Page 5 of Logan (The Valeur Billionaires #1)

Chapter Three

SLOANE

A loud knock sounds on the door, jolting me out of my daydreams. I hurry to answer it, only to find myself face-to-face with a familiar figure.

“What do you want, Johnny?” I confront him, standing firm, blocking the doorway with my body. “I already told you I’m not interested.”

“I wanted to apologize again. Did you get my messages?” He extends a large bouquet toward me, his smile hopeful.

I meet his gaze with a mixture of defiance and hurt, refusing to take the bouquet from his outstretched hand. “Yes, I got your messages.”

His smile wavers, sensing the icy chill in my response. “I didn’t hear from you.”

I grit my teeth. “Because I can’t forgive what you did. I don’t want you back in my life.”

“It’s been almost a year, Sloane. Are you so unable to forgive a one-time mistake? People make mistakes. I’ve realized I was stupid. You’re the woman of my life. Let me show you how much I’ve changed,” he pleads, his eyes searching mine for any sign of wavering resolve.

“I’d rather get a massage from a group of tigers than take you back.” With that, I turn away and storm inside, slamming the door behind me.

Ugh. Why does he have to ruin my day? I often find myself lost in fantasies of dukes and romance, but the reality I face is far from charming—it’s a downright bitter pill.

He betrayed me, sleeping with my friend and shattering my trust. Everyone knew about it before me. And he has the audacity to call it a one-time mistake?

Please. I know better. There were at least three different instances that I know of, and I can only imagine there were more.

How could I ever trust someone like him again? And Kelly… I considered her a friend, but with a friend like her, who needs enemies?

She was privy to my deepest thoughts and feelings about him. I confided in her about my hopes for a future with Johnny, completely unaware that she was sleeping with him behind my back.

How could she deceive me like that? Standing right in front of me, listening, nodding, pretending to care, all while they both deceived me?

Neither of them thought it necessary to come clean and spare me the heartache. And what if I hadn’t found out? Would they still be sneaking around behind my back, living out their happily ever after as cheaters ?

Now he has the nerve to come crawling back, begging for forgiveness?

Ha!

I refuse to subject myself to his manipulations. I won’t allow myself to be humiliated again, to fall for his lies and deceit.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve been alone for a year. Being alone is far better than being with someone who can’t be trusted.

But as I close the door on Johnny and his bouquet of apologies, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the end of his attempts to worm his way back into my life.

I’m in bloody London .

I’ve made it.

Perched in the unfamiliar kitchen, I dig into the noodles of my takeaway—as they call it here in the UK—from the cardboard container, my eyes wandering around the space once more. It’s surreal that they’ve granted me use of the company flat in London.

Just the exterior décor of the building nearly caused me to have a meltdown. This place exceeds any expectations I had, and it’s smack dab in the heart of the city.

The interior is much more lavish than I expected, too, making me feel like the company owner rather than a junior employee.

While not huge—having only two bedrooms—the living room and kitchen are splendid, boasting luxurious furnishings throughout with art adorning the walls that’s undoubtedly worth a fortune.

And to top it off, the flat’s balcony offers a view of London, bathed in the glow of nightlights.

The city pulses with life outside my window, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from passersby drifting up to the balcony. Below, the Thames River winds its way through the city like a shimmering ribbon, its surface reflecting the dazzling lights of the skyline.

I take another bite of noodles, relishing the moment of solitude in this bustling metropolis. It’s a far cry from the chaos of the office back home, where demands and deadlines loom overhead. Here, in this quiet sanctuary, I can breathe a little easier, if only for a brief moment in time.

My curiosity piqued, I grasp the remote I found on the table, its sleek surface cool against my fingertips, and tap a button.

A low hum fills the air, and a massive television screen emerges from the floor with a mechanical whir. I nearly leap out of my chair, my eyes widening. What on earth?

I press another button, and just as swiftly as it appeared, the television sinks into the floor, leaving no trace of its existence.

I explore another button, and a music system springs to life, filling the room with melodious tunes. I leave it on, then glance at the instructions placed on the kitchen table waiting for me when I arrived yesterday.

I recall mention of a diligent household staff who prepared the apartment for my arrival. If I require any additional services or assistance, all I need to do is send a message.

I’m surrounded by luxury, catered to by a team of dedicated staff. This new reality—temporary though it might be—sends a thrill of excitement coursing through me.

Hell, being rich sure has its perks.

My first day in London was an absolute blast. I hopped on the iconic red bus, dodging traffic twice—seriously, those drivers have nerves of steel—then I hit up Madame Tussauds, the famous wax museum, where I basically rubbed elbows with Brad Pitt.

Well, his wax figure, anyway. But hey, close enough for a selfie.

Everyone here has that accent that just makes your knees weak. I swear, I need to find myself a Brit to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, make my heart flutter, and make my internal organs vibrate while I imagine Tom Ellis at my side.

The jet lag I shrugged off yesterday has now descended upon me like a heavy blanket, weighing down my eyelids and fogging my thoughts.

I consider Emery’s words, her encouragement to seize the moment and indulge in a fleeting romance. But tonight, the idea of mustering the energy for such an adventure feels daunting. It’s not just fatigue that holds me back, it’s the gnawing anxiety that twists my stomach into knots.

Where do I even begin? How do I navigate the complexities of a casual encounter, free from expectations and complications? I’ve never done it before.

I’m not ready for such a leap into the unknown. Not tonight, at least.

I glance at my phone and scroll through the barrage of messages from Johnny, each one a persistent plea for reconciliation. Fifteen messages today alone. He’s relentless, I’ll give him that.

I can’t fathom what prompted this sudden renewal of interest after all this time since our breakup. But whatever his reasons, I simply don’t have the emotional fortitude to entertain his advances anymore.

With a heavy sigh, I select each message and press the delete button, watching as they disappear one by one. It’s a small act of self-preservation, a boundary I’m finally enforcing to protect my peace of mind.

I retrieve the box I purchased earlier from my quick shopping spree and open it. The sight of the imposing pink device inside gives me pause.

Why did I buy this?

I’ve never owned one before—never even considered it when I was younger. And Johnny, well, he never liked me using toys.

But here it is, large and intimidating, a promise of something new. The saleswoman’s enthusiastic pitch echoes in my mind—three modes guaranteed to revolutionize pleasure, she said.

I swallow, a knot forming in my throat. I’m not even sure I’ll know what to do with it. But I’m here to get out of my boring life, to be brave.

Time to find out.

In the bedroom, I undress, each movement deliberate as I strip away layers of clothing. I retrieve the batteries and slot them into the device, hesitating for just a moment before pressing the power button. The vibrator hums to life, and I almost drop it, startled by the intensity.

That’s strong.

Curiosity piqued, I cycle through the different settings, each one producing a different response from the toy. One setting in particular causes it to twitch and writhe, and I can’t help but chuckle.

Settling onto the edge of the bed, I position the pink shaft between my legs, trying to relax. I’m tense, unsure, but determined to push forward. Closing my eyes, I brace myself and let the sensation wash over me.

It’s… nice.

Is this it?

It’s nothing like a man. Frustration bubbles up, and I’m about to give up when an image of Logan Valeur flashes in my mind. His sharp, blue gaze, his dark hair, his strong hands… a shiver runs down my spine, and suddenly, everything changes.

The device against my skin feels different, more intense, more connected. Heat flares through me as I imagine his lips, his touch, the way his voice would sound as he whispered dirty things in my ear.

Logan… why am I even thinking about him?

But the thought of him takes hold, refusing to let go. My breath quickens, and my body responds, hips swaying. I imagine Logan’s weight pressing down on me, his lips trailing over my skin, his hands rough and demanding.

He’d be intense, relentless. He’d make me beg for more.

With that thought, a surge of pleasure shoots through me, and I increase the pace, my hand gripping the sheets tightly. My free hand moves to my breast, pinching and teasing, pretending it’s his touch, his mouth.

I want him. God, I want him.

The fantasy builds, taking over my senses, driving me higher and higher. I can almost hear his voice, feel the heat of his breath on my neck, the rasp of his stubble against my skin. I’m so close, teetering on the edge of something vast, something uncontrollable.

Harder, I gasp, my voice raw with need. And then, everything shatters.

A wave of ecstasy crashes over me, pulling me under, drowning me in sensation. My body convulses, lost to the overwhelming force of my climax. I cry out, Logan’s name on my lips, even as reality slips away.

When I come back to myself, I’m trembling, breathless. The vibrator still humming softly in my hand. The saleswoman wasn’t exaggerating.

This thing… it blew my mind.