Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. I have no idea, because I’m too caught up in the incredible sensations. I stroke his erection, squeezing the blunt head on each upstroke, until his hips start moving too, and a rough command leaves his mouth.
“Faster.”
I quicken the pace and he thrusts into my fist with a low groan, his breath tickling my lips as he breaks the kiss. His eyes are closed, his features taut and his teeth digging into his bottom lip.
“I’m gonna come,” he mumbles.
Excitement ripples between my legs, and I know he can feel how wet I am because he groans again and his finger plunges deeper, faster. A few seconds later, he sags into me, his forehead resting on my shoulder as his hips flex forward one last time before going still.
As wetness spurts onto my hand, his eyes slowly open and the sleepy pleasure swimming in them takes my breath away. Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sexier than the sight of John Logan right after he’s had an orgasm.
His breathing is still labored as he meets my gaze. “Did you come?”
Crap. Right. His finger is still lodged inside me. No longer moving, but a reminder of the orgasm I’d been about to reach before I got distracted by the way he looked when he was coming, the restless grind of his hips and the sexy sounds he made.
But I’m too embarrassed to admit I didn’t finish, and since he already did, I feel awkward asking him to keep going.
So I nod and say, “Uh-huh. Of course.”
A shadow of doubt passes through his eyes, but before I can blink, he sits up abruptly and says, “I should go.”
I ignore the equal doses of disappointment and irritation that tighten my belly. Seriously? He can’t even stick around for a few minutes of post-hook-up small talk? What a prince.
It’s even more awkward now. He grabs a tissue from the box on the end table and cleans up. I pretend to be cool and composed as I pull up my pants and watch him do the same. I even manage a casual smile as he uses my phone to call a cab. Fortunately, he gets through right away this time, which means the awkwardness doesn’t last long.
I walk him to the door, where he hesitates for a beat. “Thanks for having me over,” he says gruffly. “I had fun.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Me too.”
A moment later, he’s gone.
5
Logan
I walk into my bedroom after my morning shower to hear my phone ringing. And since everyone my age texts instead of calls, I know exactly who it is without having to check the screen.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet her, gripping the edge of my towel as I head for the dresser.
“Mom? Holy shish kebob. So it’s true? I mean, I thought I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy twenty-one years ago, but that seems like a distant memory. Because if I did have a son, he’d probably call me more than once a month, right?”
I laugh, despite the needle of guilt pricking my chest. She’s right. I’ve been a crappy son lately, too busy with the post-season and term papers to call her as often as I should.
“I’m sorry,” I say with genuine remorse. “It always gets crazy busy at the end of the semester.”
“I know. That’s why I haven’t been bugging you. Are you studying hard for your exams?”
“Sure.” Yeah, right. I haven’t even cracked open a book yet.
Mom sees right through the noncommittal response. “Don’t BS your mother, Johnny.”
“Fine, I haven’t started yet,” I admit. “But you know I work better under pressure. Can you hold on a sec?”
“Yup.”
I set the phone down and drop my towel, then yank a pair of sweatpants up my hips. My hair is still wet, sprinkling droplets down my bare chest, so I rub the towel over my head before picking up the phone again.
“Back,” I tell her. “So how’s work going? How’s David?”
“Good, and great.”
For the next ten minutes she chats about her job—she’s a manager at a restaurant in Boston—then tells me what my stepfather has been up to. David is an accountant, and he’s so boring that sometimes it’s painful to be around him. But he also loves my mother with all his heart and treats her like the queen she is, so I can’t exactly hate the guy.
Eventually she gets around to my summer plans, taking on that guarded tone she always uses when she brings up the subject of my father.
“So I take it you’re working with your dad again?”
“Yup.” I make an effort to sound relaxed. My brother and I agreed a long time ago to keep the truth from Mom.
She doesn’t need to know that Dad is drinking again, and I refuse to dredge up that old bullshit for her. She got out, and she needs to stay out. She deserves to be happy now, and boring as he is, David makes her happy.
Ward Logan, on the other hand, made her miserable. He didn’t hit her or abuse her verbally, but she was the one who had to clean up his messes. She was the one who had to deal with his drunken tantrums and constant visits to rehab. The one who dragged him off the floor when he came home wasted and passed out in the front hall.
Fuck, I’ll never forget the time when I was eight or nine, and Dad called the house at two in the morning. He’d been slurring like a maniac and freaking out because he’d drunk himself stupid at a bar, gotten in the car, and had no idea where he was. It had been the dead of winter, and Mom hadn’t wanted to leave my brother and me at home alone, so she’d bundled us up, and the three of us drove for hours searching for him. With only half a street name to go on because the sign had been covered in snow and Dad was too drunk to walk over and wipe it away.