Belong to Me

“So when does your deal with Thorpe expire?”



He clenched his jaw. Where the hell was she going with this? “Thursday night.”



“In less than three days?”



“Yes.”



“I hope you’re prepared to miss strutting down Dominion’s halls in your leather pants, because if you think for one damn minute that I’m going to stand here like a brainless twit while you decide my whole life without ever once asking me what I want, you’re out of your fucking mind.”



So quickly that she had no time to scramble away, Logan grabbed Cherry’s wrist and pulled as he backed onto the bed and threw her facedown across his lap. Without pause, he slapped one firm cheek of her ass, barely covered by one of those little sheer dresses. She gasped, and before the sound even died, he smacked the other cheek.



“I don’t like you throwing out f-bombs. Do it again, and I’ll spank you more.”



“Fuck you!”



“Cherry, Cherry, Cherry . . .” He sighed with regret.



Even so, he couldn’t deny that this feisty side of her had him revved up. She wanted this spanking—wanted him—but her fear and her pride wouldn’t let her admit it. She was angry, and maybe she had every right to be. Maybe he should have handled his invocation of the club rule differently, told her in advance of his plans, and given her the opportunity to resolve it without involving Thorpe. But she would have only freaked out. She’d still been engaged to Brad at the time. She hadn’t been ready to hear that he wanted a lifelong claim on her.



But he’d concede that maybe he should have told her sometime between then and now.



Because he’d said he would, Logan whacked Tara’s ass twice more and held down her squirming form, trying desperately not to think about how badly he wanted inside her.



Damn. He’d bet she was dying to call him twenty kinds of asshole and let loose on him, but the spanking had curbed the worst of her tongue. They both needed to be a bit more calm.



The moment he let her up, she jerked to her feet, rage spitting from her eyes. “Don’t do that again. I’m not one of your club bunnies, waiting around for your discipline.”



“Don’t discipline you?” He stood slowly, walking toward her, crowding her personal space, almost proud when she stood her ground. “I came back into your life because I’m a Dom. Guess what? I’m still a Dom. I’m always going to be one. And I’m going to bet that, even though you’re spitting mad, your pretty little pussy is dripping wet.”



She gasped in an offended breath. “That’s low.”



“But true.”



Suddenly, she cocked her head, tightened her little fists, and glared at him through eyes narrowed with purpose. Uh-oh. What the hell was going through her head now?



“Okay, so I’m wet. I admit it. Just because you get me hot doesn’t mean that you get to decide the rest of my life. I won’t let you use my desire against me.”



Is that what she thought? Hell, he adored Cherry because she was smart and compassionate, kind. She showed the world a roaring tiger willing to fight for injustice and those weaker, but underneath that front, she was vulnerable.



No matter what he did, he managed to push her buttons. She put protective walls between them. Yeah, he could stand here and argue with her. He might actually win the battle. But he was in this fight to win the war. If that meant that he needed to back off and let her have more control, he’d do his best to stifle his need to dominate and give it to her. Because at the end of the day, he wanted her by his side because she wanted to be there. Not because he’d coerced her.



“Then help me. I keep fucking this up, and that’s not my intention. If you think I’m trying to use your desire against you to decide your life, then take control. I’ll step back. If, after this mission, you tell me to go away, then fine. I’ll go away and I won’t come back.”



Tara recoiled, her brown eyes wide and startled. Her mouth gaped open, but silence followed for a long moment until she finally said, “Thank you.”



“But not until I’m convinced that you know the difference between me trying to lead you around by your pussy and me trying to bond your heart to mine, Cherry. When I’m sure you know exactly how much love you’d be giving up, I’ll give you all the space you want.”



With an angry jerk he hoped to hell communicated that he meant business, Logan tore off his shirt.



Chapter Seventeen



WITH unblinking eyes, Tara watched Logan peel the tight black T-shirt from his body, revealing an incredible work of masculine art to her slowly. Her helpless gaze caressed the bulges of his shoulders, lingered on his meaty biceps, devoured the tight slabs of his pectorals, widened at the sight of his rippling abdomen above low-slung jeans. And the sight of that tattoo crawling up his ribs in Japanese transfixed her. Though it had to have hurt like a bitch, it was oddly beautiful on his bronzed skin.



It didn’t matter how many times she looked at Logan. Each and every time, she melted. Her heart stuttered. Her blood warmed, while her fingers itched to touch him all over. Now his gaze snared her attention. Stark and midnight blue, that stare he locked on her rooted Tara to the spot with its intensity and savagery. He was like a powder keg. Tara had a suspicion that she’d already set him off and that his fuse was burning down toward the inevitable explosion.



He reached for the snap on his jeans and flicked it open. Tara’s gaze darted down nervously as anticipation sliced through her. She shivered, swallowed.



“Nervous?”



“You won’t hurt me,” she stated with a lift of her chin.



“Ever,” he vowed. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you, Cherry.”



That fact was stamped all over his demanding stare. She backed up a step.



His low laugh resonated through her, daring, challenging—sexy as hell. “Going somewhere?”



No. Behind her a step, two at most, Tara knew she’d find her back against a wall. But in front of her was two hundred pounds plus of determined male willing to do whatever necessary to make her whimper, beg, and surrender.



The prickly part of her nature reared up. He wasn’t going to pleasure her into giving up her anger. At least not yet, damn it. She had a point.



Because sometimes the best defense was an offense, Tara crossed her arms over her chest and put on her best glare. “Why are you trying to intimidate me?”



Logan shook his head. “Baby, I’m just trying to get you to keep still so that we can . . . chat. Believe me, I’d rather not play games.”



“I’m not. You are. I’m trying to tell you how I feel and—”



“I heard you. You’re pissed because I don’t tell you everything. Got it. So now I’m trying to communicate.” He shrugged. “If you’re sure you’re ready, I am.”



As angry as she was, as much as she felt a tinge of worry that she’d pissed off the big, bad Dom inside him, she couldn’t very well tell him that she wanted to know everything, then refuse to hear him. “I can handle it and I’m listening. Shoot.”



“Kneel.”



She raised a cool brow but her heart stuttered. “Excuse me.”



“You said you weren’t playing games. Don’t start now. You heard what I want.”



“Why? You’re playing domination games with me.”



He shook his head. “If you extend me trust, baby, I’ll puke up every dirty little secret I have.”



And all she had to do to hear them was kneel. That went against her independent grain. On the other hand . . . she had an image of him, towering, ruthlessly male, demanding, cradling her head in his huge palm as he guided her lips to all the hard inches of his thick cock and told her to suck. God, why did that arouse her?



No, she’d play it his way for now, but as soon as she got on her knees, she wanted answers.



He trapped her gaze in his as she slowly went to one knee, then the other, then sat back on her heels, her palms sweating, and held her breath, feeling like a concubine waiting at her master’s feet for his pleasure. And that feeling didn’t bother her in the least.



“Good girl.” He touched a finger to her cheek, then reached for his jeans again.



She jerked away. “Don’t patronize me. Stop this head game you’re playing and talk.”



“I’m just communicating. Watch . . .”



The gentle hiss of his zipper lowering filled the quiet room. Tara’s heart began to careen crazily, and she sucked in a breath to calm herself. But as he lowered the denim over his hips, revealing the fact that he’d been commando underneath and that each and every inch of him was velvety hard and standing straight up for her, she couldn’t stop her gasp.



“I want you to get a good look at this . . . Cherry.”



She frowned. Logan had called her that a thousand times, but this time was somehow different.



Before she could question him, he reached to her side and yanked the desk chair beside her, bringing it close. He watched her with a dark stare.



“What do you have on the inside of your left thigh?” he demanded.



“A—a birthmark.”



“Sit back, lift your skirt, and spread your legs so I can see.”



Tara paused. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she did. “How is this getting us any closer to whatever truth you want to tell me?”



Logan raised a brow. “Remember trust?”



With a sigh, she complied, rocking onto her backside, easing the sheer skirt up her thighs, and parting her legs. Logan zeroed in on her pussy, and instantly she felt her folds go wet. As he crouched between her legs, her sheath tightened, spasmed.



Slowly, he glided his finger up her thigh to her birthmark. “I never forgot this little round reddish mark of yours. That day in my bedroom that I touched it, tongued it, I decided it reminded me of a little cherry. After I’d broken things off, that sweet spot was burned onto my brain. It killed me that I couldn’t touch yours, so . . . See what I got.”



Logan stood and lifted his left foot onto the chair. At first, she couldn’t look past all the inches of his swollen, hungry cock and the swing of his heavy testicles. Then he pressed his finger to the inside of his left thigh. In the same spot in which she had her own birthmark, he’d had something tattooed into his skin. She knelt, leaning in to peer closer, then realized exactly what it was.



Shock pinging through her system, she bounced her gaze up to his. “A cherry?”



“Got it the day I turned eighteen. I still loved you. I was drunk and alone and miserable, and the only thing I wanted was to brand myself with you.”



Oh. Dear. God.



Shock reverberated down her system, jarring open the floodgates she’d been hiding her emotions behind. They poured out in a warm gush that inundated her chest.



All these years between them, lost. She’d been trying to muddle her way though and had been doing a lousy job. She’d thrown herself into school, then into a career, all the while wearing her anger at him like armor. She’d dated some, never quite sure why no one ever suited her, why she always felt restless and uncomfortable when other men touched her.



Now she knew. She’d been fooling herself for over a decade. Finally, the truth was crystal clear.



Tears sprang to her eyes as she touched one finger to the little shiny red cherry on his muscular thigh, transfixed by the slightly paler skin here, the dark dusting of hair around it. “I didn’t know.”



“So I’m telling you now. These are the last of my secrets, and I want you to know them.”



Their gazes met again, and she felt the solid warmth and never ending flow of his love reaching out to her heart, thawing that terrible numbness she’d shoved on herself in the hopes that she’d never hurt again. His blue stare lasered in on her, gently but firmly letting her know that he wouldn’t accept her hiding from him anymore. That suited Tara. She didn’t want to.



She braced one trembling hand on his thigh, then reached up to finger the tattoo running from his hips, up his ribs, ending under his arm. “And this?”



He swallowed, unblinking as he met her gaze. “Japanese for ‘Tara forever.’”



Her eyes slid closed. Xander had told her days ago to find these on his body and ask him what they meant. She’d been distracted. And if she was honest, a little afraid. Now . . .



Tears spilled down her cheeks. She didn’t have to ask why he’d done it, nor could she claim that she didn’t understand. He loved her. He’d said it. He’d come here to help and protect her, instead of spending his leave with family and friends. He’d imprinted that fact on his body, creating his own temple where he could worship her. In his own way, he’d been largely faithful to her, especially over the last five years. During that time, she’d deceived herself into believing that she’d moved on with life and that she was okay. Logan had remained steadfast to his pain, not trying to deny the festering hurt, but rather incorporating it into his life, honoring what they meant to one another.