My mind made up, I turned and plucked a pillow off the bed. Grabbing my fuzzy blanket from the foot of the bed, I marched to the futon and dropped both items, suddenly annoyed enough not to care that I was in my underwear just a few feet away from him. “There you go.”
A corner of his mouth lifted and he shoved off the wall. My heart dropped into my stomach at the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor, coming closer.
Suddenly I felt so . . . alone with him. Acutely aware that we were the only two people inside the building.
“You sure about this?” He walked toward me with measured steps and I wasn’t so clear what it was he was asking me anymore.
I pointed. “The couch,” I clarified—maybe just as much for myself as for him. “Yeah, I’m sure you can spend the night there.”
“Thanks.” He stopped before reaching the couch, looking me up and down again in my scanty attire. The sweep of his gaze caught on my guitar where I’d tucked it between the futon and side table. “This yours?” He sank down on the futon and picked up my guitar, settling it on his lap.
I took a protective step forward, my hand reaching out before I could stop myself. He looked up, lifting his eyebrows, not missing my involuntary move, “I’ll be careful,” he murmured, a smile playing about his lips. “You play?”
I shrugged uncomfortably. “A little. I used to. N-not really.” God. I was babbling.
“No?” He plucked at a few of the strings. “Then why do you have it?”
I lifted the guitar from his hands. “I used to keep it in the back of my closet. Just haven’t gotten around to putting it away yet.”
“Back of the closet, huh?”
“Yeah.” I walked across the loft and opened the tiny closet where the vacuum barely fit and stuck my guitar inside, making sure it was secure before closing the door.
I turned around and gasped, nearly yelping at finding him directly in front of me. He moved like some kind of cheetah. Silent and swift.
His clear blue eyes flicked over my shoulder to the closet. “So you’re a ‘closet’ guitar player?” He grinned. “You know you’ll feel better if you just own it and come out to the world.”
“Very funny. Do I look like the musician type to you?”
“I don’t know.” He lifted one broad shoulder in half a shrug. His cotton shirt looked soft and inviting, hugging his chest. There was no mistaking the ridiculousness of the body under that shirt. “What does a musician type look like?”
I had a flash of my father in the one picture I had of him. Aunt Charlene had given it to me. She told me a child should know what her father looked like, and then she told me to never let Mom know I had the photo. I hid the photo in the middle of a book, taking it out often over the years to examine it and search for evidence of me within the features of his face. I would study it for hours. Days of my life were lost to that photo.
The edges were curled with age now, the paper slightly faded. He was wearing an Eagles T-shirt and holding me like I was something fragile. But there had been something in his velvet brown eyes—eyes so like my own. Tenderness. Love. At least I thought I saw it there. I convinced myself it was there. I was only a few months old, all swaddled up in a blanket. His dark blond hair hung in straight strands to his shoulders. His face was narrow, handsome with taunting eyes. A guitar hung on the back of his chair. Like it had to be close. Like he could never be far from it.
I knocked the image from my head and focused on Logan again, watching me, waiting for my response. “I don’t know. Just not me.”
I backed away several paces before turning around. Like I was afraid to present him with my back. At my bed, I slid beneath my fresh sheets, my eyes trained on him as he moved back to the couch and began to undress. First his shoes. Then he reached back behind him and grabbed the collar of his shirt with one hand, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. My mouth dried. Un-flipping-believable.
He was like some guy in one of those calendars my aunt Charlene always hung on the front of her fridge, ignoring Mom’s protest that they were vulgar. Maybe I was like my aunt. Minus the five hundred cats. Or maybe that was my future. Eccentric Cat Lady with a calendar full of guys who looked like Logan. God. That was a tragic thought. Especially when I had the reality right here within reach.
Logan was real. Hard and cut. I could probably break my knuckles on his abs. Not that I was going to punch him. I wasn’t even going to touch him. No, all that beautiful golden skin was off-limits.
Still, my gaze roved over him in appreciation. His stomach was ripped with muscle and a mesmerizing, happy trail led south to the zipper of his jeans. His hands went there, popping open his fly. My pulse jack-knifed against my neck as the teeth of the zipper sang out.
I couldn’t look away. I watched, gawking as if he were putting on some sort of show just for me. He shoved the jeans down, revealing a pair of fitted boxer briefs that did very little to hide his package. At least it did very little to hide the shape and size of it. The growing shape and size.
Oh, God. He was hard. My gaze flew to his face. He was watching me intently. His mouth curled in that perpetual mocking half-grin, but his blue eyes lacked all mirth. They were smoldering dark and focused on me.
He might be smiling but hard-core sexy-time thoughts were tracking through his head. They had to be.
His deep voice rumbled over the air. “Want me to keep going?”
I licked my lips. “What do you mean?”
“Keep undressing?” His hands moved to the band of his briefs.
“No!” I practically shouted the word, holding out a hand.
He lifted one eyebrow. “You just seemed so interested in the view. Remember . . . all you have to do is say the word, Pearls.”
The reminder of what he’d offered me at the baseball park washed over me and my cheeks burned hot. Not that I needed reminding—his words had been taunting me for days—but to know that he hadn’t forgotten his offer, that he hadn’t been kidding . . .
Any time you want me to make you scream, you just let me know.
Crap. I wanted that. Heat flooded my face and I knew I had to be tomato red. I waved a hand in his general direction. “It’s hardly anything I haven’t seen before.”
The words were all bravado. I’d only ever seen Harris. And that was mostly in the dark. And Harris’s body was nothing like his. Harris had been soft. Not overweight . . . there just hadn’t been any defined muscle. His flesh always gave way beneath my fingers. Like firmer-than-usual Jell-O.