Page 68 of Logan

“I know.” His bright blue eyes study me.

What is he searching for? If I’ve fallen in love with him? Because maybe I’ve fallen for his cock, but that’s it. I haven’t forgotten for a second that he’s my boss. Nothing will happen beyond mind-blowing sex. “I’m not expecting anything. Don’t worry.”

“I still owe you one more orgasm.”

My jaw drops.

“But I’ll give you a few hours to recover first,” he adds, noting my expression. “I don’t break promises. I told you that.”

Chapter Eighteen

SLOANE

Irise from the bed, wincing at the soreness between my legs. Damn, he was right. There’s no mistaking what we did last night—it was intense. But fuck, it was worth every toe-curling, back-arching moment.

Logan spoiled me rotten, bringing me food and letting me rest and recharge. But round two proved even more hardcore than the first.

The insatiable man wasn’t satisfied with wringing just one mind-melting orgasm from my quivering body or limiting our encounters to a single time.

This man knows how to fuck so goddamn well.

I’m officially crowning last night as the best, most explosive sex of my life. Granted, I’m not exactly a woman of vast experience, but Logan definitely secured the top spot on my shortlist.

It baffles me he’s gone so long withouttouching a woman. With his skills, he should dole out earth-shattering orgasms all day, every day, leaving a trail of lucky, satisfied ladies in his wake. Womankind is seriously missing out.

I spy Logan’s crisp button-down shirt draped over the chair and narrow my eyes, an idea taking shape. That’s what I’ll wear.

Just like in all the romance books, the oversized shirt will hang nearly to my knees, and then I’ll go make cereal in the kitchen, and he’ll wake up and think I’m the sexiest thing he’s ever laid eyes on, looking all rumpled and tempting in his clothes.

Brilliant plan.

I slip the shirt on and start buttoning it up, my tongue poking out the corner of my mouth in concentration.

Fuck.

Whoever designed this shirt clearly didn’t account for breasts larger than mosquito bites. I suck in a deep breath and tug the shirt harder, trying to force the stubborn buttons to close over my generous breasts.

No luck. It strains without budging.

Determined, I suck in my stomach until the muscles quiver and squish my boobs, huffing and puffing from the effort as I barely fasten the buttons.

Success! I can barely breathe, but who cares about oxygen when you look this good, right?

The rustle of sheets has me glancing over my shoulder. Logan lies on his side amidst the tangled bedding, propped up on one elbow, watching me with an amused glint in his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m borrowing your shirt. Hope you don’t mind.”

“All your clothes are in the other room. Why do you need my shirt?” One dark eyebrow quirks upward.

“Because it’s sexy?” I strike a little pose, one hand on a cocked hip.

His eyes rake over my body, taking in the obscene way the fabric pulls across my chest. “Hmmm...”

“What? Not sexy?” Frowning, I stride over to the mirror and examine my reflection. The poor shirt is stretched drum-tight, looking ready to burst at the seams, the perilous ledge of my breasts threatening to spill out at any moment.

He’s right, I look ridiculous, not alluringly rumpled and tempting like I’d envisioned.