I can hear Logan stirring from his slumber. He can sleep like the dead, and often, when he’s wrapped around me like he was last night, I can barely breathe. It feels good, though, so I’d never complain. He makes me feel safe, and for someone like me, that is worth its weight in gold. Or more importantly, worth me keeping my legs together and fighting the feelings I have for him. Logan deserves better than me. I doubt he feels the same, anyway. Needing someone for company is one thing, but loving them is entirely different, and even that counts for shit in my experience, so I’d rather close that door and just have whatever it is we have. It works, and that’s all that matters.
“Come back to bed, Dodge.” He lets out a rough throaty yawn that morphs into a sexy deep moan and satisfied sigh. He mixes up the nicknames he calls me depending on his mood. He called me the not-so Artful Dodger the night he caught me thieving from his fridge all those months ago and it’s stuck, along with T, little thief, and trouble, but I’ll answer to anything if it’s said with that deep sexy drawl.
Stop it, Tia. Just stop.
The bed creaks with the weight of his movement, as he stretches and pulls himself up. He drags his hand over his sleepy dark features, his long mane falling over his face, his thick brow furrowed as his eyes finally fix on mine, and he releases that brilliant heart-stealing smile. The drapes may still be drawn, but I doubt the sunrise would rival that view for shine.
“Oh, someone’s been busy.” His eyes flit from mine to the easel over my shoulder. I have been engrossed for hours choosing this distraction over sleep in the end. I find it’s the only thing that really calms me. It’s the only time when there is no pain, no memories. There’s nothing but me and my canvas, whatever that might be. This week it’s a watercolour, and I have been working on this picture for a few days. I really wanted to get it finished today before work, and I have been putting the finishing touches since the early hours. I find it hard to admit a piece is finished when I’ve put so much of myself into it; it’s like I can’t let go.
Stupid, I know, and this one is slightly different, so I don’t have the same attachment, but the feeling is still there, just diluted. A little like the pastel layers of watercolour paint on this hand-pressed paper. For me, portraits are too personal, especially from a live model so I always shy away and explain that portraits aren’t my thing. However, I wanted to give my boss, Maria, something for taking a chance on me. I managed to get a few pictures from her Facebook page and opted for a watercolour of her only grandchild.
I think it’s finished. I rinse my brush vigorously in the jar of water before drying it carefully on the cloth in my lap. Looking over at Logan, I can see him appraising my work. The level of concentration always fascinates me. He never just glances; he studies. He takes his time, and he takes it all in.
He sees everything.
My own demons and my nightmares I think I’m so smart at hiding, well, they never go unnoticed, not by him.
He flips onto his tummy and drags himself to the end of the bed. He lays his arms flat along the wrought iron frame and drops his chin to rest his head, never taking his eyes from the painting. Several minutes pass, and I silently study him as he literally watches paint dry. I bite my lips to stop from smirking.
“Don’t smirk, this is serious stuff.” He flashes a quick glance my way, and his tone only pitches with a mild warning. I hold my hands up in mock surrender.
“Oh, I know…deadly serious. My work doesn’t leave this room without your seal of approval.” I’m grinning now and even risk a playful shake of my head.
“Damn straight it doesn’t,” he retorts and arches his brow high as if I’ve said something ridiculous. This whole situation is ridiculous. It’s not like I’ve sold anything.
“So do you like it?” I ask after another pause for observation and requisite silence. He holds up his finger to stop me, and I am about to lose my shit if he makes me wait any longer when his face changes from stern to warm and then fills with overt pride. That look just about makes my heart burst.
“Really, you like it?” I repeat.
“It’s…it’s not your normal depressing abstract shit, so, yes, I love it.”
“Hey, I like my abstract shit.” I fold my arms defensively over my chest, and he is instantly leaping over the bar on the bed and is seated beside me, naked. He sits cross-legged and lifts me into his arms.
“Um, naked, Logan,” I cry out.
“Um, always naked, Tia,” he teases, his arms squeezing, but he refrains from pulling me down into what I know is a semi-erection just waiting to rise. He continues to speak as if this isn’t the most awkward thing ever. Maybe for him, it really isn’t.
“I love your abstracts, you know that, but you can’t deny they are some seriously fucked-up shit, dark and full of your pain.” I stiffen in his hold. “Hey, it’s okay, T; it’s how you cope. I get that. We all have our outlets.” His voice softens, and his breath is warm against my neck. “Anyway, as I was saying, the portrait is different. This, well, it feels full of hope.”
“Hope?” I twist in his arms and look up, but he doesn’t look down. He’s just staring at the little girl on the easel.
“Yeah, it’s a child before the world got involved and fucked her up. So that moment you captured on her face right there is pure undiluted hope.” I follow his gaze, and his bright smile fades. I feel the wave of sadness at his beautiful words.
“God, you’re wasted here, Logan.” I grab his chin. His stubble prickles my fingers, and when I tip his chin so he meets my gaze, we are face-to-face in a curtain of his dark, glossy hair. I swallow the dryness and try to ignore the building tension. I can’t fathom the reason for it, but I feel it as clear as I feel him growing hard beneath my bottom. I power on, ignoring the sensual nudging below. “You should be a poet or a writer, Logan. Not a computer geek with an over-active right hand.” I try to joke, but it falls flat with the intensity of his gaze.
“We’ve talked about how you might replace my right hand…” I slap my hands over my ears and wriggle from his lap, grateful he helps me off, or I would probably injure his now solid, and, honestly, this close up, enormous erection. I have to force my eyes skyward.
“Yes, we have, so let’s not. Besides, there’s only so much teasing I can take before I might start to believe you,” I joke.
“Who said I was teasing?” He doesn’t sound like he’s joking.
“Logan,” I warn.
“Tia.” He mimics my tone, but he still looks anything but playful. He looks incendiary.
“How about some breakfast?” I deflect and am grateful enough to let out a huge relieved breath when he answers.
“You’re cooking?” He stands, his erection defying gravity and straining to reach his belly button. I spin on the spot. Man, I can’t stop looking. I wasn’t always like this, and in fairness to him, he’s always wandered around the house naked at night, sometimes during the day, but always at night.
“If you like.” I hand him one of his t-shirts I stole from the laundry, but he just chuckles and holds it in his hand.
“Only if I want to spend the rest of the day in the toilet, Dodge. I think I’ll take a rain-check.” He chuckles and makes his way to the door. I still haven’t turned round, pretending to gather my clothes and tidy. I am the least tidy person, and I know he must be grinning his arse off. Only I won’t turn round to check. I can just sense the amusement.
“I’m not that bad, I’m just not as good as you.”
“I’ll cook, but I need to deal with this first.” I turn because I’m an idiot and actually thought he might be referring to something other than his cock.
“What the hell, Logan!”
“Price of being nestled up against your fine arse all night. So you can watch or join in.” I’m transfixed at the sight of him palming himself, stroking up and down, and I know I shouldn’t, but it’s hypnotic and really hot. I never thought that could look hot, never felt anything like I feel now, watching him. My face is on fire, blood’s rushing in my ears, and I can feel a liquid heat between my legs that I barely recognise. I physically shake myself, and after my momentary lack of sanity, I slap one hand over my eyes and manoeuvre Logan toward the open door with the other.
“Or the third alternative, you can go back to your own room, you complete animal.”
“Fine, fine…but just so you know, we’re inevitable, Tia,” he calls out as he pads down the hall. I shut the door and slide to the floor, my heart thumping so loud I can no longer hear his heavy footsteps. I exhale and drop my head to my hands.
I wish that were true.
I don’t bother to get dressed, just pull on some old pj bottoms and an oversized hoodie that also belongs to Logan. I pull the collar up to my nose and take a deep sniff, and it smells just like him despite being fresh out of the laundry. A rich scent of manliness with a hint of thick forest after a downpour. Ironic that his aroma is the very essence of nature when he never steps a single foot outside. As tragic as I find this crippling phobia, he brushes it off with the same dismissive statement whenever anyone asks.
‘The world’s a fucked up place, so why the hell would I want to go outside when everything I need can be delivered right to my door?’
I’ve been living here for just under two years, and I have to say, he has a point. I only feel safe and happy when that front door closes behind me.
The kitchen is the warmest room in the house courtesy of the Aga kicking out a gentle heat 24/7. Faint and delicious smells linger until they are replaced with Logan’s current cooking project. This morning it’s bacon. My mouth waters, and my tummy rumbles in anticipation. I silently pad the length of the kitchen in my bare feet and take my seat at the table where Logan has already poured me a piping hot cup of tea. The steam is rising in gentle plumes, and I dump a large heaped spoon of sugar before I blow to cool it enough to take a sip. He’s facing the cooker and most likely didn’t hear me enter from the other end of the forty-foot long room. His naked arse cheeks seem to be taunting me. The tight round muscles flex and move when he jiggles to the angry Irish folk music blaring through the speakers. He does have a white tie knotted in the middle of his back, the ends of the apron dangling perilously close to the crack in his arse. I smile at his only concession to clothing in the kitchen. Safety first when there’s bacon frying. It’s not that he’s always naked; he’s just mostly always naked.
“It’s lucky I’m not working until tonight. What’s the ETA on those scrambled eggs?” I’ve finished my tea and skimmed the newspaper for anything remotely upbeat but settle on the crossword, which I’ve nearly finished.
“You’re funny.” He doesn’t bother to turn but steps to the side so I can see him gently folding a golden-looking mound of what I assume are eggs. “This masterpiece needs none of your impatience and all of my attention.”
“It does smell good, but what’s with the glass bowl. We have pans, you know.” Giving up on the last impossible clues on the last remaining words of the crossword, I fold the paper and walk over to the Aga. I nudge his side when he doesn’t respond.
“Peasant,” he quips, lightly shaking his head with fake disapproval. “This is a bain-marie, the bowl rests in the simmering water, heating the glass gently and the eggs cook from that heat. It’s why they taste so damn good, and I’ve never heard you complain before.”
“I’m not really complaining now. I’ve just never seen you cook eggs like this before.”
“You’re normally still asleep while I’m cooking breakfast. My princess likes to have her breakfast in bed, remember?” he teases, but the smile I was wearing slips from my face. “What? What’s wrong?” He moves the pan from the heat and turns to me, lifting my fallen face high so our eyes are locked.
“It’s…” I hesitate, but I know there is no point saying it’s nothing when he knows damn well I’d be lying. “Can you not call me princess?”
“Why?”
“I love all the nicknames you’ve given me, even when you call me fuckwit, but not…just not princess, please.”
“Of course. Care to tell me…oh…” His jaw clenches, and the stubble darkens when the muscles twitching pull the hairs closer together. His dark brow thickens with anger. “He used to call you that.” He spits the words like he was the one abandoned, left broken, and completely heartbroken.
“It’s silly, I know.” I try to shrug it off, and his eyes dip to keep the contact, and he strokes his knuckles along my jawline.
“It is, but not for the reason you think.” His deep voice softens, and I shake my head, blinking back the pain of the betrayal I feel every damn time he crosses my mind. “Tia, listen to me.” Logan’s face is so close all I can see is his impossibly large chocolate eyes, swirling with tiny specks of gold and onyx, framed by the longest lashes this side of false. “He’s a cunt and a coward. If you give him this power over you, even with just a word, then he’s winning. It’s just a word, Tia. It lost all it’s meaning the day he left you to rot in jail.”
“You’re right; I’m sorry.” The tears that threatened vanish, and I draw in a steadying breath. Logan pulls me hard against his solid chest. His strong arms envelop me as his body moulds protectively around my much smaller frame. I take every bit of comfort from him.
“Don’t apologise; you’ve done nothing wrong.” He pulls back and holds my gaze with a look that speaks volumes, his words meaning so much more than this little exchange.
I did nothing wrong.
“Come on, fuckwit.” He raises a playful brow, and I let out an unladylike snort at the welcome change of atmosphere.
He turns the heat off and removes the plates from the warming oven. Carefully placing the buttered toast, strips of pale pink smoked salmon in elaborate curls, he ladles the eggs into a soft mound in the centre of the plate. The bacon has its own side dish because it would spoil the aesthetics of the dish, but breakfast isn’t breakfast without bacon. I’m about to take the plate from the side when his disapproving growl makes me stop. My fingertips were poised to lift, but are left hovering comically in mid-air. He holds his finger up in warning, but really, that growl had me frozen to the spot. The finishing touch, he sprinkles with some finely chopped chives, and only then gives the go-ahead for me to take my plate.
I scrape the surface and use the last piece of toast to wipe the plate clean. I survived almost entirely on bread and cheese the three months I lived in Logan’s basement. I thought staple foods like that no one would notice going missing. I may have had the odd piece of fruit that was on the turn, but staying hidden and safe was my main objective. Now, however, I eat anything and everything with gusto, but then Logan is an amazing cook. He takes the newspaper I folded away and irritatingly quickly fills in the missing answers on the crossword. He throws the pen down and leans back with his hands behind his head, a satisfied smugness plastered all over his handsome face.
“Smart-arse.” I look at the words he’s entered and roll my eyes that I didn’t get them. They always look so obvious once you see them written down. He drains his coffee, and I pour him another from the pot on the table.
“Want to tell me about last night?”
“What do you mean? I had a nightmare. It’s not the first; I doubt it’ll be the last.”
“I’m not talking about the nightmare. I’m talking about you getting up to paint. The picture was barely outlined yesterday, and now, it’s complete. Which meant you were asleep in my arms for maybe half an hour? Something made you stay awake so long, and I know it wasn’t my cock, so spill, little one, what’s worrying you?” His hands are now wrapped around his coffee mug, fingers interlocked like he is praying to some Mayan coffee god, yet his focus is on me.
“Nothing, it’s fine.” He stops mid-sip. His dark eyes narrow, and he draws his lip in at the side. The only other movement is his slow, steady breathing. His eyes fix on mine, and it’s all I can do not to cower. He hates when I lie, and I hate that he knows every time I do. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m probably just anxious about my job, maybe that’s it.”
“You don’t have to work as a cleaner, Tia.” His tone is filled with irritation at a conversation we’ve had a dozen times. He’s so used to getting his way, I know he’s really struggling with my stubbornness. It’s been just him for so long, I don’t think the word compromise is even in his vocabulary. I honestly think my refusal to do as he says is the bigger problem, not the job itself.
“I do.” I hold his glare, and he instantly holds up his hands in surrender.
“Let me finish, you nutter. I meant you don’t have to work there. I take it you knew it was his company when you applied, because I really didn’t have you pegged as someone stupid.” His tone is anything but playful.
“I did know, yes, and I’m not stupid,” I snap, my arms crossing defensively.
“So this isn’t some revenge thing?” he counters and leans forward, his expression dark and deadly serious. I swallow the thick lump in my throat. I hate this.
“No,” I state with as much conviction as I can. I’m not lying, not technically.
“Because to anyone with a brain cell, it could look like you were walking into the lion’s den in a Lady Gaga meat costume.” He is pushing, and I have to fight not to cave under this level of intense scrutiny, but it’s for the best. I have to do this.
“I’m not, and I would like you to give me some credit. I know what I’m doing.” My voice catches, and I can’t fathom why he’s giving me such a grilling. If he knew the real reason, he’d probably support me. I just can’t risk him. If I get caught, it’s one thing, but if he’s involved and goes down with me, it would destroy him. I won’t let that happen.
“Good, because you would have to be seriously fucking deranged to start something with just under a year left on your probation…unless you did actually want to go back to jail,” he warns, and I feel the chill in my bones at the very thought.
“No! I’m never going back,” I state with absolute conviction, which for the time being, seems to placate him. He sits back in his chair, and the tension eases from his shoulders. His bare chest heaves with steady, deep breaths, and he gives me a slight, acknowledging nod.
I can’t have him interfering, either, so I offer a little more information in a way that I hope will convince him to back right off.
I stand, pushing my chair back, and roughly snap up the plate from the table, my temper prickling my nerves. I drop the dishes in the sink with a clatter and spin to face him. He looks startled at my sudden and obvious mood swing. “This isn’t just some revenge thing, okay? Yes, I’m curious, but I’m not fucking stupid, and as much as I appreciate your concern here, Logan, it has fuck all to do with you.” I pinch out a tight smile that borders on nasty.
“Really?” he fires back.
“Yes really.”
“Fine.” He stands abruptly, sending the chair flying, glaring at me. The fierceness would be extremely intimidating, if it wasn’t for the fact that he is still naked. He turns and starts to stride from the kitchen. His mighty fine arse is just a mild distraction from the heated exchange.
“Fine,” I call out after him, and just as he reaches the door, I add, “The eggs were really good, by the way.”
“I know.” He turns. I can see the anger in his face, but it’s already starting to soften. “Clean up that fucking mess you made.”
Okay, maybe it hasn’t started to soften.