Page 20 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)

LOGAN

A s I step off the elevator, loosening my tie, I can’t help but smile to myself.

For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the look on Chris Garret’s smarmy face when I met him for a quick one-on-one in his office before the bullshit tribunal hearing tonight, when I told him straight-up exactly why he wasn’t going to suspend me.

When the general manager not only voted against suspending me, but recommended I return to the starting line on Tuesday to face off against North Carolina instead of warming the bench, the shock around the board room had been palpable, all while I sat there smirking like an asshole.

I’m not saying I condone blackmail, but let’s just say Chris Garret is now my bitch.

But that’s okay, because he fucking deserves it.

Walking inside, I toss my keys and wallet onto the console table by the front door, smiling down at the random tube of cherry lip gloss sitting in the key bowl, but as I take a look around, I notice the apartment is exactly how it was when I left a few hours ago for Thunder HQ, and my anger from earlier returns with a vengeance for one reason and one reason only.

Millie’s not fucking home yet.

I check the time on my watch. She’s been gone for close to nine hours. Unless she came home and went out again, but I didn’t receive any notification from the camera. I drop my head between my shoulders on a groan, pushing my hands through my messy hair because this is some fucking bullshit.

I’d message her to ask where she is, to check if she’s okay, but I know she’ll just ignore me.

Can’t say I’d blame her. I was kind of a dick to her today when I got home.

But in my defense, I was caught off guard by her standing here, in my apartment, wearing an oversized UM sweatshirt and nothing but a pair of knee-high tube socks.

It was like walking into a wet dream come true.

But then I remembered that she was on a date last night, a stark reminder that sure, she’s here, and yes, she’s effortlessly hot as hell, but she’s not mine.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself, tugging my tie off and walking straight into my bedroom.

Sure, it’s only eight o’clock, but fuck if I’m going to wait around like a little bitch for her to get home. I’m going to bed. The last thing I need is to see her getting tongue fucked by some turtleneck wearing D-bag at my front door.

The soft brush of a hand skating down over my stomach pulls me from my sleep. Opening my eyes, I lift my head, both surprised and confused to see a shock of red hair hovering over me, a warm, wet tongue dragging over my peaked nipple, fingers toying with the waistband of my boxer briefs.

“Millie?” I rasp, my throat thick with anticipation.

She glances up at me, green eyes bright and twinkling with mischief as she clamps my nipple between her teeth with a playful bite that stings in the best kind of way.

“What are you do—” I choke on a groan at the feel of her soft hand wrapping around my dick. “Fuuuck.”

“Shhh.” With her tongue laid out flat, she licks my nipple, soothing the sting, a smile playing on her lips .

“Chrissake, that feels so fucking good,” I murmur, reveling in the way her soft hand moves up and down my length with the perfect amount of pressure, collecting my precum with every pass of her palm over the swollen head.

“I want you, Logan,” Millie whispers, rising up and moving in, her mouth so close, I can practically taste the cherry sweetness of her lips. “I want you to be my first.”

I wake with a start, snorting loudly and jolting myself into a cruel reality where I’m all alone in my bed.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, breathless.

Pushing up onto my elbows, my hazy gaze searches the room for what, I don’t even know.

It’s still dark, so it wasn’t my alarm that woke me.

The clock on my nightstand says it’s barely past midnight, and as I scrub a hand over my face, rubbing my tired eyes, I catch something through the wall.

And, either I’m hearing things or… Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Jumping up, I cross my room in three long strides, leaning in and placing my ear against the wall.

And that’s when I hear it again. It’s stifled, but yep.

That’s a fucking moan coming from Millie’s bedroom.

Leaning in again, I hold my breath, listening hard, and when I hear a whimper this time, I snap back, gaping at the wall like it just slapped me.

She’s in there hooking up with goddamn Turtleneck while I’m dreaming she’s with me. I feel sick to my stomach.

Panic gets the better of me and, tearing my fingers through my hair, I start pacing the length of my room, trying to process.

On one hand, I need to remember that she’s a single, full-grown adult woman, and it’s normal to hook up with guys you’re dating.

Hell, I’ve gone home with girls after dates.

It’s not a big deal. But on the other, slightly less reasonable hand, the hand that is clenched into a fist and tinged green like the fucking Hulk, this is my goddamn apartment, and I said no fucking guys.

Fuck. This.

Spinning on my heel, I storm out of my bedroom and down the hall to Millie’s door. But just as I’m about to knock and drag the guy’s scrawny ass out of my apartment, my hand hesitates mid-air when I hear something else. Something that makes me realize I may have jumped to conclusions.

“Oh, Logan.”

I swear to God, my eyes almost pop out of my damn head. With my heart in the back of my throat, I lean in close, pressing my ear against the door to get a better listen.

Buzzing. Holy shit. That’s definitely fucking buzzing!

She isn’t in there with that turtleneck-wearing fuck at all. She’s… alone.

Right now, I’m the definition of a fucking creeper, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, my dick hard from the wet dream I was on the verge of, plastered up against Millie’s bedroom door listening to her masturbate while moaning my fucking name.

Fuck, that’s so hot.

If this were a porno, I’d open the door and casually walk inside, asking her if she needed a hand, which she would willingly accept. But this isn’t a porno. This is real life. And all I can do is stand here, listening like a perverted asshole.

I should give her space. Let her do her thing.

She’s an adult. I’m an adult. We all need a little self-care every now and again.

It’s healthy. But I can’t move. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.

I’m stuck to the spot. And the more I listen to the sound of her soft, breathy moans dancing through the silent darkness, the more my dick leaks, my balls aching.

I am a sick, sick man.

“Oh, my God, it feels so good,” Millie squeaks through panting breaths. “Yes, just like that.”

I bite down hard on my bottom lip, and if the taste of blood on my tongue is any indication, I’m positive I’ve busted open the split from last night, but I don’t even care.

This is too good. Squeezing my eyes closed, I rest my forehead against the door, trying so hard to keep what little cool I have, but it’s hard.

Pun fully intended. Like fucking steel .

Fuck, I want to touch myself so bad, but I don’t. If I do, I won’t be able to control myself. Imagine if I was too loud. If she heard me. If she caught me standing here with my fucking dick in my hand outside her bedroom. She’d call the cops. Hell, I’d call the cops on my own ass.

“Right there… Yes, ohmygod I want it so… fucking … bad.”

Man, she’s really getting into it.

I’m forced to steel myself with a deep, steadying breath because fuck I wish I could see her right now.

How does she get herself off? Does she kneel on the bed and ride her toy until she comes.

Or is she on her back, thick thighs spread wide, pussy wet as hell as she teases her little clit until she’s a thrashing, convulsing mess, unable to take it anymore.

“Please, Logan, fuck me. I want your cock,” Millie’s voice sounds strangled, throaty and rasped and dripping with desperation and need, and it’s taking every last ounce of my waning willpower not to bust a Logan-sized hole straight through this door and answer her pleas. This is torture at an inhumane level.

I don’t even realize my hips are moving until I feel friction against my dick.

I’m practically dry humping Millie’s bedroom door like some fucking dog in heat.

But I can’t stop. I need something. Anything.

As her sounds grow slightly louder, slightly more uninhibited, I can tell she’s so close.

And so am I. I can feel that coil at the base of my spine starting to tense, feel that familiar tingling sensation in the pit of my gut as my balls tighten.

I release a shuddering breath.

“Oh, my God, I’m going to come.”

Do it, baby , I urge her in my mind. Be a good girl and make that pretty pussy come for me.

“Oh, fuck!” A strangled cry comes through the door, followed by heavy, panting breaths, chanting, “I’m coming. I’m coming. I’m coming.”

A long and palpable silence ensues. It almost feels like I blacked out. For a moment, I wonder if this is another dream. A dream within a dream. But when I finally come to, my knees are weak, my head is dizzy, and my briefs are… wet.

With a shaky exhale, I drag a hand down over my racking chest, my stomach, stopping at my boxers and feeling the evidence.

I came in my pants. Hard. I’m a fucking mess.

Without even touching myself, I came in my pants to the sound of my roommate, my teammate’s little sister, getting herself off on the other side of the door.

I, Logan Cullen, am going to hell. Or jail. Either way, there’ll be some fucking Netflix special made about me: My Roommate, The Creep . I hope they get that guy from The Bear to play me…