Chapter 165: This Game
"Of course not."
I glance away, trying to keep my instinctive smile under control before he really misunderstands.
It’s mistake number one, and Logan comes to stand in front of me, scowling as he says, "That question didn’t come out of nowhere. Is it that bastard, David or whatever?"
I stare at him blankly.
Who the fuck is David? My mind races through every person I’ve met recently—no David rings a bell. Nothing. The confusion must show on my face because his expression darkens. He leans down, his face inches from mine, green eyes flashing.
They’re like a neon sign of danger.
"This is about David, isn’t it?"
He looks as unhinged as I felt earlier over Brynn—jaw tight, nostrils flared, a vein pulsing in his neck. The absurdity of the situation hits me, and I make the catastrophic mistake (number two) of smiling wide.
He growls immediately and bites out, "Fuck it, they can leave the food at the door."
"Why would—"
But he’s faster than I can ask what’s going on, scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing, his caveman instincts coming out swinging.
One arm locks around my thighs as he stomps toward the bedroom, and the absurdity has me cracking up as I smack at his back with my palms. "No! There’s no David, Logan. Put me down!"
He doesn’t listen, of course.
My brain finally catches up, the lightbulb clicking on as I go through all the possibilities for a David.
"Oh, wait... you mean Dev?"
His grip tightens on my legs. "He’s a fucking child. He couldn’t keep you happy even with directions and a goddamn map."
I’m absolutely certain he’s never met Dev in his life, so his opinion isn’t exactly valid, but it makes me snicker even harder.
He tosses me onto the bed and I bounce, still unable to contain my laughter. My entire body shakes, my stomach actually in pain from trying and failing to hold it in.
I hold up my hand, trying to halt his advance.
"No! There’s nothing going on with Dev, Logan. I didn’t mean it like that!"
But I can’t stop snickering. There’s something deeply relieving about seeing him as unhinged and manic by this bond between us as I was earlier.
See?
I’m not the only one losing my mind. I’m not the only one burning with irrational jealousy.
Petty, Jealous, Insane Nicole is practically normal if we’re going by the general average of our combined emotional intelligence here, which basically means I’m winning.
Whatever. I don’t care if the math doesn’t math—it’s working in my head.
Logan unsnaps his pants, but I’m still giggling.
Then he hauls off his shirt in one fluid motion, and my laughter dies instantly. My eyes lock onto his chest—all sculpted muscle and light dusting of hair narrowing down past his navel.
My mouth goes dry, and I drawl, "On the other hand, Dev is a wonderful specimen of—"
"Nicole."
"—yes?"
"Shut up and take off your clothes."
I push my tongue against my cheek as I look him over again, watching him kick off the rest of his clothes. "Take them off for me."
Logan’s eyes darken at my demand, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. His voice is dangerously soft.
I like it.
"You’re giving orders now?"
"Maybe." I lean back on my elbows, letting my eyes travel the length of his body. "Seems like you could use the direction."
He refused when I came onto him earlier, so it’s time to pay the price, damn it. A girl has pride, especially in her shiny new body.
Which is not, technically, shining. It is, however, glistening.
From sweat, mostly.
Which is a lot less sexy than it sounds, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
His lips curl into a dangerous smile, and my stomach flutters. It’s practically established fact I generally lose when it comes to the bedroom, but it doesn’t mean I’m not going down swinging.
"Funny how you think that’s how this works."
He plants one knee on the bed, looming over me like a predatory god. His body is all hard planes and defined muscle and his dick is...
Yeah.
Ready to go.
My whole body clenches in response—especially the parts that shouldn’t be making decisions.
But sex is always good with Logan. More than good.
And he’s already got I’m going to own your body and mark you until you never say another man’s name again radiating off him so clearly, he may as well have a billboard with the words above his head.
"I’m waiting," I drawl, pretending to be unaffected.
My scent says otherwise, but I can’t smell it, so—I’ll just pretend it doesn’t.
He growls.
"So am I."
We’re locked in a standoff, neither willing to surrender.
"Take. Them. Off." I punctuate each word by sliding my foot up his bare calf.
His hand snaps out, wrapping around my ankle. "You really think you’re in control here?"
I arch an eyebrow. "I think you want me enough that you’ll do what I ask."
Logan’s laugh is low and rough. "Such confidence."
"Am I wrong?"
His eyes burn into mine, the mesmerizing green now edged with gold as his wolf rises to the surface. I refuse to look away, even as my entire body quivers.
"Fine." His voice drops into a silky caress. "If that’s how you want to play."
He releases my ankle and reaches for the hem of my shirt. His knuckles graze the skin of my stomach as he slowly—deliberately—works the fabric upward. Every brush of his hands against my skin sends electricity shooting through my veins. I move to sit up straighter, ready to lift my arms, but he shakes his head.
"Don’t move."
The command in his voice has me freezing in place as he lifts the shirt over my head. The shirt bunches awkwardly around my arms, half-covering my face, leaving me both exposed and blind.
Vulnerable.
His breath is warm and moist against my stomach. There’s a soft press of his lips, so light it might be my imagination, and I tremble harder.
I’m already losing, and it’s been about ten seconds since we started this game.
"Logan..."
"Patience."
The shirt finally comes off my face, even as it continues to bind my arms, and I blink in the sudden light. Logan’s eyes are fixed on my chest, on the plain cotton bra—now the official flimsiest barrier in the world, second only to sheer pantyhose—and his index finger traces the edge of the cup.
I fight the urge to arch into his touch, but somehow it feels like I’m losing harder by not giving in.
"So pretty," he murmurs.
"Thanks. I picked this body out myself."
His lips quirk. "I was talking about the bra."
The simple, beige bra with no outstanding merit whatsoever?
My eyes narrow. "Are you saying I’m not pretty, then?"
"I never said that."
His hands slide beneath me to find the clasp, and I let out an involuntary hiss as his chest brushes against mine. When the clasp gives way, he pulls back to slide it over my head and down my arms with agonizingly patient movements, once again binding me with mere strips of fabric.
Obviously, I could lift my hands and be done with it, but I don’t.
My breasts feel heavy and lonely as the bastard... doesn’t touch them. Instead, he solicitously makes sure the bands of my bra aren’t twisted against my arms, like that’s the fucking priority here.
"You’re doing this on purpose."
His smile is pure sin. "Obviously."