1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Ophelia

" H urry up and make me come before any of those rich bastards come looking for us." At my command, Logan buries his head in my neck as the pads of his fingers bruise my ass and his cock pistons in and out of me faster. Harder. Urgent with his need to come.

"We are those rich bastards." It's like saying those words turns him on even more.

Each thrust has his pelvis pressing against my clit, but it's not enough. His grunts are getting louder as my orgasm builds, and I was right, he won't last much longer. I grab one of his hands from my ass and use the wall behind me for leverage to keep our rhythm going, guiding his palm to my eager breast, hoping he squeezes the life out of it. The whole pain-pleasure thing gets me wetter than the movie theater seats after Fifty Shades .

"Fuck, Ophelia, I'm so close." Logan's movements are becoming stuttered.

I'm going to have to take my orgasm into my own hands.

Releasing my grip from one of his Armani-covered shoulders, I bring my hand between us and rub my clit, bouncing against him as hard as I can so his cock goes deeper with every thrust.

The orgasm I'm chasing finally hits just as Logan pulses inside me, no doubt filling the condom. It's not a life-changing orgasm, but my nipples tingle as they get harder and my body tenses, all the stress of the last few days seeping out of me onto Logan's dick.

"Goddamn, why do you always feel so good?" Logan carefully slides from my pussy as I unwrap my legs from his waist to stand. He removes the condom, ties off the end, and pulls his suit pants up from around his ankles, where they'd fallen in our mad dash to fuck. Passing me the handkerchief from his suit, that he seemingly prepared earlier, he lightly kisses my cheek.

"Because you love me." Laughing, it's my turn to peck him on the cheek then readjust my panties beneath my dress after using the handkerchief to wipe myself dry. Thankfully, I chose a satin gown with a thigh-high slit for tonight's gala, giving Logan the easy access he needed for this very moment. He takes the material from me with a wink when I'm finished, sliding it back into the pocket it came from, now peeking out the top.

I'm all for these charity events, but they tend to be packed full of stuffy rich people with a bad attitude. Okay, so not everyone here fits that description, but the majority are, in fact, boring as shit. If I have to suffer through one more story about their latest yacht, or glamorous holidays, or the remodeling of their newest home…ugh, it's monotonous at best.

That's where Logan comes in.

We've been friends since our parents sent us to an elite private school at the tender ages of four and five. Public school wasn't the image our parents wanted to portray to the outside world. Living in Surfside, where the rich and famous of Miami like to mingle, image is everything.

Logan and I became fuck buddies around the age of sixteen when we lost our virginity to each other, but neither of us has ever been ready for—or even wanted—an actual relationship. Which is perfect for my situation.

While these events are necessary for me to keep up appearances, Logan is a welcome reprieve from all the fake.

"Logan, you can't leave your condom on the floor." Tapping him lightly on the arm, I shake my head and watch as he begrudgingly picks it back up to put in his pocket.

Damn, that's an expensive suit he's just sullied with a used condom. He's in all black, except the bright white shirt beneath his fitted vest and suit jacket, and he has a deep blue tie to match my dress. Like I said, appearances are everything, and in the circles we run in, Logan and I are destined to be married someday, so we roll with it—even though it's never going to actually happen. For now, it makes life easier for him so his parents aren't trying to set him up with some rich socialite—one that isn't me—and it makes life easier for me because I have a fa?ade to maintain.

"Someone else would've cleaned it up." He's smirking, knowing this kind of shit pisses me off, as he adjusts the way his jacket sits on his shoulders.

"Don't be a snob." I scrunch my nose up and playfully poke my tongue out.

"You shouldn't be back here, sir, it—" The server, as indicated by the Cal Cuisine logo on the right pocket of his black shirt, blanches a little when he sees me after Logan steps aside. "Apologies, Miss Warren, I didn't see you there. But we really must keep this area clear for health and safety reasons." He bows his head as a sign of respect, and considering this is my event and I'm paying his company a good chunk of money for their catering, I accept with grace.

"No problem. We were just heading back now. Thank you." With my palm against Logan's chest, he remains silent as I step past him, walk down the short hall lined with metal shelves full of pans, and into the main part of the kitchen.

The double swinging doors don't lead directly into the ballroom, but instead exit into a small space before the next set of double doors. This time far grander than the plain black of the first set. I don't make a grand entrance because we're already over halfway through the evening. Everyone has eaten already, the servers are walking around with bite-sized desserts and tall glasses of champagne on gleaming silver trays, and it's almost time to put my heiress face on and reveal the results of the silent auction.

With all my inherited wealth, position, and influence from my piece of shit father, I make a point of arranging these charity galas at least twice a year, and attend more than twice as many—when I'm not otherwise engaged. Tonight's gala is in aid of a local ovarian cancer charity. They help the women and families get through their diagnoses with support and money for treatments, and they're hoping to buy a property to use for end-of-life care.

The large ballroom is furnished with round tables big enough to seat ten, covered in white tablecloths and extravagant teal centerpieces. Bows on the backs of chairs and organza curtains surrounding the room are also teal, with accents of glittering silver.

"Did you seriously leave me alone with the waiter, Sunny?"

I resist rolling my eyes at Logan's nickname for me. He knows I hate it, but has insisted on using it since we were kids when he told me my blonde hair looked like the sunshine. It was kinda cute when we were seven. Now that I'm twenty-eight, not so much. In fact, it makes me want to punch him in the throat every time he says it. But, I'm in the presence of Miami royalty, so I'll be good. For now.

"You've got legs. You were quite capable of following right behind me, Lolo." I grin at the use of the nickname his older brother gave him. He hates it just as much as I detest Sunny.

"Wanna dance?" Ignoring my jibe, Logan grins and holds out his palm as the band begins playing the classical version of my favorite Rayne Over Knights song.

"Fine. One song." I take his offering and he tugs me closer, placing his other hand on the small of my back, and begins swaying from side to side.

Dancing with Logan is familiar, comforting, like dancing with a best friend. Fuck buddies we may be, but anything more is never happening. Others are swaying and twirling around us, and I spot one of my favorite couples here this evening, The Mancinis. They're generous donors to my charity events, and I've even done some private work for him, as well.

As the owner of a worldwide security and technology company, I'm not short on rich and powerful clients, but the Mancinis are a different breed altogether. They don't hire me for my technology skills.

The rest of the evening goes off without a hitch, as expected. I'm confident in my ability to host these things, and everyone begins to leave with smiles on their faces and polite handshakes.

"Wanna come home with me?" Logan wags his brows as the last person leaves, a drunken grin stretching his lips.

"Not tonight. My driver's waiting outside already and I think you need to get some sleep." I laugh when he sways on his feet a little, clearly having had too much champagne. "Come on, I'll take you home."

"Whatever, Sunny." He chuckles to himself and allows me to take his arm. I lead him outside to my black Escalade, where the driver is standing and holding open the back door.

"Thank you, Robert."

"You're welcome, Miss Warren." My driver, Robert, closes the door once we're both inside, and within a few minutes, we're on the road.

The streets of Miami at night are nothing like the streets of Miami during the day. There are colorful lights lining the roads, the bars and clubs spilling over with people—mostly tourists—and there's just a whole different vibe.

I love living in this city, and it's all great for my public image, but on nights like this one, I'm glad my home is more secluded than where Logan lives. He lives in a gated community full of twelve ridiculous mansions, and even that's too much for me.

The security guard at the gates lets us through and we pull up Logan's driveway—his parents' driveway because yeah, he still lives with his parents, albeit in a different wing of the house.

"Go and get some sleep. Text me tomorrow sometime, okay?"

"No nightcap?" Logan's eyes are hooded, but not with lust. He's probably got another thirty minutes in him before he passes out. Luckily, I already messaged his house manager, who is waiting just outside the front door with a stern look on her face. Her white hair seems to glow in the moonlight and I know her hard stare doesn't mean she's angry.

"Goodnight, Lolo."

"Goodnight, Sunny."

I watch him walk up the rest of his driveway to Mrs. Wickens. Well, walk, stumble…either way, once he reaches her, I give Robert a nod through the rearview mirror, silently communicating to him to take me home.

It's been a long night and rather than being happy about all the money I've helped to raise, I'm anxious about the message I received from one of my best friends, Tabatha, early this evening.

The good kinda anxious, but anxious all the same.

Pulling my cell from my rhinestone encrusted bag, I open my messages and read over the text again.

Tabby: We found him.