exhausted. I should be sore. I am sore, but not at all tired. Deliciously sore, perfectly achy. I feel delicate.

On the inside as well as the outside.

I lie on my left side and watch Logan sleep, gaze at the boyish innocence on his face. Absorb the beauty in the slack weight of his muscles as he rests. He's drooling a little, and I've been stifling a giggle at it for an hour and a half now. I half want to wipe it away, but I don't want to wake him, and it's just so cute I can't.

I'm fighting tears. Warring with a maelstrom of emotions. I'm so happy, deliriously happy. Vibrating with joy. Overwhelmed with incredulity.

He loves me. He loves me .

ME.

Logan Ryder told me he loves me.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I consider this, as I relive over and over and over the wondrousness of that moment, hearing those words.

But then I think of . . . everything else.

Caleb.

Caleb's lies.

Caleb's truths.

The complicated, labyrinthine tapestry he's woven of truth and lies, and how I'm not sure I'll ever untangle the two.

How, forty-eight hours ago, a little more now, I was pressed up against the glass of Caleb's high-rise penthouse window, being fucked by him from behind.

How I felt that happening, felt him strangling me with his toxic sorcery, his manipulative magic. How I seemed powerless to stop it. I always have the intention of refusing him, denying him, but I never actually am able to, and I do not understand why. What hold has he over me, that I cannot control my own body? What torture have I put Logan through, with this weakness? What kind of future can we have together, if I am so weak?

How can I ever face Caleb again, now that I've slept with Logan?

Not slept with—made love to.

I've fucked Caleb. Been fucked by him. Had sex with him. Been used by him. I've never made love to him.

I had sex with two men in a forty-eight-hour timeframe. What does that make me?

It doesn't really mitigate things that I enjoyed it with Logan and did not with Caleb, nor that with Caleb it was... not forced, not involuntary, but—I don't know. I don't have the words for it. It felt involuntary. It felt like he was forcing me. But he was not holding me down, wasn't not technically raping me. But yet I wasn't entirely willing, either. I didn't want to want him. I didn't want to be used by him.

I don't want to be his plaything anymore. But whenever he's around, that's how things end up.

I belong to Logan. I've chosen that, chosen him, chosen to belong to him.

But Caleb feels as if he owns me.

What do I do?

I can't stay in bed any longer.

I need to move, need to do something. Anything.

I slip out of bed, tug on my underwear and Logan's VOTE "NO" ON DALEKS T-shirt. Pad out of the bedroom, tiptoeing softly, shut the door behind me. There are four doors in this hallway: the bedroom, the bathroom, Cocoa's room, and one more. I try the one room I haven't seen yet: an office, a simple but beautiful dark wooden desk with a large flatscreen desktop computer, stacks of envelopes and papers, file folders, a white mug full of pens. The mug has a stylized bear paw print on it, surrounded by a red ring slashed top and bottom and both sides with vertical lines, like a rifle reticle, I think, and the word Blackwater across the top. There are photographs on the walls, showing Logan in combat gear, wearing a featureless black ball cap, an assault rifle hanging by a strap, held casually in one hand, barrel pointed at the ground, his other arm around another man similarly dressed; another photograph shows him in more traditional-looking army fatigues, a camo-print cap on his head, surrounded by half a dozen other men posing in front of a mammoth truck. All the photographs are of him from his combat and military days, in pairs or with groups, smiling. Looking younger, harder, and sharper. There is one photograph, though, that stands out. It's in a little frame on his desk, all by itself. A tiny picture, smaller than my palm. It's a much, much younger Logan, barely into his teens, I'd guess, with his arm slung around a Hispanic boy the same age, both of them holding surfboards larger than they are, sporting huge, happy grins. His best friend, the one who was murdered by the drug dealer.

I leave the office; it feels sacrosanct.

Upstairs then.

I pause to stare at the print of the Van Gogh painting on the landing, Starry Night . I feel like I should be moved by this, but I'm not. Or, not as much as I once was. It still has meaning, but it doesn't cage my heart the way it used to. I wish I knew why.

I tread quietly up the stairs and find exactly what I'm looking for: a workout room. The whole upstairs has been opened up, every wall torn down, the load of the ceiling held up by a couple of thick square pillars running the center of the huge room. Every kind of exercise equipment available lines the walls, with free weights in the spaces between the pillars in the middle, and a black punching bag hanging by a thick chain from the ceiling in one corner.

I start with the free weights, doing stretches and lifts in several sets of reps to warm up. I'm not wearing a bra, so my workout will have to be low impact, as my breasts are far too large to run or anything like that without one. I lift free weights for a good thirty minutes, then move to the machines, starting in one corner and working my way around until I'm so weak and tired and sore I can barely move. But it's a good sore, a good tired. I'm drenched with sweat and smelly, so I limp downstairs and rummage in Logan's refrigerator until I find a water bottle, and I take it into the bathroom with me, drinking it as I close the door behind me and run the shower.

I peek in on Logan, who is still asleep, curled up on his side now, one hand under the pillow. I want to slide into bed with him, but I need space and time to sort through my feelings. Not to mention, I stink of sweat now.

I take my time in the shower, running it so hot my skin tingles and aches from the heat, letting it beat down on my shoulders. I try not to think of Logan in here, try not to think of his hand stroking his huge, hard member. To no avail. I can't think of anything else, and I know I'll think of that scene every single time I take a shower here now.

As I'm drying off, I think of my conversation with you. That story. It smacked of truth. If there are lies being told, it's not overt lies, but lies of omission, I think. I'm not sure. The story felt real. Felt true. And you seemed affected by the retelling, distraught remembering. Could you be telling the truth? I don't know. You could be. You very well might be. But there are undeniably elements you are either lying about or leaving out. There was no mugger, of this I'm sure. It was a car crash, as Logan claims. My memories, such as they are, jibe with that story, the car crash. My dreams, too. My dreams do not speak of violence, not the sort perpetrated by a criminal, but the violence of an accident. There is blood shed, yes, but not drawn by a gun or a knife or a fist.

You lie, but speak truth.

You saved me. Stayed with me. You were there when I woke up. You were there every day after that.

I have to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet, as a memory hits me. Not of precoma, but of my recovery. Of you, on a treadmill beside me. You ran, dressed in a sleeveless black shirt and black shorts, earbuds in your ears. You ran, ran, ran. You didn't encourage me with words, but with action. I was walking. I wanted to give up. Holding on to railings for dear life and struggling to merely put one foot in front of the other, to manage a slow walk. I wanted to give up, but then I would look at you and you were still running. As long as I was walking, you were running.

You helped me dress. I remember this, too. When I was released from the hospital, I was still working on coordination, regaining fine motor skills. Dressing myself was a slow, laborious affair, and you were there to help. Never touching inappropriately, never behaving awkwardly at my nudity. But looking back, I do remember you stealing looks, carefully avoiding my eyes and avoiding my skin. Curbing your desire, I now realize.

You helped me eat. Even fed me, in the hospital. And at home, on hard days. On my feet, staying upright, talking, it was all taxing. Just holding a normal conversation was tiring. So at the end of the day, feeding myself seemed like an impossibly hard task. And you would feed me. You never complained. Never showed impatience. You were always there.

You became my world.

The daily exercises to help me regain my mobility became a daily regimen of exercise to build my strength and shape my figure. I lived—not with you, but near you, and you provided everything for me. Food, clothing, entertainment; life. I never questioned it, because I had no idea what I'd do without you, where I'd go. I was so dependent on you. Utterly and completely helpless. I remembered nothing. I was no one. Knew nothing. You never claimed to be a boyfriend or family member. You never explained who you were to me, you were just... there. Stocking my refrigerator and cabinets with food, my closet with clothes. Showing me exercise routines and techniques, bringing me books, by ones and twos at first, and then by the armful, and then by the boxload as my voracity for books grew.

And then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, apropos of nothing, you crept up behind me and I felt your not-quite touch like electricity. And that began a sexual exploration that didn't really qualify as a "relationship." You retained all the control. I was... not quite a slave, but nearly. And, if I am being honest with myself... a willing one. You would use one finger and stroke me to near orgasm, and you would keep me there for... so long. Tickle my clit until I was thrashing, begging, and you would tell me to wait, order me to not come until you told me I could. And if I came before you said I could, the next time you would bring me to the edge and not let me go over it for even longer. You would pin my hands over my head and torture me with near-orgasm for long minutes, what felt like hours. Until I swore I would do better next time.

I never got to touch you. I never watched you come, face to face. You were always behind me. I was always facing away. Face down, stomach to the bed. Knees spread apart. Or on my hands and knees, a pillow under my stomach. Pressed up against the window.

You really enjoy that. Pressing my naked body up against the window, taking your pleasure in me while I'm exposed for anyone to see. As if displaying your trophy, your prize, bragging, saying: Look at what is mine, look, and want, and know that you cannot have her.

I cannot count the number of times I've been taken by you, pressed that way up against the window, breasts flattened against the cold glass.

Why never face to face?

I wondered, but never asked.

It's like you were always hiding from me. But what were you hiding? There were a couple of times, especially more recently, before I left and found Logan, that I got a glimpse of the man you could be. The man who could perhaps be... not gentle, not tender, but very nearly. A man who could almost be intimate. Not merely a conquest-driven sexual dominant, not merely a predator, not merely a primal force of nature. But a man. Not a lover, perhaps, but at least a sexual partner.

I was never your partner. I was your subject. Your possession.

I remember you talking, a few days ago, in your home, about wanting me, about how even when I was a shaved-headed thing, frail and weak and lost, you wanted me. I remember thinking that if I want to truly leave behind Madame X and all that I once was, if I want to assume a new identity, I need to change my appearance.

I don't give myself time to think about it. I hunt in Logan's cabinet under his bathroom sink and find what I'm looking for: electric clippers.

My heart is pounding, hammering in my throat. Can I do this? My hands shake.

I click on the clippers, and the bathroom echoes with their humming buzz. My hand vibrates. I grab a fistful of my thick black hair, which when loose hangs to the middle of my spine. Pull it back and gaze at my reflection, try to imagine myself with no hair. I'm almost ten years older than in that photograph I saw on Caleb's phone. It would be such a drastic change, and part of me rebels against the idea of sliding this device over my scalp, feeling my hair fall away, having no hair at all.

But I need to change. I need to look different. I cannot resemble any longer the creature created by Caleb Indigo.

I fight my breath, blink away tears of I-know-not-what emotion. Bring the clippers closer and closer to my scalp. I feel the teeth whispering against the skin of my forehead.

And then, a mere eye blink away from contact with my hair, Logan's hand encircles my wrist and pulls the clippers away. Tugs the device gently but firmly out of my hand.

"Isabel . . . baby . . . what the hell are you doing?"

I swallow. "I—I was—"

"You were about to shave your head?" He sounds almost panicked.

"Yes."

He tosses the clippers onto the lid of the toilet tank. "Why? I mean... god, your hair is so fucking gorgeous, Is. Why would you shave it all off?"

How honest can I be with Logan? My mouth vomits the truth before I have a chance to really think it through. "I can't be his creation any longer, Logan. He made me. He invented me. I had no choice in what I wore, how I looked. I was a persona; I was Madame X and she was always perfect. My clothing is all designer gowns, dresses, skirts, blouses. Sexy, but modest. And my underwear, even that was chosen by him, for him. You've noticed this before. My hair... he had a woman come every few months to trim the ends of my hair, but I wasn't allowed to cut it. I was given no say in this. She came, she trimmed the ends, and she left. I asked once if she could take a few inches off, and she just ignored me. I have no money of my own, so I cannot buy a new wardrobe. I don't even have a home. But my hair? I can change that. I can take ownership of that."

"But why cut it all off?" Logan threads his hands through my hair, the silky locks slipping like water through his fingers. "I would never tell you what to do with your life or your body or anything, but shaving it all off is just... it seems a little extreme."

"In order to operate on me, the surgeons had to shave my hair off. Caleb showed me a picture of me with no hair. I don't remember this. He says they operated on me and I seemed fine initially, I woke up, remembered myself. But then I started bleeding cranially, my brain started swelling, and they had to put me in a coma. When I woke up from that I'd lost my memory. But that picture? That was me, the last and only photo of me before I lost my identity. That was me as... as Isabel, as the Isabel I once was. The Isabel I used to be. And I want to—I don't know. I want to be her again. I know I'll never get that back. I've had a few minor memories return, but I'll never get everything back. I know that. But I just... I guess I thought by cutting my hair off, I could... regain some of who I used to be."

"I guess that makes sense. You want to identify with who you were. I totally get that. But what if—"

I cut in over him. "It's not just that. It's making myself different. Choosing how I look, for me. To be who I want to be. To look how I want to look, not how Caleb made me. That's what I want, more than anything, I think."

"And I get that too. But... shaving it like that is so extreme. There's an in-between. A way to change your look drastically without going to that extreme." He sighs, frowns. "I've known a few women who have shaved their heads. And I just... I don't know how to put this without sounding a little like an asshole. It tends to take away an element of... femininity. Not that you can't be totally woman, all woman without long hair, but to totally shave it off like you were about to... I don't know. I have a friend who owns a fancy, high-end women's salon. I can take you in to see her and you can get a professional haircut. Go pixie short, even. I just feel like if you shaved it on a whim, you might regret it. And that's not something you can undo."

"I—" A million thoughts batter at the insides of my head, each clamoring for expression. "I want to do it myself."

"Do you trust me?" he asks.

I swallow hard. Do I?

"Yes," I say.

Logan seems to sag with relief after that single syllable. As if he knows how huge that is for me to admit. "Then let's head out. I have a plan."

"But my hair?"

He smiles at me. "Just trust me, Isabel. I'll take care of you."

Then, suddenly, we are both aware that I am standing in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around my torso. The end is tucked in at my cleavage, and now I have to clutch the thick cotton to keep it from falling open. And a glance behind tells me that he is nearly naked as well, wearing only a pair of loose shorts that hang at his hips, showing his sharp hip bones and the V-shaped indent of muscle low on his abdomen, teasing me with an almost-glimpse of his privates.

Our gazes lock in the mirror. My heart thrums. My gut tenses. My thighs clench, and heat rushes through me. Digit by digit, my fingers loosen their grip on the towel. This is déjà vu: me in a towel, Logan shirtless. This time, however, I know what lies beneath his shorts, and how it feels.

I release the towel, an intentional gambit. Stand naked in front of him. My breasts ache, my nipples harden. My flesh pebbles, tingles.

"Jesus, Isabel."

"What?"

He shakes his head. "Just you. You are, literally, perfect." His hands rest on the upper swell of my hips. "I'm standing here, staring at you, and I find it hard to believe that I get to touch you. That I get to kiss you. Make love to you. That I get to even look at you."

Palms skate lower to cup my bottom, graze over the backs of my thighs, circle around front. I cease breathing as his touch drifts upward then. Misses my core by millimeters, carves over my hip bones to my belly. Up, cresting my diaphragm, and then his hands are full of my breasts, lifting them, kneading their softness and hefting their weight, and I'm not breathing still because his thumbs brush almost idly over my nipples. I have to gasp then, because he tweaks and twiddles my nipples until I'm thrusting my chest into his hands, and lighting seems tied by a live wire from my erect nipples to my core, each touch sending blazes of heat and lust coruscating through me.

"Your tits, Isabel. Fuck, they're so goddamn incredible. I can't... I can't get enough of your tits. All of you, but especially your tits." He squeezes them, almost roughly. "What would you say if I told you I wanted to fuck your tits?"

The sudden and unexpected vulgarity has me panting with need. I love his dirty words. Even if it's hard for me to speak that way, I love hearing it. "I would say..." I have to swallow my embarrassment. "I would tell you to do it."

"You would?"

I lick my lips, because they've gone dry with need. All the liquid in my system has gathered between my thighs. "Yes. Do it, Logan."

I spin in place. My eyes lock on his groin, on his erection outlined in his shorts, and it's so large and prominent it's nearly protruding from the elastic waistband. I reach out, slide a forefinger under the waistband and tug it away from his body. Expose him, inch by inch. Tug the silky, stretchy material away, tug it lower and lower. Until his entire massive erection is bared for me. Testicles tight and heavy, dark, nestled at the junction of his thighs. He leans down, lifts my breasts—lifts my tits... I like that word, the dirtiness of it, the lustful juvenility of it—and mouths my nipple. I watch, stare down at him, at his loose, tangled hair and my dark Spanish skin splashed by the golden of his fingers and the pink of his lips. Watch him capture my nipple with his lips and tug it away.

God, his mouth.

I bury my hands in his hair and bring him up to my face, take his mouth with mine. Demand his tongue. Devour his breath. When we cannot either of us breathe, I release him, and then we both watch as I finish baring him. He toes away the shorts, and we are nude together. Dark flesh and golden occupying the same space. I cradle his heavy testicles in my palm, and his breath catches. He watches me now, as I fondle him. Caress him. This is not to bring him to climax, but to show affection. It's for me, selfishly. To feel him, to memorize the sensation of being able to touch as much as I want, to absorb the beauty of his body and know that I can have him, that he is for me. I spread my fingers around him, and my hand seems so small, so tiny, so delicate against the size and thickness and iron-hard rigidity of his member. My fingers do not meet when I wrap them around him, thus. I curl one hand around him, place my other above it, and there is ample flesh above my fingers and below them. I plunge my hands down, and he lets out an involuntary-sounding moan.

"Isabel, fuck. What are you doing to me?"

"I'm just touching you, Logan."

"You touch me... I don't know how to put it." He pauses to think, and to watch as my fists slide up and down his length. "You touch me as if you've never touched anyone before. Like you might never get to again."

I wish I knew how to express the truth to him. I contemplate the most tactful wording, how to put this in a way that won't require using a certain mood-killing name. "That is... pretty much exactly the truth, Logan. I've never had an opportunity to just... touch. Experience. Feel. To just... enjoy. And my life being what it is, I really do not know what the future holds. For me, for us... so I just want to savor every moment." I sink to my knees in front of him. "I want to taste you, and remember the way you taste forever. I want everything with you."

He gazes down at me, his eyes betraying lust, confusion, anticipation, wonder, tenderness. He just watches for a moment as I kneel in front of him and stroke his beautiful penis, and he watches as I taste him, run my tongue up from root to tip. Kiss the broad head, and taste leaking essence. I tilt my head to look at him, watching his reaction as I wrap my lips around him.

His chest expands, and his eyes narrow. His hands flex into fists, and then he threads his fingers through my hair. Gathers it in his fist, wraps my long thick black locks around his palm until he's gripping the mass of my hair at the base of my skull. I think for a moment that he'll take control then, plunge himself roughly into my mouth. I tense in anticipation, and my heart thrums—my physical heart hammers in a nervous drumbeat, and my metaphysical heart clangs and jangles with equal parts glee and fear.

Instead, however, he lifts me to my feet. Pulls me closer, so my body is pressed flush against his, tits crushed flat against his warm hard chest, his cock a thick rod between our bellies. Tilts my head backward. His indigo gaze is fraught with so many emotions I cannot name them all. But they're all there to see.

"No, Isabel." His lips scour mine. His tongue dances in my mouth. "It's me who should be on my knees before you."

There is a wildness within me. A crazed beast that howls for release. A madwoman who rages against the cage of demure propriety that has so long defined me. How, though, do I express this? I want so much. Being with Logan has shown me a glimpse of what I could be like, of the Isabel I could be. The sensual, feral, sexual animal I could be. That I want to be, if only I could be brave enough.

"Logan." I feel like I'm gagging on the tumult of words and emotions. "I want—"

"What, Isabel?" He releases my hair, cups my face in his two large and rough but gentle hands. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to . . ." I struggle for coherency. "I want to be—I want . . . so much."

"Like what?" He brushes his thumb down my chin, toys with my lower lip. "Tell me, baby. Don't be afraid."

"But I am afraid, though."

"Afraid of what?"

I blink, and breathe, and think. And then let myself be honest. "That you won't like who I am, anymore. I'm changing. Every new experience with you shows me something new. About myself. And... in terms of this, you and I—"

"Let me stop you real quick." He leans in, bites my lower lip, the one he's been playing with, and I'm kissed into silence. "Maybe this will help: You're... I feel like you're a butterfly, just starting to come out of her cocoon. I've fallen in love with you already, Isabel, and that won't change. Nothing you could ever do or say will change that. And... the more you emerge, the more I'll fall in love with you. So just... be you . Be bold. Be brave. If you want something, just fucking take it, Is, and don't apologize."

I've already fallen in love with you.

That sentence is jarring. Seven words, and I'm shaken to my core. He says it so casually, so easily. Yes, of course, I remember our moment together pressed naked and sweaty together, whispering words of love into the intensity-laden, rarefied air of his bed. But that was in the moment. Words are drawn out during sex. Things are said. But to hear him say this in a moment of quietness between us, my heart swells to aching, expands to breaking.

"You spoke, before, of worshipping me. And you did." I have to swallow my nerves like saliva. "Now... I want to sin with you, Logan. I want to do bad things. I love it when you're gentle. I need that. But—I also like it when you're a little rough with me. We talked about—what happened. With—you know. When I called you. How I felt about that. And... I know, with you, it would be different."

His jaw flexes. "I just—I know you've been through a lot. And it's not that I think you're delicate, or fragile, but I don't want to ever be anything like him . I don't want to do things that would remind you of anything that happened with him. I hate even talking about him at all, much less in intimate situations like this."

"You're not. You're not like Caleb. Not at all. Even if you did something he did, it wouldn't be the same. Because your intentions are different. What you want, with me and from me and for me, they're diametrically opposed to everything he is, everything he wants."

His erection is subsiding, the heat of the moment dissipating. I'm not sure I want that exact moment back, because we've progressed. Spoken truths. But I do want to retake this time with Logan, make it mine. Let myself have what I want. Give in to my desires. Explore myself.

What do I want? Right now?

My gaze moves out of the bathroom, to the hallway. I remember the first time I truly felt the full force of Logan's lust for me. That hallway, months ago. Me, naked. Him, in nothing but rain-soaked blue jeans. Being lifted, wrapping my legs around his hips and wondering in the deepest corner of my heart what it would feel like to be held aloft that way and have him sink into me.

Be bold. Be brave. If you want something, just fucking take it, Is, and don't apologize.

I take his hand and lead him out of the bathroom and into the short hallway. "Do you remember?" I stand, facing him, naked. Breathing deeply. "The first time I was here, in your home. This hallway."

"It's burned into my brain," he says. "I was so close to just... taking you. A flick of my fingers and my jeans would have been off, and I'd have been inside you."

"That's what I want, Logan."

His eyes bore into mine, and I can almost sense his erection burgeoning. I don't look down to see it, but I can just... sense it. I wait for him. He pushes his body against mine, but instead of stopping when we're flush, he keeps pushing. Until I'm forced to step backward. God, yes. His cock is thick and full. Digs into my belly. Warm, and soft, yet so hard . He keeps walking, and I'm pushed backward another step, until the cold plaster of the wall touches my shoulder blades and buttocks. My head thumps gently. His hand finds mine, right on left, fingers tangling. Left on right, palms mating. He lifts my hands over my head, presses the backs of my hands against the wall. He dips at the knees, feathers a whisper-soft kiss against my lips, another, and a third, and then he bites my upper lip until it hurts. I gasp, and he nips my lower lip. Pulls back, and I lean in to seek a kiss, but he dodges, grins at my mewl of frustration. When I think he won't kiss me, he does, surging closer and claiming my mouth with sudden ferocity. Yet once I find the rhythm of the kiss and sink into it, he pulls back. Bends at the knee, nudges the plump softness of his cock against the juncture of my thighs. I spread them apart, gasping with willing need. He stares into my eyes, hesitates a beat, and then gives a roll of his hips. I feel him punch against me, glans rubbing deliciously against labia. I pant, wanting him in me.

"God, Logan," I breathe.

"How do you want it, Isabel?"

He keeps my hands pinned over my head; our fingers are mated, turning this intimate and loving rather than controlling. I am alive with excitement, wired with need. He rubs his chest against mine, and his chest hair scratches my sensitive skin, my nipples stuttering against his pectorals. Rubs his belly against mine, his cock an iron bolt between our bodies. Kisses my throat, and I tilt my head up to welcome more of that, which he gives me, lips on my throat, just under my jaw, down the outside of my neck, over the pulsing hollow at the base. He bites my earlobe and works his hips, and I feel his erection find my slit. I gasp, lean my shoulder blades against the wall, and widen my stance.

"You want it like this?" He slides into me with exquisite gentility, masterful slowness. Once, twice. So slow, so tender. "Or... like this?"

He pulls out. Straightens. Palms my cheeks and kisses me, desperately, fiercely, unendingly. I cannot breathe for the demanding eroticism of the kiss, the way he owns my mouth and dominates my breath and takes over my entire soul and mind and body with just his mouth, his lips and tongue.

I am abruptly airborne. There is no warning, no transition. Just a release of my hands, and his palms under my buttocks and my legs winding automatically around his trim waist.

"FUCK!" I scream. The vulgar epithet is ripped out of me.

He is in me, crashing into me. The moment I left the ground, his cock slammed up into me with sudden power and I was left utterly breathless at the sudden onslaught, his erection stretching me to a sweet burn. He lifts me again, and then lowers me. This time, it is gentle. A reminder, I think.

"Like this?" he asks. Demanding an answer.

"No," I whisper.

His teeth nip and pluck at my skin, biting the flesh on the slope of my breast, at the side of my neck, worrying my nipple with searing roughness. He grips my buttocks in his hands and spreads me apart and lifts me up and lowers me, once more, gently. Thrusting into me, gently.

He slams his mouth onto mine with a sharp slash of teeth on lip and his tongue slashes mine and he...

There is no other word for it:

He fucks me.

His hips flex and his cock pounds into me roughly. His hands grip my ass with bruising force, splaying me wide so he can fuck deeper. And then his mouth leaves mine and finds my breasts. My tits. He laves them, licks them, not just my nipples but the slope and the undersides and my areolae, licking and kissing. All the while, he plunders me roughly, almost savagely.

"Like this?" he asks, his voice dark and guttural. Rougher than it has ever been.

"Yes, Logan, god yes." I cling to his neck, his shoulders. "Don't stop. Keep—keep fucking me just like this." I feel a bolt of embarrassment when that slips out of me, but then Logan makes a low grumbling growl and suckles my nipple harder and his cock drives into me harder, and I feel a blast of pride.

Oh, so perfect. This. I bury my hands in his hair, grip it tight and hold on. I ride him. I let myself go. Lean back to brace against the wall and moan wantonly, drive my hips against his, seek more and more and more. Ride him furiously, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging his mouth against my tits, encouraging him to suck and bite and lick them yet more. When his teeth pinch sharply at my nipple, I yelp breathily, and he does it again, taking my nonverbal encouragement for what it is.

I savor each fragment of sensation: his mouth wild on my tits, his cock sliding into me, stretching me, his hands clenching my buttocks so hard I'll have marks later—which I'll treasure, I must be sure to tell him—lifting me up and lowering me down, doing so harder and harder with each thrust, until my clit is bumping against his base just so, and I'm crying out nonstop, whimpering in his ear, sobbing my ecstasy to the ceiling.

There is no stopping my orgasm. It is a freight train barreling through me, the earth splitting open under me. I cannot tamp the scream that erupts. I writhe on him, grip his hair so hard I know it must hurt but he only growls like the wolf he is, hard and lean and primal and fierce.

"Logan—Logan . . . oh my fucking god, Logan . . ."

"Touch your pussy, Isabel. Right now, while you're coming all over me." He growls this into my ear.

I wrap one hand around his neck and lean back. He does the same, allowing some room between our joined bodies. His hands lift me, press my ass up and forward, and he continues to surge up into me, demonstrating incredible, breathtaking power and stamina. I reach between our bodies and touch my middle and ring fingers to my clit, just a touch at first. I groan and feel my still-undulating, clenching climax twist and ratchet higher, hotter, harder. God, this. I know exactly how to make myself come hard and fast. So I do. I find the perfect pressure, the perfect circling rhythm. Logan thrusts into me, and I'm whimpering now, sweat sliding down my temple and between my breasts.

Electricity, lighting, heat; there are not enough synonyms for the power that flows through me. I come immediately, and it is as if I am being turned inside out, ripped open and spread apart and tangled up. I feel Logan beneath me and in me and around me, his teeth on my nipples and his hands on my ass and his cock inside my pussy and his hard body blocking out anything but him, anything but us, anything but this climax like a galaxy of stars going nova all at once.

I don't slow or stop, and neither does he.

I didn't know orgasms could exist thus, one after another until each explosion is part of the last, a chain of detonations. I didn't know my mind could splinter from the magnitude of this physical and emotional experience, my soul bursting into fractal shards so the soft vulnerable essence of who I am is exposed and melted and merged with Logan's.

Because he too is fragmenting. Coming apart. Going mad, in this moment. Letting loose all that boils within. His eyes fly open at the moment of his release, and I do not look away, I stare into his very heart as he pours himself into me. I see moisture pooling in his eyes, even as his voice is growling with predatory ferocity, even as his purely male and powerfully masculine body unleashes his orgasm. I feel him break apart.

And I am there to catch every piece and puzzle them together with mine. I kiss him as he comes.

I feel something break inside me, something hot and wet squirting out of me at the exact moment Logan cries out. It is almost embarrassingly involuntary, as if something literally broke open inside my core, drenching both of us where we are joined. I know Logan felt it.

His thighs tremble, and his knees give out. I find my feet as he crumples, and I am so desperate to remain connected to him in this moment that when he lies down on the floor right there in the hallway, I lie on top of him and take his manhood in my hand and play with it as it softens, cradle his heavy balls in my palm and caress those too. Kiss his chest and his chin, his cheek and his lips, his throat and the outer shell of his ear.

"Jesus, Isabel." He is breathless, gasping, pouring sweat. "I didn't know—I didn't know anything could feel like that."

"Me neither."

After a few minutes, he shifts beneath me. "As much as I love having you on top of me, babe, this floor isn't exactly the most comfortable thing to lie on."

I slide off him, stand up, and offer him my hand. He takes it, grinning, and I put all my strength and weight into lifting him off the floor. He's shaky still, sweating, breathing hard.

"Good thing I never skip leg day," he says.

I am reminded, now that the adrenaline and sexual high is wearing off, that I'm sore from my own workout. "You amaze me, Logan."

He shakes his head. "It's you, Isabel. It's all you."

I'm not sure what that means. Only that the way he says it makes my heart melt all over again.

"Now we're both all sweaty," I say.

"And you just took a shower." He twists on the hot water, steps in.

I step in after him. I wish I had something cute and quippy to say, but I don't. I can only lean under the hot spray and let my hands soar over his body, let my eyes close and let him wash me. Let him scrub me, taking far more time than is really needed to get me clean. And when he's done washing me, it's my turn to run the bar of soap over his wet, slippery skin and take all the time in the world to simply appreciate the beauty of his body with my hands.

"We'd better get out soon," he says, "or this is going to turn into round two."

The water still runs hot, and I am still afire with barely sated need. He's woken something in me, I realize. An insatiable voracity.

I lean my back against the marble under the shower head, spread my stance wide, feet far apart. Urge him to his knees. Tangle my hands in his hair and pull his face against my core, writhe my slit against his mouth and keep him buried there until I come.

Again and again and again.

There is no end to the number and the ways that this man can make me come.

And when I'm limp and panting, I let myself collapse to my knees. I remember what he said he wanted to do to me, when this all started. He's hard, by this time. Wonderfully, gloriously hard. Swaying in front of me, wet with shower water. Wet with need. I lick the water away, swipe after swipe of my tongue up his length. Sink my mouth onto him and suck until he's gasping, and then back away. Cup my breasts with both hands and lift them, lean against him. Fit his cock into the narrow space between them and then press them together. He thrusts, and the tip protrudes from between the taut globes, and I take it into my mouth.

"This is what you wanted before, right?" I ask, glancing up at him. "Like this?"

"Fucking hell, Is," he groans, tipping his head back.

"I'll take it that's a yes?"

He looks down at me, his eyes heavy-lidded. "Fuck yes."

I move with him, rising as he pulls back, lowering myself around him as he thrusts up, and at the apex of each thrust I capture his glans with my lips and suckle the tip, lick him, flick my tongue over and around. He's barely even blinking, watching this.

His fingers go to my hair. I'm glad he stopped me from shaving it all off, because I love his hands in my hair, the way he holds on. I'll have to make sure when I do cut it, I leave enough for him to hold on to.

"Mmmm," I moan, when he pulls at my head, urging me to take more of him, "Yes, like that. Take it, Logan."

He surges between my crushed-together tits and into my mouth, harder and faster, and his hands clutch at my hair, gripping the damp mass and holding me in place. All I have to do now is hold on to my tits and take his cock into my mouth. I do so eagerly, loving each taste of him, the slide of his hardness between my teeth and over my tongue. Not going deep, just enough that I can taste him.

I moan now at each slide of his cock between my lips. I moan for him, because when I do his lip curls and he thrusts harder and his cock throbs thicker, and I moan for myself because giving him pleasure and seeing him lose control is bliss to me, is its own form of sexual pleasure. Not the kind of pleasure that leads to orgasm, but the kind of pleasure that can only come from giving something beautiful and incredible to one's lover.

He is my lover.

This revelation stuns me, sends my heart into palpitations. Little things like that have the power to shock me, for some reason.

He takes me. Takes my mouth. Takes my tits.

"I'm about to come, Isabel," he grunts in warning.

I moan around him, humming. Release my tits, and take his cock in my hands. Stroke him slow, gazing up at him. Lips around the broad springy head, tongue fluttering over the very tip.

It's a whim, a last-minute decision to retake ownership of something done to me. To choose something for myself and in so doing erase the ignominy and violation I felt.

I feel him tense, feel him throb between my lips. The decision hits me, and I pull my mouth off him and sink down onto my haunches on the wet marble, shower splattering warm on both of us. He comes, a thick white jet of seed shooting violently out of him and onto my upturned face. I feel it on my mouth, lips, chin. My mouth is open, so it lands on my tongue, salty and musky. On my cheek, running down to my jaw. I stare up at him, blinking through the spatters of water and strings of come, and see that I've shocked him.

I'm up on my knees again, his cock between my tits, and I accept another splash of his come on my lips, licking it away with a glance up at him, feeling powerful and seductive. I did this for me , not for Logan. As a "fuck you" to Caleb and everything he did to me that I didn't choose. It's not something I would want on a regular basis, but I need it in this moment. I am retaking myself. Assuming ownership over my sexuality.

I take Logan's cock into my mouth and wrap both hands around it and pump hands and mouth on him until he's groaning and grunting and his knees are dipping and he's hunched over me. Until he gently tugs me away, up to my feet. Finds the washcloth and wrings it out. Curls his arm around my waist and tucks me to his side, tips my face up, and washes away his seed, kisses me.

"Wasn't expecting that," he murmurs.

"I know. Neither was I. But I wanted to... remove the stigma and negativity of how that felt."

"I don't want you to ever feel—"

I twist off the water as it's starting to go cold, then cut him off. "Logan. I did what I wanted to do. For me. Letting you"—I work up the courage to say exactly what I mean, the way he said it—"letting you fuck my tits... that was for you. Having you come on my face, that was for me. Not because I got any kind of weird sexual satisfaction from it, but... well, you know what happened. I told you. I did that for me. To take it back."

He helps me out of the shower, unfolds a dry towel, and wraps it around me, and another for himself. We each dry off, and then I turn to him as he cinches the towel around his waist.

"Logan? I do wonder, how did it feel, for you? What did you think?" I don't bother with the towel, once I'm dry. I like his eyes on my body.

He lets out a breath. "There's nothing you could do that wouldn't be incredible. But... it was hot. I'm not gonna lie. Seeing you, watching you, watching you take my cock in your mouth, between those big beautiful tits of yours... it was hot as fuck. I swear to god I'll never forget it as long as I live. It's a mental image I could jerk off to until the day I die. Coming on your face... that's a little different. That's not something I've ever really wanted to do before. Just not my thing. I never wanted to make anyone feel like I got off on... something that to me smacks of degradation, I guess. It's a common theme in porn, the come-shot to the face. But I never saw the eroticism in it. Sex, for me, to be really amazing, is about mutuality, mutual satisfaction. And that's what's out of this world about our connection, is that we just... we have this incredible, fucking amazing chemistry together."

He turns it back to us. God, I love him.

Is he real? Or am I dreaming? Is this just a fever dream?

"Do you masturbate very much?" I ask.

He bobbles his head. "Depends."

"On what? Be honest."

He moves into his bedroom, and I follow him. We each dress, and he speaks as he tugs on underwear and then jeans. "Before I met you, I had a few flings. Nothing serious. Not one-night stands, exactly, but... somewhere in between, I guess. Short-term. But... between flings, yeah, I'd jerk off regularly."

"And since you met me?" I don't know what answer I want to hear.

He tugs a T-shirt on, a slightly morbid one, black with a white skull near the bottom, the lower mandible fading into tree roots. A crow perches on the skull, and a red rose grows out of it, and the words Bullet for My Valentine are printed across the top. I eye it with distaste, and he catches my expression.

"No? Too much, huh? Okay." He flips through a drawer stuffed full of T-shirts and pulls out a different one, exchanges them. This one features a man with long shaggy hair, a bandana across his mouth and nose, and a crossbow on his back, with The Walking Dead in large red block letters. "Better?"

I nod. "Yes, much, thank you. That other one was... gross."

He chuckles. "Yeah, metal band shirts tend be a little gnarly, I guess."

"You didn't answer my question," I prompt.

"You really want to know the answer?" He waits until I've tugged my dress on and tied my hair back.

"Yes, I do."

He leans back against the edge of the bed. "First, there's been no one else since I met you. I hope that's obvious. If not, there it is. I've not so much as spoken to a woman who isn't an employee since the day we met at that auction. And—" He sighs, glances at me, and then away. "Every day, sometimes more than once a day, thinking of you, yeah, I jerk off. After we first met, it was just... you . That kiss in the bathroom. I've never gotten so hard from just an innocent kiss before. And you were so fucking sexy, it tormented me. I pictured you in this very room, sliding that dress off... shit, this is kind of embarrassing. I feel like a teenager all over again, talking about this."

"Don't be embarrassed, Logan. Tell me more."

He swallows hard, rubs the bridge of his nose. "And then, after that scene in the hallway there, and we almost—yeah, I thought of that a lot. I thought of just... sinking into you. I'd imagine how fucking tight you'd be. How soft you'd be. I felt guilty about it, too. Dirty. Like I was... defiling you somehow, whacking off thinking about you. But I couldn't help it. I'd try to think of something else, but nothing... turned me on. Not like you. I even tried porn a couple times, which I'm not generally a big fan of, but it just seemed... stupid. Empty. Nowhere near as fucking erotic as you, in my hallway. The way you dropped that towel, practically begging to be shown how beautiful you really are."

"Not practically, Logan. I was begging."

"I couldn't, though." He looks up at me. "I hope you got that."

I nod. "I did, and I do. Doesn't make it easier, but I understood."

"It was self-protection. I felt myself falling for you, and I couldn't let myself get too attached too soon, not knowing how things would shake out between you and Caleb." He ducks his head. Speaks to his shoes. "Even still, I have this…fear. That you'll still go back to him."

"Logan—" I want to reassure him, but he speaks over me.

"I don't fall easy, Isabel. But when I do, I fall hard and fast." He stands up, strides over to me, takes my hips in his hands. "There's no going back for me now. I wouldn't want to, even if I could. This is it, for me. I don't—I don't see anyone ever being able to match you. So just keep that in mind, okay? Do what you have to do. I'll never hold you back if your path leads you away from me. But just—just don't do so lightly, okay?" Logan is an articulate man, not given to stumbling over his words or hesitating. That he does now paints a picture that leaves me near tears. He is a warrior, a man who has seen and delivered death, and narrowly escaped it himself. A man who has been to prison and come out the other side a better person. A man who has been betrayed and can still find the courage to show himself to me, who can allow himself to be vulnerable.

Knowing what I know, knowing what I've done to shake his faith in me—more than once... what courage must it take for him to say these things? It is unfathomable.

" You are my path, Logan."

"I sure as hell hope so. And believe me, Isabel, I won't take a single moment for granted. Not even if we have a fucking thousand years together."

He palms the damp knot of hair at the base of my head and tugs so my face is tilted up to his.

Kisses me,

and kisses me,

and kisses me.

Love is a painful emotion, I'm realizing. It cracks open the walls around my heart. Demands honesty of me. Courage. Vulnerability. Humility. It is not a light, frilly, easy, storybook thing, where the hero and his lady can ride off into the sunset together. The lady must be a warrior as well, willing to face the darkness with him; she must be brave enough to face the demons and dragons alongside her hero if she wishes to see sunrise, let alone the sunset.