Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

T here are no blackout curtains in your bedroom; there is no noise machine. Those are the weapons with which I fight the demons plaguing my sleep. I haven't slept well in the months since moving up here; the nightmares wake me up, and you are always gone.

I cannot wake up, this time. I am trapped in the dream, trapped in the darkness, with sirens howling like wolves in the shadows, rain slicing my face like icy knives. Lights flash, blue and red, white lights piercing the black. Searching. Eyes, searching. Pain stabs me, grips me. I am confused, disoriented. I do not know what happened. All I know is pain. Agony. I burn. My skull throbs, my face aches. My bones shake and my muscles tremble and it hurts to breathe, hurts to sob, hurts, hurts, hurts. I crawl across cold wet hard ground, fingernails scrabbling and ripping away. I do not know where I am trying to go, just away. Away. Away from the pain, but the pain is me and I cannot escape it. I cannot escape myself. The pain is all.

I wake abruptly, sobbing, sweaty. Alone. The penthouse is dark, and silent. I know the various sounds of silence, the silence of someone waiting, the silence of emptiness.

This is the silence of absence.

You are gone.

I am not upset by this. I do not know if I can ever face you again.

I am assaulted by a wave of memory: your fingers in my hair, my jaw cracking wide and your essence on my tongue.

I barely make it to the bathroom in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Acid burns my throat, bitter and hot. Coats my tongue, my lips. Drips down my chin. I rinse my mouth with tepid water from the tap, then brush my teeth again and wash my face with hand soap.

I am exhausted, seeing as what little sleep I did get was wracked by the nightmare and provided no rest. I am slow, sluggish, lethargic. Empty. Numb. As if by vomiting, I purged myself of any capacity to think or feel.

On autopilot, I dress myself. Black lingerie, because I do not own anything except lingerie. A simple dove-gray dress, A-line, knee-length, with a wide crimson belt and matching red pumps. I brush through my hair and leave it loose in glossy raven-wing waves. I do not know why I am getting dressed. I do not know where I intend to go, only that I cannot stay here any longer.

As I near the elevator, I trip in the darkness over a pile of cloth, and my toe kicks something hard, which skitters across the hardwood floor. I retrieve it.

The cell phone.

I lift it, press the circular button at the bottom. The screen lights up, showing the time—8:48 p.m. —and the date—September 18, 2015. Beneath that, there is a green icon. Next to the icon is a name: Caleb. And beside that is a line of text: the code to access the phone is 0309, the date you left the hospital.

I touch the icon and swipe it to the right, and a keypad appears, prompting me to either touch ID or enter passcode; I enter the numbers, and the screen appears to fly at me as it shifts to show the message. I see the message from you in a gray bubble on the left side of the screen. I touch the thing that looks like an Internet search bar, and a keyboard appears.

I type a message in return: Thank you.

Three gray dots appear in a bubble, and then a message pops up. Youre welcome. The lack of an apostrophe to denote the contraction irks me.

I'm leaving, I type.

Where

No question mark, just the single word. I didn't expect such poor grammar from you.

I do not know. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that is not where you are.

I'm sorry, X. I went too far.

Yes, you did. Much too far.

Do you need money?

You are letting me go? I don't know what to think about this, what to feel. It is odd to be using a cell phone, to be doing something so mundane as texting. I've seen you do it, I've seen clients do it. I never thought I would do it.

I do not want anything from you, Caleb.

Everything you have comes from me, X.

My name is Isabel. And yes, I know that. If I could walk out of here naked, with nothing but my skin, I would.

You wouldnt make it far in that state

No apostrophe, no period. Why? Is it hard to take the extra time to add them? I don't understand. I notice, as well, that you do not address my statement of my name.

No, I would not.

Have fun with Logan. It won't last.

I don't know what that means, and I'm not sure what I can respond with, so I don't respond at all. I have seen you use your phone—which is the same as this one except yours is black—so I know that the button on the right side near the top turns the screen off. I clutch the phone in my hand and notice that the elevator key is in the slot. I twist it, remove it when the doors open, and take the elevator down to the lobby. I debate whether to take the key.

If I take it, it would be a concession. It would mean I plan to return.

I don't.

I see a security guard I recognize standing beside the receptionist desk. Frank? I think that's the right name. I cross the lobby, my heels cracking loudly on the marble.

The guard eyes me suspiciously. "Ma'am."

"Frank, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am." Tall, round-shouldered, heavy brows, square jaw, shaved head.

I extend the key. "Give this to Mr. Indigo, if you would."

"Won't you need it, ma'am?"

"Not anymore." I don't wait for a response, I spin on my heel and pretend to confidence I don't feel as I stride out through the revolving door.

Turn right, up Fifth. Try to breathe. Try to ignore the noise, ignore the panic.

Try to ignore the fact that I am alone in the world. I have nothing but my name. Even the clothes I wear are yours, the phone, the shoes. Even my face belongs to you, since you paid to have it fixed.

I am reminded, then, of the chip in my hip. Is that real? Is that possible? I make it two blocks up and three blocks over before my nerves overcome me. I huddle against the side of a building, clutching the phone so hard my hand hurts.

Swipe right; 0-3-0-9; contacts; Logan.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

"Logan Ryder." His voice alone soothes me.

"Logan? It's me. It's"—I have to suck in a breath—"it's Isabel."

There are voices in the background, a phone ringing. "Sorry, it's crazy at the office right now. Hold on, let me go somewhere quiet." I hear a door click closed, and the background noise fades. "Are you okay?"

"No. I—I left."

"Left?" You suck in a breath. "You mean you left , left?"

"Yes, Logan. I walked out." My voice quavers. "I... Caleb, he... we—he did something. To me." I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about that, yet.

"And he let you leave?"

"He gave me a cell phone, and even programmed your number into it."

"So he can track you, probably."

"He told me he had a microchip surgically implanted in my hip. So I don't think he needs a cell phone to track me."

"Are you joking?"

"Humor is not one of my strong suits, Logan."

"Goddamn. That's fucked up. Like really, really fucked up."

"I know." I fall silent as a man sidles past me on the sidewalk, eyeing me with something like greed in his gaze. I give him my best glare, and he continues past me. "Caleb, when I told him I was leaving, all he said was to have fun with you, and that it wouldn't last."

"I wonder what game he's playing," he muses.

"I wish I knew." A phone rings in the background. "Do you have to answer that?"

"No. That's why I have employees," he says. "Where are you?"

"I don't know. A few blocks from the tower. I don't have anywhere to go. I don't know what to do. I didn't want to just go running straight to you, but I don't know what to do."

"Of course you should go straight to me. I'm here for you, Isabel."

I like that. Oh, I like it very much. Hearing my name on his lips. A normal name. A beautiful name.

"Can you come get me?" I ask.

"I—shit. Fuck. I can't. God, honey, I'm so sorry. I'm at the tail end of a fifteen-million-dollar acquisition." He curses again, fluently. "My office is on Ninth and Forty-fifth. Can you make it here?"

"Yes. I'll call you again when I'm at the intersection?"

"All right. I'm sorry, normally I'd drop whatever I'm doing, but I have to be physically present for this one."

"No, it's all right."

"It's not. I don't even have a car to send for you. I keep things simple, you know?"

"Simple is good. I'll make it."

"But your panic attacks—"

I try to infuse strength into my voice. "I'll have to work through it."

"One breath at a time. One step at a time. Baby steps to Logan."

"Is that another reference to that movie?"

"Yes."

"I still haven't seen it, you know. I've never seen any movies."

"Make it to my office, and we'll set about rectifying that."

"Okay." I take a breath. "I can do this."

"You can do this." I hear a voice in the background call Logan's name urgently. "I have to go. Call me if you need me. I swear I'll answer, no matter what."

"Okay. Now go do your acquisitioning."

He laughs. "See? You do have a sense of humor. I'll see you soon, okay?"

I end the call, to save him having to. I look up at the nearest intersection, at the signs. Seventh and Forty-fourth. Two blocks up, one block over. I can do it.

I push away from the wall. Straighten my spine. Lift my chin. Breathe deeply. One foot in front of the other. Ahead, a siren blares, and I flinch, and my breath lodges in my throat, but I force my feet to move. One foot forward. Follow it with the other. One step after another. Keep breathing. Ignore the people. Wait at the intersection for the light to change, a crowd around me. No one is looking at me. I am just another face in the crowd. Anonymous. It feels good.

I make it to Forty-fifth, but then I can't figure out whether to turn right or left. I choose left, and discover that I've chosen incorrectly when I reach Sixth Avenue. I turn around and retrace my steps, wading through the ever-present crowds, wincing and flinching as my shoulder is jostled, ignoring the hammer of my heart in my chest, trying desperately to pretend I'm okay. Fake it till you make it, Logan told me. I'm trying to fake it, but it's hard. The city is loud, horns always blaring, lights blinding. The people are myriad.

I'm crossing Eighth when a young man runs across the street, arms flailing, glancing behind, running frantically. He slams into me, sends me flying, twisting. I hear a shout, and a mammoth horse gallops across the intersection, a policeman on its back. I am in its path. I am still off balance, arms windmilling, stumbling. My shoe has come loose on my foot, and my ankle twists.

A hand grabs me, jerks me out of the way at the last second.

I am pulled against a hard chest smelling sharply of cologne. I look up into the cold gray eyes of Len. Big, broad, craggy features, a man like a stone golem made flesh, but barely.

"You're here?" I ask.

"He had me follow you. Make sure nothing happened to you." Len gestures at the horse and rider in pursuit of the criminal. "Like that."

"I don't need your help," I say.

"You were almost trampled."

I will not resort to petulance. "Thank you for your assistance, Len."

"No problem. Those fuckers will run you down and not even blink twice."

"I suppose you're reporting my whereabouts?" I say, noticing the wire looped around an ear, the cord vanishing under the suit.

"Don't need to. He knows where you are."

"Of course he does. He always does."

Len just shrugs. "How he is, I guess." A gesture in the direction I was going. "Might as well walk with you now."

There isn't much to say. Len is a man of few words, and I am lost in my own mind, focusing on keeping down the panic.

When I reach Ninth and Forty-fifth, I stop. Dial Logan. "I'm here," I say, when he answers.

"Be right down."

He emerges from a doorway between shops, across the street from me, on Forty-fifth. His eyes narrow when he sees who's with me. He glances both ways, then jogs across to me, eyeing Len warily.

"You didn't say anything about Len being with you," he points out.

"I didn't know he was. I was almost run over by a police horse, and Len saved me."

"Orders from the boss," Len says.

"Well, she's safe now." Logan reaches for me, and I take his hand.

Len just nods. "I'll be seeing you." Turns, walks away.

Logan watches as Len vanishes into the crowds. "‘I'll be seeing you?'" he repeats. "That's not ominous or anything."

"Len is an ominous sort of man," I say.

"No kidding." Logan's eyes find me, compassion fills his gaze. "You're about done in, aren't you?"

I can only nod. I am holding it together by a string.

Logan leads me across the street, his arm around my waist. I lean into him, inhale his scent. He is chewing cinnamon gum, but I notice the outline of a pack of cigarettes in the right hip pocket of his tight blue jeans. I notice odd details, as he leads me to his office. His shoes, old, worn Adidas sneakers, faded, scuffed, the fabric worn nearly through near the toe of one shoe. Why would a wealthy man like Logan wear such old shoes? I notice a watch on his wrist, a huge black rubber thing that looks like it could take a bullet and not suffer any harm—the only watch I've ever seen him wear. His hair, pulled back in a ponytail, low on his nape. With his hair pulled back, his looks change. Sleeker, a little older. I notice wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, from smiling, and from squinting in the sun.

I remember that he spent time fighting in the desert overseas.

I notice graffiti on the wall, on a mailbox. A homeless man huddled in a doorway, watching everything but somehow seeing nothing.

I notice Logan's T-shirt, black and tight-fitting, with a white skull painted on the front, the jaw depicted as four vertical lines extending down to the hem, the eye holes made into angry slits.

Looking at him, it isn't readily obvious that Logan is a multimillionaire. Which, I suppose, is the point. He keeps things simple.

He leads me up three flights of narrow stairs and through a door. On the other side is mayhem. It was once a large apartment, but the interior walls have all been removed, leaving the room open. The desks are tall, and none of the employees are sitting, because there are no chairs at any of the desks, so everyone at a desk is doing his or her work standing up. Instead, there are beanbags scattered here and there, thickly padded leather couches filling spaces between desks along the walls. The apartment is a large rectangle with desks lining the walls on the two longest sides. One of the short sides is composed of bathrooms, a break room, a printer/copier/office supplies room, and a conference room, and the opposite end is a giant bank of televisions, each playing something different. One TV shows music videos, with the sound on low, something driving and heavy, the band members flailing long hair and hunched over guitars. Others show sports highlights, news clips, and stock tickers, an old sitcom on mute. There is a white game console on the floor, wires trailing up to one of the TVs, with handheld controllers in the hands of two young men intently focused on their game, which involves shooting some kind of dead creatures.

This is not what imagined when I thought of Logan's office.

The office is in chaos. Four people speak loudly into phones, six more are sitting in a circle on some beanbags and a couch, passing documents back and forth and conducting at least three different conversations at once. The young men playing the video game are shouting at each other, cursing and laughing.

A young woman approaches Logan. Short, curvy, wearing a sleeveless V-neck dress, baring skin completely covered in tattoos, so there is virtually no blank space visible anywhere, not even on generously visibly cleavage. "Logan, Ahmed is on the phone. He's got an addition to paragraph two of clause four-A."

A young man shouts from across the room: "Logan! The intellectual property rider is totally fucked, man. We'd be allowing them almost total control over future projects if we leave it as is."

Logan addresses the young woman. "Tell Ahmed I'll take a look and call him back. Get me a printout, and your thoughts on his additions." He points at the man across the room. "So fucking fix it, Chris! What the fuck am I paying you for?" He then glances at me, and for the first time I see a hint of stress in his eyes. "Sorry, X—I mean Isabel. Things are whacked out right now. This acquisition landed in our laps on Monday morning, and I'm trying to get it ironed out before the weekend."

"It is the weekend, Logan," I point out. "It's after nine on a Friday night."

"Exactly. But the company we're acquiring is in California, so it's only six there."

"Don't acquisitions usually take months?"

"Usually. But they're desperate, and these kids kick ass." He points at the conference room. "Let's go in there. It's quieter. They can handle shit on their own for a few minutes."

I am numb.

I feel nothing; I am not panicked. I am not scared. I am not tired. I do not know what I am. I should be upset, I should be... I don't even know what I should be.

I don't know what's happening.

Logan leads me into the conference room, shuts the door, and twists a rod to close blinds. It is dark, suddenly, and quiet. There are no lights on in the conference room, so the only light is the ambient glow streaming in from the windows. The room is cool, air blowing on my skin from overhead. Most of the room is dominated by a long rectangular table and chairs, but there is a sectional couch in one corner. He takes a seat on the couch, and I sit beside him. I want to curl into him, nuzzle against him and forget everything.

He really must be telepathic, because he wraps a long arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. At first, I only allow myself to lean against him. But I cannot sustain the fa?ade for long, and I slump. Slide lower and lower, until I'm lying on his lap. There is nothing sexual about this. His hands sweep my hair aside, and then his fingers dig into my shoulder muscles and knead them with a firm but gentle touch. I moan involuntarily, melting under the massage.

"Just let go, Isabel. Relax. Let it all go."

"Caleb, he—"

"Hush, babe. Not now. There's plenty of time to tell me everything. For right now, you just need to relax."

"I don't know how," I admit.

"Don't think. Don't feel. Just focus on the feel of my hands."

I try it. I push aside the whirlwind of thoughts and shove down the maelstrom of emotions, and focus on Logan's hands on my shoulders, between my shoulder blades, down my spine, thumbs pressing into my lower lumbar, working back up. It isn't until he begins massaging me that I am even aware how tensed I am, that my muscles are all knotted up into painful boulders of stress. Moment by moment, however, I feel myself relaxing.

I smell him, faint cologne, deodorant, cinnamon and cigarettes. I feel his breathing, his chest expanding and retracting.

My breathing matches his.

I fade.

I feel a sense of spatial distortion as my eyes close, as if I'm tipping forward, as if my consciousness is leaving my body. I am heavy, limp. I spin, twist, tilt.

Logan's fingertip trails over my cheekbone, slides around my ear. I feel it distantly.

I am moments from succumbing to sleep when I hear him speak.

"You're safe now, Isabel," he murmurs, "I won't let you go. Not again."

I believe him.

He shifts, and my cheek touches leather warm from his body. Moments later, something warm and weighty is draped over me.

I have never been more comfortable in my life.

I let go.

I wake sobbing.

Nightmares of sirens and flashing lights and a pair of cold cruel dark eyes staring haughty and inscrutable down at me as I am used like a receptacle. Nightmares of a perfect body pinning me to an elevator door. Sorcery, stealing my will, manipulating my desires, cool silk of a tie wiping my face. Rain cold and wet and windblown, shifting shadows and blood and pain.

My dream is pervaded by a voice: "Isabel, you're okay. It was just a dream."

Who is Isabel?

The voice is in my ear, soft and tender and warm. "I'm here, Isabel."

Oh, it's me. I'm Isabel.

I am Isabel; I have to remind myself that it is true.

I am lifted, cradled. I hear a heartbeat under my ear, feel soft cotton under my cheek. I am lying on top of him, as if he is my bed. His hands smooth in caressing circles on my back.

I cannot stop sobbing.

My eyes burn with hot tears, and I try to stop them, but I can't. "L-Logan—"

"Ssshhh. It's okay. I'm here."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—I can't—can't stop—"

"Don't apologize, sweetheart. Cry if you need to. I've got you. I won't let go."

I can only cling to him and cry. My whole body shakes with shuddering, wracking sobs, as if a lifetime of pent-up tears are being ripped out of me wholesale.

I don't know how long it lasts. Minutes? Hours? A measureless time of weeping. I think I have cried more in the last twelve hours than in all my life.

Eventually, I am able to breathe normally and the sobs and shudders fade.

I remain still, barely breathing now.

On top of Logan.

Aware of him, suddenly.

Completely attuned to every inch of him, stretched out beneath me. His arms around me, his chin tucked against the top of my head. His denim-sheathed thighs beneath mine, thick and hard. His breath on my hair. His hips nudging mine. My hands on his pectoral muscles, my breasts crushed against his sternum.

There is a shift then. A charge to the air. Electricity crackling.

And now, between one breath and the next, it is sexual, the way I'm lying on him.

I can't breathe again, but for a different reason.

I can't breathe for wanting him.

Needing him.

"Isabel . . ." he breathes.

"Logan—"

"I need you to get up," he says, and it isn't what I expected. "There are still some people working out there, and in a few more seconds I'm going to forget that."

"What would happen if you did, Logan?" I ask. I don't recognize the daring, the boldness, the raw hunger in my voice.

His fingers twine gently into my hair and pulls, tipping my face up to his.

It's me, this time,

kissing him,

and kissing him,

and kissing him.

My fingers wrap around the back of his head, clinging to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, pulling myself higher on his body, needing needing needing to be closer to him, to press my lips more completely against his, to taste him, to feel him. I breathe him. His hand, resting on my back, slides lower. I arch against him, press my body against his. There is no part of me that isn't touching him. I pause to breathe, gasping against his lips. I want more of me to touch more of him. I want all of him, all of me, all of us.

I crave completion, of a kind only Logan can provide.

He feathers his mouth against mine, a teasing brush of lips against lips, heat of breath on tasting tongue.

"That will happen," he whispers.

"Oh," I murmur.

"Yeah, oh." His fingers are tangled in my hair, applying gentle delicious pressure to my scalp, keeping my face tilted to his. "And now I can't stop."

"I don't want you to."

"I have to," he says. "Or there won't be any stopping at all."

"Logan . . ."

"I want you. I need you. But Isabel, you deserve better— we deserve better—than on a couch in my conference room, with a dozen people on the other side of the wall."

I ache. "You're right."

His erection is a thick presence between us, pressing into my belly.

I can't help but to writhe against him, to clutch his strong neck and seek more of him, to touch my lips to the edge of his jaw, inhale his scent and revel in the rough sandpaper of his stubble against my lips and sensitive skin.

He groans, a low rumble in his chest. I feel his palm cup my back, fingers dimpling across my spine, and now his touch slides lower. Lower. I don't dare breathe for the anticipation, waiting with aching lungs and thighs pressed tight together in a vain attempt to curb the pressure in my core. I wait, and exhale in delight as his palm ascends to follow the curve of my bottom. He murmurs wordlessly as his palm moves over the mounded taut muscle and squeezes.

"Jesus, Isabel." His voice sounds broken. "Your ass is amazing."

That compliment, those four words from this man, it means everything to me. I want to be the crux of his desire.

His other hand leaves my hair and steals down my spine to caress the other side of my bottom, so now both of his powerful hands are cupping my backside.

I have no coherent response to his statement, so I only writhe against him, kiss his cheekbone, clutch the back of his head with both hands and seek his mouth.

We kiss, and I know the taste and texture and glory of heaven.

Somehow, in my writhing, the hem of my dress rises. Rides higher. And then Logan's fingers tug the material up and his touch is against the bare skin of my bottom where it is revealed in the cut of my underwear, which is little more than a strap of lace across the upper swell of my backside and a triangle of silk over my core.

I press my knee into the couch, lifting my leg higher. Opening for him. Encouraging his touch to explore.

"How am I supposed to resist you when you do shit like that, Isabel?" The way he says my name feels like a verbal caress, as if his saying my name, those three chosen syllables, is a validation, an act of love.

His cupping hands carve lower, so his fingers tease the edges of my thighs, drifting lower and closer to my center. I can't breathe, oh god, I can't breathe, my lungs are seized and the only breath I can find is his. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, because I am dying from the ache within, the need burning like the seed of a star, the desire igniting like a nascent supernova.

"Don't resist, Logan," I whisper, belatedly.

He does not resist.

He exhales, the heat of his sigh bathing my lips. Fingers dare, traipse, delve. I bury my face into his throat and cling madly tightly fiercely to the column of his neck and the hard curve of his head, and push my knee higher. Fingertips, three of them I feel, dancing over the thin strip of silk, tugging it aside.

One finger, sliding into my cleft. I whimper against his skin. Quietly, desperately. That finger, thick and wonderfully rough, glides deep through wetness and through heat. Draws my essence across tender pink flesh and smears it over the throbbing bud of my clitoris. Pleasure jolts through me with such sudden ferocity that I involuntarily bite him, and he grunts.

"Sorry," I whisper, kiss the flesh where my teeth left indents. "I didn't mean to."

"Kitten's got teeth," Logan murmurs.

"I'm a lioness, Logan, isn't that what you told me?"

He rumbles a laugh. "I did say that, didn't I?" His finger delves into me once more, and I gasp. "Can you keep quiet?"

"I can try," I whisper. "But I might bite you again."

"Fine with me. I'll just bite you back." He places his teeth on the delicate skin on the side of my neck and bites down with exquisite gentility.

"That wasn't even a bite," I say.

"Of course not. I would never do anything to actually hurt you."

And then he withdraws his finger and smears it over my clitoris again, and I can't help but moan, muffling it against his throat. Again, finger sliding in, pulling out, rubbing over me. Again and again and again, until I'm aching with need for him to do more, touch me more.

"Logan," I whimper, "please . . ."

"I know, baby. Soon." Two fingers now, and I am breathing heavily against his throat, clutching his hair, his head, his shoulders.

My hips drive, seeking more.

Despite his promise of "soon," it is not soon. He draws it out. Explores me, scissors his fingers, thrusts them in, exploring my depth. Drawing out, testing the sensitivity of my clitoris, slipping it between his fingers, rubbing it, flicking it, pressing against it, touching me and touching me and touching me, but not enough that I can find release.

The more he touches me, the wilder my hips become. I bury my face in his flesh and moan ceaselessly, muffling the sound in him. At some point, the aimless thrash of my hips becomes a grinding, and god, finally, he fills me with three fingers and I grind against them, ride them.

Wantonly, I seek my release on his hand.

"Oh god, Logan..." I moan, and it is not a quiet sound.

"Sssshhhhh, baby. Hush. Bite me if you need to."

My teeth find the round part of his shoulder and sink in, and I taste salt flesh and flick my tongue across it, and the taste of him, the feel of his flesh and muscle under my mouth drives me even more wild. My entire body is rocking downward, pushing my core onto his fingers, driving the building tsunami of my orgasm to manic threshold.

I whimper, teeth locked onto Logan, and grind hard and fast around his fingers, which he thrusts into me.

And then, as I am close to losing it, he pulls them out and smashes them against my clit and I involuntarily arch my back, biting down on my scream so hard my molars ache. Logan's mouth finds mine, his tongue parts my lips, and he swallows my moans as I come apart. Heat blasts though me, lightning strikes my core and sizzles up throughout my body, curling my toes and causing my stomach to tense and my thighs to quiver, and I can only ride his touch with everything I possess, screaming into his breath, trying to quiet myself and failing.

"God, Isabel, baby, you come so beautifully," Logan murmurs. "I can't wait to watch you writhe like this naked for me, I can't wait to make you scream out loud."

His voice is catalytic, and I don't know if I come again, or if it's another wave of the first, but I am seized anew and his fingers are whirling faster than thought around my clitoris.

Finally, I am seeing stars, the orgasm fades, and I am left limp and wrung out, gasping. "Logan, my god Logan." The way I say that, it is ambiguous. It could mean that Logan is my god, that he has consumed my world and my belief, or it could just be a rushed-together colloquialism.

I am fully clothed, and so is he, and I've just come harder than ever before, harder than I thought possible.

Logan grabs the back of my knees and tugs them tight against his body, pulls me closer, and then rocks up and forward so I am flipped to land on my back. His eyes are hot, blazing, fierce, wild. His chest heaves, as if his control is hanging by the thinnest thread. He leans over me, his hair coming loose from the ponytail, blond curls and waves hanging over his shoulder. He dips down, kisses me. Deeply, thoroughly, so I am left utterly breathless and in no doubt as to his intentions.

Leaning back on his knees, he lifts his fingers to his mouth. I can only stare in amazement and confusion and crazed heated desire as he fits his index finger—the one that was just inside me—into his mouth and sucks my juices off. He repeats this with each finger that was inside me, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Really, Logan?"

He grins. "Really, Isabel. You taste amazing. I can't wait to have my mouth all over you."

I exhale shakily. "What do I taste like?" I hear myself ask, and it's a question I've long wondered but never had the courage to ask.

In previous encounters, questions and talking in general were... discouraged. My voice was heard only when I was commanded to raise it.

Logan doesn't answer, at least not in words. He pulls aside my underwear, slides a finger into me, smears my essence, and then brings that digit to my mouth. I smell musk, a sharp smell with a tang to it. And his finger moves between my lips, mirroring the way he just touched me down below. I taste his skin faintly and myself strongly.

"That's what you taste like," he says, then rises to his feet. His hands grasp mine and he hauls me upright. "Time to go."

"Where are we going?" I ask, even though I know.

"My place."

I can't help but glance down at the front of his jeans, which are visibly tented. I move toward him, wrap my arms around his neck, and then let a palm trail down his chest to the waist of his jeans. "Let me help you, first."

He grabs my wrist, gently but firmly, and pulls my hand away. "I don't think so, Isabel." He tugs me sharply so I land flush against his chest. "All I care about is making you feel good. I could, and nearly did, come in my pants just watching you. When I've got you naked in my bed, I'll get mine, trust me."

"Doesn't that ache? To stay hard like that?"

He shrugs. "A little. It'll fade, and I'll be none the worse for wear."

"I want you to feel good too, Logan."

His lips touch my throat, under my jaw, the corner of my mouth. "I will." He puts his mouth to my ear and whispers. "I want you so bad, Isabel, so bad it hurts. But I also value our privacy enough that I'll wait until I've got you alone at my house to let this go any further. If you touch me, any remaining vestige of control I might have will be gone."

I'm frustrated, because my need for him is spiraling out of control. I want his flesh, I want to touch his hardness, taste him, feel him. I want him more than I've ever wanted anything. Nothing matters but him.

Nothing matters but us .

This is about us, too. Not just him, not just me, but the both of us as a single entity, and that fact in itself is drunk-making.

He takes my hand, threads his fingers through mine. Leads me out of the conference room. It's night, but what time I don't know. The lights are dimmed low so the TVs provide most of the light in the office space. Pretty much everyone is still present, although all of them except three people are asleep on couches and curled up in beanbags. The three left awake glance at us as we exit the conference room hand in hand, and all three keep their expressions carefully blank and return a bit too studiously to the documents they're poring over.

I lean closer to Logan. "I think they heard us," I whisper.

He chuckles and squeezes my hand. "Actually, honey, I think they heard you ."

I blush furiously. "I'm sorry, Logan. I tried to be quiet."

"No worries," he says as we exit the building and he leads me down Forty-fifth to his vehicle. "They'll be adults about it or they'll find another job."

"I don't want to cost anyone their jobs," I say. "It's my fault I was loud."

"It's my company, my conference room. And also, I'm pretty sure I heard Beth and Isaac in there yesterday. Either that, or they were watching porn together instead of working."

"You let your employees have sex and watch porn while working?"

"Hell no." His truck, a big silver box on wheels I've been in once before, is parallel parked half a block away. It's a Mercedes-Benz G63 AMG, I note. I wonder how much it cost; a lot, is my guess. "The computers and other devices provided by the company are for work use only, and I carefully monitor that. Porn is how you get wicked viruses, for one thing, and I don't mean of the STD variety. As for sex, as long as they're discreet and it doesn't affect their working relationship, I don't give a flying fuck what they do, or where they do it."

"You're a good boss," I say, buckling in.

"I try. Basically, I remember how shit ran in the army, and I try to be exactly the opposite." He laughs, although I don't quite get the joke. "That's only partially true. I learned lots of valuable skills in the army, including how to run a tight-knit group of people. You give them a small number of hard-and-fast rules that cannot be broken, and leave everything else up to them. In the atmosphere I've created up there, I can use a small space and a relatively small group of employees to get a ridiculously massive amount of work done. I pay them a fuckload of money, keep the mood loose and relaxed, let them work on their own time and at their own pace, sitting, standing, lying down, buzzed, whatever, as long as the quality of their work remains consistent."

"Must be nice for them."

"I hope so," he says, checking oncoming traffic and pulling out into the street. "That's the point. I want them to want to come to work. I require long, crazy hours, which usually entails sleeping at the office during sixty-hour marathon sessions like this one, but I pay triple overtime and huge bonuses at the end of projects like this. What you saw is my entire company, the core of it. I've got a couple other subsidiary offices in the city, and some others in L.A. and London, but those are all totally self-sufficient and don't require any input from me. Those kids up there, they're my business. All the subsidiaries, all the offshoots and spin-off branches, they run it all."

"They must work nonstop." I don't even try to follow the series of turns Logan takes to get home. I just enjoy the fact that as soon as he finishes a turn, his hand takes mine again and threads our fingers together.

His hand feels natural in mine, and that makes my heart hammer.

"They do. Sixty hours a week is standard fare, eighty or more common. And when we have a huge project like this acquisition, we basically live at the office until it's done, but then we take a few days off. Or rather, I give them a few days off."

"You don't take days off?"

He shrugs. "Not really. I'm not really a workaholic, but I like what I do, so I do it a lot. I stay home Sundays, for the most part."

"What do you do for fun?"

He eyes me. "Work out, Krav Maga, run, watch movies."

"You don't have a girlfriend?"

A shrug, eyes returning to the road. "No. I did, for a while, but it wasn't really serious. When she made it clear she needed to either get serious or move on, we broke up. It was amicable, and I was honest. I wasn't going to string her along or lie about not wanting anything super serious."

"Why didn't you want anything serious?" I ask.

We're on his street, which I recognize. It's a long, quiet, tree-lined avenue of walk-up town houses, lovely, expensive, and serene, an insular little world away from the bustle of midtown Manhattan.

He sighs. "I just didn't. She was a great girl, sweet, smart, beautiful, easy to hang out with. But it just wasn't there with her, for me, long-term speaking. I don't know. I don't really have any emotional hangups, you know? I'm just not going to tie myself down long-term unless I'm really sure about it. It's not fair to me, or to her, or the idea of an ‘us.' A long-term relationship is only as valuable as the effort both people are willing to put in. You both have to be totally invested or it doesn't work. I was in a relationship for a while, right after I got out of the hospital, and I was all in, right? Like, gone for the girl. She was fucking it for me, but I was needy, I guess. Too needy for her. She wasn't feeling it. So after like, a year and a half, she broke up with me via the super awesome tactic of sleeping with my business-partner-slash-house-flipping-mentor, and then telling me about it. I was still pretty fucked up about how I got injured, you know, the guilt and confusion and everything. I'm not gonna toss out PTSD, because it's not that. I know guys who have that, and it's not pretty. I was normal fucked up. Real-deal clinical PTSD is ugly fucked up."

"And now?"

"Now I'm okay. You never completely get away from the bad dreams and occasional flashbacks, but you gotta expect that, seeing and doing the kind of shit we did over there." He pulls the big SUV into a parking spot outside his door, exits, and circles around to open my door for me. "When I said I don't have any emotional hangups, that was a little bit of a lie. I do, sort of, because of how Leanne ended things. I don't trust easily. But that wasn't the reason why I didn't want anything long-term with Billie. I trusted her all right, I just didn't feel strongly enough to move in together or propose, I guess, and that's exactly what she wanted. I was cool with just dating, having fun, spending the night together here and there."

He unlocks the front door of his house, disables his alarm, and closes the door behind us. At this point his dog, Cocoa, a massive chocolate lab, is going crazy, barking fit to burst.

"I'm gonna let Cocoa out now, okay? You ready?"

I nod and take a breath, grinning in anticipation. "As ready as I'll ever be, I think."

He goes down a short hallway and opens a bedroom door, and the sound of claws scrabbling on hardwood echoes loudly, accompanied by overjoyed barking, and then finally a bear-sized brown blur hurtles toward me. I'm braced for impact, though, and Cocoa's saucer-sized paws land on my shoulders and her tongue is slapping me in the face and digging up my nose and trying to do an examination of my uvula. I duck my face to escape her tongue, but she follows me, leaning down to lick and lick and lick, until finally I have to shove her off. She leaps back up and actually hugs me, her paws going over my shoulder, her nose wet in my ear. I can't help but laugh and feel happy about such an exuberant welcome.

The affectionate joy of a happy dog is balm for a troubled soul, I decide.

Logan slaps his thigh. "Cocoa! Wanna go outside?"

The dog's attention is snatched by that, and she barks once, a short sharp yip, and hauls across the house for the back door. He lets her out, watches her do her business, and then lets her back in, and she lies down on the floor in the middle of the kitchen near the stove, watching us with her big brown eyes.

He glances at me. "You hungry? I've got some leftover shawarma, and half a pizza." He opens a drawer in the island at the center of the kitchen and withdraws a stack of carryout menus. "Or I could get some takeout. Up to you."

"What's shawarma?" I ask.

"Middle Eastern food. Garlic sauce, chicken, rice. It's amazing."

I hate to admit that my diet has always been somewhat... limited. "Either is fine." Mostly because I've never had either, and I don't want Logan to leave, and I don't want to have to leave this house again any time soon.

He lifts an eyebrow. "How about I heat up both, and you can try them and pick. I'll take whichever you don't want."

He rummages in the refrigerator and comes out with a plastic container and a big white square cardboard box. Dumping the contents of the container onto a paper plate, he puts it in the microwave and warms it up, and then transfers the contents of the larger box onto another plate. As the shawarma heats up, the smell begins to permeate the kitchen, and my stomach rumbles. I don't remember the last time I ate, and suddenly I'm ravenous. The microwave beeps, and he slides the plate to me across the island, setting a fork on it as he does so.

"Give that a try," he says, and sets the pizza to heating.

The shawarma is possibly the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. Spicy, flavorful, tangy, garlicky. I moan as I take the first bite, and then the second. And then the third.

"So you like shawarma," Logan says, grinning. He pulls a piece of the pizza off the plate and carefully hands it to me, a string of cheese stretching between us.

The pizza is also delicious.

"I'm not sure I can choose," I admit. "They're both so good."

There's a stool under an overhanging part of the island, and I pull it out and sit down. Logan takes the stool beside me, setting down two sweating green glass bottles with white labels near the top.

"So we'll share," he says, and steals the fork out of my hands to take a bite of the shawarma. I watch him eat, because he's gorgeous even doing that.

"What's in the bottles?" I ask, eager to try something else new.

"Beer. Stella Artois, to be exact. Try it." He hands me one of the bottles, and I gingerly try the first sip.

I'm not convinced at first. It's bitter, and a little sour. But there's an aftertaste that hits my taste buds in a pleasant way, and I try a second, longer sip, which goes down easier. Before I know it, I've drunk almost half of the bottle, and my head is feeling a little loose and a little fuzzy.

Logan laughs. "Whoa, okay. I guess you like Stella. But then, how can you not?" He gestures at the pizza. "Try the pizza, and wash it down with the beer. You'll never look at cuisine the same way, I promise."

"I already don't," I say. "I've always been on an all-organic, super healthy diet."

"Vegan?"

"What's that?"

"No meat, no animal products of any kind. Like eggs, milk, cheese, if it came from an animal, vegans don't consume it."

"Why?" I ask. "That's kind of weird."

"Protesting animal cruelty in the food industry. I don't know. Good for them if that's what they believe, but I like meat."

"Me too. So no, I eat meat, just usually salmon and free-range chicken and turkey, along with salads and fruit. Mostly vegetarian, I suppose. Not a lot of red meat."

"I'd go easy on the pizza then. If your body is used to cleaner foods, the grease in that might sit heavy in your stomach."

This is so weird. Bizarre. Surreal. Just sitting in Logan's kitchen, drinking beer and eating normal food.

I have a normal name.

I'm not Madame X anymore.

I'm not with Caleb anymore.

My heart twists at that last thought, and I shut that line of thought down. I will not go there, not now.

Except Logan speaks up, casually, not looking at me, through a bite of shawarma. "What happened, Isabel? With Caleb? What made you leave, finally?"

I sigh. "He—we . . ."

Logan interrupts before I can work out what I'm going to say. "I don't want to pry, and I'll respect your privacy if you don't want to talk about it. But it seemed to have messed you up."

I finish a slice of pizza and wash it down with a swallow of the beer. And Logan is right, I don't think I'll ever be able to eat my normal fare again without thinking of this meal. Indulgent, unhealthy in the extreme, but so, so good. I take a bite of shawarma, trying to formulate what to say.

"He brought me back to his place. The penthouse? It's the entire upper floor of the building. Anyway, he brought me up there, and at first it was... fine. But not normal. He kissed me, which he doesn't usually do. That was a little strange. And then..." I sigh again, closing my eyes. Just say it. Just put it into words. "But then he pushed me down to my knees. He put... himself—into my mouth." It's so hard to say it out loud. Why? It feels as if saying it makes more real. More than real. "At the end, he finished on—on my face. And then cleaned me up with his tie, kissed me as if nothing had happened, and just... left."

"That's rape, Isabel."

I have to shake my head. "It wasn't. Not entirely." I tremble. "But then, it also was. I don't know. It's all so confusing with him. He gets in my head, and makes all my thoughts somehow... not make sense. Not... my own. I don't know. He's all I've ever known, from the moment I first woke up. It's always been him."

"So before, in my conference room—"

"I wanted that, Logan. Please believe me. I wanted it so badly. I loved every single second of it. The way you touch me, the way you kiss me, I've never known anything like it and I'm crazy for it." I spin on the stool so I'm facing him, grab his knees as he twists to face me.

He eyes me carefully, his blueblueblue eyes seeing into my soul. "Don't ever lie to me, or tell me what you think I want to hear. Okay? Please? I'd rather hear the unpleasant truth than an easy lie."

"I promise I will always be truthful with you."

We've somehow finished all the food and both beers, and Logan slaps the countertop rather suddenly. "Movie time."

"What?" I'm baffled the sudden change in topic.

"I swore to you that I'd bring you home, feed you beer and pizza, and binge-watch movies with you." He nudges an empty bottle. "We've had the beer and pizza, so now it's time for a movie."

"Okay." I don't know how to say that as much as I want to watch movies with him, I want to finish what we started in the conference room even more.

He takes my hand and leads me to his bedroom, which I haven't seen yet. It's simple but beautiful, and comfortable, like the rest of the home. Muted green paint on the walls, thick dark carpeting on the floor, exposed beams on the ceiling, a wide bed on a high, dark wood frame, a flatscreen TV mounted on the wall opposite.

He gestures to the bed. "Only place to watch TV, so get comfy."

I smooth my dress over my hips with my palms, a nervous gesture. "Okay."

The bed is high, and my dress isn't really made for climbing. At least not gracefully or modestly. I try to slide up onto the bed backward, keeping my knees pressed together. I'm not sure why I'm trying to be modest, considering what we did not that long ago, where his fingers were, but it feels necessary. I don't quite make it, and only end up pressing my backside against the edge of the mattress and wiggling gracelessly. I try to catch a foot on the edge of the frame, but I can't quite manage that either, not without flashing Logan. Especially not wearing heels.

He laughs, and I can't help but laugh too, because my efforts to get on the bed were rather comical. "Isabel, honey. That dress is gorgeous, don't get me wrong. But... would you like something else to wear? A shirt of mine, maybe?"

"Wouldn't your shirt be rather large on me?" I ask.

He nods. "That's kind of the point. It'd be like a nightgown."

"Sure. I'll try that." I manage to sound casual, but the idea of wearing one of Logan's shirts has my stomach in twisting knots.

He pulls open a drawer of the bureau underneath the TV, pulls out a neatly folded black T-shirt, hands it to me. "That's one of my favorite shirts. I've had it since I was in high school. It's really soft and comfy, so... yeah." He turns away. "I'll give you a second to change."

I kick off my shoes, and my feet immediately thank me. Logan is at the bedroom door, rubbing the back of his neck, and I realize that by giving me a moment to change he meant he'd leave me alone.

"You . . . um . . ." I pause to rally my nerves. "You don't have to leave, Logan."

He stops, his hand on the doorknob. "I'm not making any assumptions, Isabel. This whole thing happens on your time, okay?"

"You've already seen me naked, Logan."

"Doesn't mean I'm going to just assume you're okay with me watching you change. That's kind of intimate."

"So is what we did in your conference room."

A smile crosses his face. "True." He puts his back to the bedroom door. "I'll stay, if you want me to."

"I don't mind," I say, reaching up behind my back to tug down the zipper of my dress. "I don't really want you to leave, if I'm being honest."

I can't quite reach the tab of the zipper, though, without contorting. Logan crosses the room in three long strides and stands behind me. "Let me."

His fingers touch the back of my neck, brush my hair over my shoulder, and I feel my dress loosen as he pulls the zipper down.

I expect more, but I feel him step back. "There."

I pivot to face him. His eyes rake over me, and I cannot mistake the hunger for me that I see there. "Logan," I start, not quite sure what I was going to say.

There's nothing to say, I decide. I keep my eyes locked on his as I shrug my shoulders, letting the garment droop forward to hang from my arms, which are bent at the elbow, clutching my belly. I'm nervous, but I'm not going to let that get in the way. I palm my thighs, and my dress pools on the floor around my feet.

Logan's eyes immediately devour my body, and he draws in a ragged breath. "You are so beautiful, Isabel."

"I'm not even naked," I say, uncomfortable with compliments.

"You don't have to be naked to be beautiful, you know." He takes a step toward me, and his fingers touch my waist. "You're so sexy, just like this, in your underwear."

My cheeks flame, and I duck my head, unable to sustain the eye contact. "Thank you." It's all I can summon.

I latch onto his wrist with my fingers, so he can't escape. He doesn't try, just flattens his palm against my spine, directly at the center of my back. He's not touching me sexually, I notice. Avoiding any erogenous zones. For me, or for himself?

The next step, other than throwing myself at him, is to finish undressing. I swallow my fear. I know he's not rejecting me, I know that he's being respectful and giving me time, which I should need, considering what happened not that long ago. But all I can think of is his kiss, his mouth on mine; all I want is his touch, to come again, for him. To feel him. To make him come. I want to know what he looks like when he loses control.

I reach up behind my back and unhook the first eyelet, and then the second, and then the third. I don't give myself time to think, I just slide my arms out of the straps and toss the bra to the floor. His nearly iridescent indigo eyes rake down from my face to my breasts, and my nipples harden under his gaze. They harden so fast they ache. I can feel my heartbeat in my chest like thundering drums, hear nothing but my pulse in my ears. Sliding my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my underwear, I shimmy them down over my hips, and it's hard to breathe, and I don't dare look anywhere but at the floor.

The silk and lace fall to my ankles, and I'm naked.

I've been naked in front of Logan once before, but that was accidental. Sort of. Whatever that was, it's different than intentionally, purposefully removing all my clothes so Logan can look at my nude body. This is making a statement.

"Fuck... Isabel... you're so insanely sexy it's hard to breathe when I look at you." His voice is a silken murmur.

I summon every ounce of courage I have. I reach for him. My index finger hooks in his belt loop and I pull him closer. His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare and his Adam's apple bobs. I feel need, such blazing, furious, undeniable need. I am on fire with need. The tips of my breasts brush his chest, and I drag my fingernails upward between us, catching the hem of his T-shirt and lifting it up. His arms go up, and I carefully work the shirt off, tossing it aside. Shirtless now, Logan is breathtaking. As in, looking at him, I can't breathe.

My hands are moving of their own accord. They find the loop-and-button of his jeans, slip the button free. He is motionless, staring at me, breathing heavily. My fingers clasp the tab pull of his zipper and lower it, and now his bulge spills out of the opening. My throat clogs. My breathing stops.

He just blinks at me and remains still.

I push the denim down, and Logan steps out of his pants. His underwear is gray, tight stretchy cotton molded to his body. I cannot look away from his groin, from the outline of his penis bulging and thickening as I stare at him. He inhales deeply, and his brows furrow as I reach for him one last time, slipping my index and middle fingers of each hand between the elastic and his flesh, running them around the circumference of his torso, and my fingertip brushes the crest of his erection. He flinches at this contact, and sucks his belly in. I tug down, and his shaft sways free as the fabric releases him. A lift of each foot, and Logan is naked with me.

We are naked together.

I feel giddy, and terrified.

I have to touch him. My palms roam across his chest, down his sides, and carve around to clutch his buttocks. Pull him closer. He lets out a breath, palms my hip, and then his lips touch my shoulder.

"Logan," I breathe. It is a plea, and he knows it.

His mouth descends, crossing my breastbone, and he bends, kissing the slope of my right breast. Strong fingers trail up from my hip, and he cups my breast from beneath and lifts it to his mouth. His touch is gentle, his mouth warm and wet. I moan at the feel of my nipple being flattened in his mouth, the feel of his tongue flicking over it, striking a chord of desire within me. Stoking the flames.

Just as I'm about to reach for his erection, he backs away. His gaze glints, gleams.

"Lie down on the bed, Isabel." His voice is soft, as warm as it always is, yet now insistent as well.

I back up. My bottom bumps up against the mattress, and I lift myself up onto it. Lie back. Shimmy backward so my head is on the pillow. Breathe hard, my breasts rising and falling, swaying, shaking with each breath. My nipples hurt. My core aches. I am drenched. I do not mean to, but I find myself posing for Logan. One hand threaded through my thick black hair, one foot planted, knee up, thighs touching to block his view of my privates, my other arm barred across my chest.

He, naked, hard, just stands and stares at me for a moment, and I stare back.

He is glorious.

Tattoos, a jumble of images, sleeve his arms from shoulder to elbow. His hair is loose and wavy, curling at the ends, hanging down his shoulders. His body is a warrior's body, whipcord lean, hard as diamonds and sharp as a blade, every muscle defined as if etched by a razor into marble. His manhood is... I bite my lower lip as I stare at it. Longer than it has any right to be, thicker than I'd expected, a very subtle inward curve to it. I want to touch him, wrap my fingers around him and put my mouth on him and feel him against my tongue, taste his skin; I want to guide him to me and feel him penetrate me.

I want him. I want him.

I let my knees spread apart, and he growls.

Climbs onto the bed. Kneels between my thighs, leans over me, one palm in the mattress beside my face, the other burying in my hair. His lips brush mine, a tease.

Not a kiss, yet, but a tease.

A lick of his tongue, flicking against my lower lip, where I'd bitten it.

I remember putting a glass of whisky to my lips, putting my mouth where his had been. I remember the taste of the whisky against my tongue, the burn on my throat, the way I wanted it to be his mouth on mine.

His fingers spear through my hair and scrape downward to cup the back of my head, and he lifts me up, brings my mouth to his,

and kisses me,

and kisses me,

and does not stop for an eternity.

Not until we are both breathless and his tongue has tasted every corner of my mouth, has licked across both of my lips, has slashed against my tongue, not until I cannot help but pull away just so I can breathe.

That is when he leans back, slides his palms over my shoulders, down to the slopes of my breasts. Cups their weight. Thumbs both of my nipples at once. Bends, kisses my skin between my breasts.

"You deserve to be worshipped, Isabel," he says. "You deserve to be shown how perfect you are."