Page 22 of Exiled

“You make it sound easy.”

“Not easy, but simple. You trust me, I trust you. We confide in each other. Depend on each other. Give freely so we’re both getting what we need.”

“That sounds . . . lovely.”

He’s close. One knee on the couch, near my hip. Staring down at me. Indigo eyes warm, inviting, fiery with desire. God, those eyes. That look. The expression that says he wants me, all of me, only me. Needs me. Can’t go another minute without me, without tasting me, feeling me.

I take a breath to unburden myself of the guilt, but he steals it with a kiss. Buries his palm in my hair, cupping the back of my head. Lifting me up into the kiss. Grabbing a handful of hair at the roots and tugging my head gently but firmly backward so he can plunder my mouth. Leaning farther over me.

I can’t not touch him, when he kisses me like this. Smooth my hands over his sides. Roam the curves of his shoulders, the broad plain of his back. Somehow, the towel comes loose. I find myself brushing it away, cupping, gripping, clutching, scratching his backside. Pulling him closer. Feeling him harden between us.

He’s propping himself up with one hand, searching for the hem of my dress with the other. Tugging it up, out of the way. Probing with a finger, sliding it under the gusset of my panties. Finding me wet. Hot. Ready. Touching and touching and touching, until I’m gasping against his kiss and stroking his hardness. Lifting my hips, needing him. Ready for him. Eager. Hungry.

He’s ripping at my panties, and I’ve got him gripped in my fist. I can feel by the tension in his belly and the way he’s breathing that he’s ready. Beyond ready.

“Is... God, Isabel.” He murmurs in my ear. His voice is low and rough, but it blasts me with remembrance.

“Logan, wait.”

He touches his forehead to my chest for a brief moment, but then he’s leaning back, upright. Cock jutting hard and ready, eyes tortured with need. “What do you need, babe?” He stares down at me. “If you’re worried about me, don’t. I’m perfectly healthy enough for this, I promise.”

“It’s not that, Logan.” I close my eyes tight, summon courage.

“Then what?”

I can’t look at him, or I’ll forget it all. The desire to obliterate everything with the heat of his kiss and the hardness of his body and the glory of feeling him orgasm in and on and all over me is too strong. If I look at him thus, naked, hard, ready, I’ll forget what I need to do.

“Isabel?” Logan’s voice, prompting me.

I suck in a breath. “We can’t do this, yet. I want to, need to, but I can’t.”

He shifts, plops to the cushion beside me. Drapes the towel over his lap. It tents, somewhat comically, over his massive erection. I force my eyes to focus on his face.

He sees now. This . . . isn’t good.

“Shit.” A breath, a palm passed over his face. “Spill.”

“I don’t even... I don’t know where to start.”

He eyes me. There’s an anger and a hardness in his gaze. “Well, then let me venture a guess: Caleb mind-fucked you again. Got you all mixed up and feeling sorry for yourself or for him, or something. Worked whatever magic hold he has on you, got you to sleep with him again. Is that it? That’s it, isn’t it? You let Caleb fuck you again.”

“Logan, I—”

“Yes—or—no, Isabel?”

A tear slides down my cheek. Another. A whole host. “Yes.” A broken sound, a shattered word, a shredded syllable.

“Fuck.” He rises, paces away, towel dropping to the floor, forgotten. Stomps angrily to his room. Pauses, head hanging, glances back at me. And then slams his fist into his bedroom door, a furious smashing blow that splinters the door. “Now I need two goddamn doors.”

“Logan, wait.”

“Just give me a few minutes, okay? I need to calm down, and I need to process this.” He’s not looking at me. Just standing naked in the doorway, blood on his knuckles, bandages diagonal across his head. “Don’t leave. Don’t drink. Just... wait.”

“All right.”

I try to push down the panic. The sobs. The self-loathing. But it’s bubbling up and threatening to spill over. It’s a very long time before Logan emerges. He’s dressed, in loose track pants and a tight T-shirt, barefoot. Band-Aids on his knuckles.

Takes a seat on the couch beside me. Breathes deeply, let it out, and finally looks at me. I keep my eyes downcast. I don’t deserve to look at him.