Logan (The Kings of Brighton Book 2)

by Megyn Ward

  “What sound?”

  “That sound.” Her mouth quirks in a quick, flat smile while she shakes her head. “You asked. I can’t help it if you don’t like my—”

  I don’t let her finish.

  Reaching for her again, I pull her leg across my waist, positioning her on top of me until she’s straddling my hips, her hands braced against my shoulders.

  Lifting my head, I catch her mouth with mine, kissing her softly. “Thank you.” I say it quietly, pushing my hands under her T-shirt to slide them up the length of her back and down again.

  I feel her mouth shift into a smile against mine, a second before she levers herself up just enough to look me in the eye. “For what?” she asks, the question catching in her throat when my hands slide over her bare ass, my fingertips brushing against the juncture of her thighs from behind. “For being a snoopy busybody?”

  “Yes.” Suddenly desperate to get her naked, I reach up to find the hem of her shirt and pull it up slowly, over her head and down her arms, to toss it over the side of the bed. “Believe it or not…” Reaching between us, I cup her breasts, feathering the pads of my thumbs against their swollen tips. “I’m learning to appreciate that about you.” The feel of her swollen nipples sends a rush of blood and heat pulsing through me, stiffening my cock in an instant.

  “Well, in the spirit of your new-found appreciation…” She pushes herself into my grip, the hand on my shoulder slips down to my chest, her fingertips lightly tracing the lines of the tattoo inked into my pec. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” The word comes out on barely more than a croak when she shifts her hips against me, the feel of her bare pussy brushing against the head of my cock sends another rush of heat spiraling down the length of my spine and I have to close my eyes in an effort to keep it together. “What do you want to know?” I think she’s going to ask me about the tat. What it means, but that’s not what she asks.

  “Where are your glasses?”

  The question pulls my eyes open. Makes me realize that I’ve been without them. That I haven’t had them to hide behind, been exposed this whole time and nothing’s happened. “In the trash,” I tell her, squeezing and rolling her nipples until she gasps before sliding my hands around to her back. “We broke them.”

  “We—” Her breath catches in her throat when I lean into her, licking and nipping my way along the curve of her jaw, on my way to her ear.

  “Broke them…” I catch her lobe with my teeth and give it a gentle tug. “Yesterday… when I made you come in the garage.” I feel a warm flush bloom under my mouth when I say it, even as she moans and arches her back against the feel of my rough palms gliding across her skin and the contradiction is enough to drive me crazy. Lowering my head, I catch one of her nipples in my mouth, teasing and sucking it with my lips and tongue as my fingertips round the curve of her ass to tease her entrance again.

  “Oh…” It comes out soft and breathless, her hands slipping lower, onto my chest, elbows braced against my ribcage so she can angle her hips against the push of them, trying to get me inside her. “Are we finished talking?”

  Giving her what she wants, I stroke two fingers into her and she moans, long and low in her throat, immediately flexing her hips against the push of them. “Yeah…” I grit it out through clenched teeth against the feel of her slick pussy gliding along their length, riding them while she grinds her clit against the engorged head of my cock, pushing against her through my shorts. Looking up at her, watching her fuck herself on my fingers and cock, flushed cheeks and slightly parted mouth, inches from mine, I can’t decide where I want to start. Which part of her I want to taste and fuck first. “We’re finished talking,” I tell her, free hand streaking up her back to tangle in her hair, pulling on it to expose the line of her throat. Locking my mouth around it, I bite down hard and she lets out a sharp gasp that ends on a soft, shuddering moan.

  “Logan…” she says my name, her short, blunt nails biting into my chest, the pump of her hips against my fingers and cock becoming frantic. “please—”

  Tearing my mouth and hands away from her, I roll and maneuver her around me, under me, until she’s on her stomach and I’m kneeling between her legs, shorts jerked down over my hips, just far enough to free my cock. Dropping my hands to her hips, I pop them off the bed, tilting them so I can stroke into her, fucking her so deep her hands fist themselves in the sheets and she screams, the husky, broken sound of it tightening against the base of my spine while she comes, her pussy pulsing and griping around me so tight, I grit my teeth against the orgasm that’s suddenly barreling down on me but there’s no fighting it.

  She feels too good.

  I want her too much.

  “Jesus Christ…” Hands gripped around her hips, thumbs digging into her ass, I open her wider, pumping into her, hard and fast, only a handful of times before I’m coming with her, my balls tightening and releasing in time with her core, still pulsing and flexing around me while I keep fucking her through her orgasm and mine.

  More.

  I need more of her.

  All of her.

  Even though I just came so hard my ears are ringing, I’m still hard. Still feel this insatiable need to be inside her.

  To own her.

  Possess her.

  Keep her under me forever.

  Rolling her, I stretch myself over her, hips wedged between her thighs, hands braced on either side of her head, so I can look down at her while I stroke back into her, deep and slow. Jesus, she feels good.

  I could fuck her for days.

  Weeks.

  Until it kills us both.

  Breaking the lock I have on my elbows, I lower myself to brush my mouth across her cheekbone and it comes away salty and wet. Going still, I lift my head to look at her.

  Really look at her.

  Her eyes are closed, cheeks wet.

  The soft skin of her neck is covered in red, angry bite marks.

  I hurt her.

  She’s crying.

  Jesus Christ, Jane’s crying.

  Forty-One

  Jane

  One second, I’m having what can only be described as an out-of-body experience—the feel of Logan, the weight of his long, lean body hovering over me. The slow, languid rhythm of his hips between my thighs. His soft mouth skimming almost carelessly across my skin. The deliberate push of his hands into the bed, holding himself up so he can watch while he fucks me—and the next he’s still, his entire body going stiff, a split second before he’s moving, lunging across the bed, away from me. Confused, I open my eyes and turn my head. “What’s wrong?” I watch while he reaches down with shaky hands and yanks his shorts up, his jerky movements sending a flurry of apprehension fluttering through my belly. “What happened?”

  He’s muttering something, over and over, harsh uneven breaths sawing through his chest with enough force to crack it open. I sit up with the intention of following him off the bed and he moves to stand next to the dresser, several feet away, face aimed at the floor, fingers gripped against the back of his head like it hurts.

  Now he’s scaring me.

  “Logan.”

  His head snaps up and he drops his hand away from it, his pale blue gaze resting on me for a single second before he’s gone.

  Stunned, I stay where I am, rooted in place for the space of a breath before I’m off the bed. Finding the shirt I borrowed, I snap it up and struggle into it as I rush down the hall, after him.

  Stepping into the living room, I immediately look toward the kitchen. The light is on but it’s empty. Swiveling my gaze, I find him standing at the windows, fingers laced together and locked around the back of his neck. “Logan, what—”

  “You need to leave.”

  He doesn’t say it to me directly. He says it to my reflection in the window but it doesn’t matter. As soon as it comes out of his mouth, I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched. Can’t take a full breath. I knew it was coming. That eventually, he�
�d realize that I’ve been here for days now and even though we’ve been ignoring them, there are several elephants in the room that we haven’t talked about. Reasons I shouldn’t be here. Maybe even reasons I should be afraid of him.

  Despite all of that, I can’t leave.

  I don’t want to.

  Maybe it makes me stupid but I don’t care.

  Right now, I don’t care about anything but him.

  “Why?” I hate the way it sounds, coming out of my mouth. Whiny and plaintive, like a scolded child who doesn’t understand what they’ve done.

  “It’s late,” he mumbles at the window. “You have work tomorrow and—”

  “It’s barely Sunday, Logan.” Now I sound desperate. “I don’t have work for another—”

  “I have work.” He cuts me off, his tone hard but he doesn’t turn around. Still can’t look at me. “I have work I should be doing. Clients I’ve been neglecting and—”

  “Then work,” I tell him, flinging my arm at the stairs leading to the loft. “I don’t have to leave for you to do that. I can just watch TV or—”

  “I need you to leave.” He drops his hands away from his neck and turns on me, flinging them out in frustration. “I can’t have you here. I can’t—”

  “Why?” We’ve circled back around to my original question. “Tell me what happened. One second we were—”

  “Because I hurt you.” He visibly blanches, I can see the color draining out of his face, even in the weak light from the kitchen. “I hurt you.” He says it again, his gaze dropping to my neck and he shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight I can practically hear the crack of his teeth from where I’m standing.

  “Hurt me?” Lifting a hand, I press it against my neck. Feel the heat and sting of the marks his teeth left on my skin. Remembering it, the things he did to me, sends a sudden flush of heat rushing through me before it settles low in my belly, setting off a desperate ache that makes me blush.

  Now is so not the time to get turned on, Jane.

  Dropping my hand, I shake my head. “No, you didn’t.” When he doesn’t answer me, I take a step toward him and he takes one away from me, gaze jerking past me, toward the front door like he’s actually thinking about making a run for it. “I’m fine, Logan,” I say, keeping my tone calm like I’m talking to a wild animal, caught in a trap. “You didn’t hurt me, I’m—”

  His face contorts into an expression that tells me he knows what I’m doing and he hates it. “You were crying. I was…” He looks at me again and his expression changes, softens. He looks desperate. Helpless. “fucking you—” His hands clench into fists, and he has to push the words through clenched teeth like they’re hard for him to say out loud. “And you were crying.”

  Raising my hand again, I run my fingertips over my cheeks. They come away damp, a little sticky. Looking at them, I sigh. “These aren’t tears.” Rubbing my fingers together, I drop my hand to my side and shake my head. “I mean, yes, they’re tears but I wasn’t crying. I—” I give him a nervous laugh even though none of this is even a little bit funny. “I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this before, but sex with you is very intense, Logan.” When he frowns at me, I give him a helpless shrug. “You make me feel things—big things that I don’t always understand or know how to control—the tears were just a release valve…” I’m not sure I’m explaining it right, if I can make him understand how he makes me feel. “But I like it. I want it—everything you’ve done to me, I’ve wanted it.”

  That’s a lie.

  I don’t like it.

  Don’t want it.

  I love it.

  Need it.

  Don’t think I could make it through the day without feeling the way having his hands on me makes me feel. Two days in Logan’s bed and I’m a straight-up junkie. I don’t tell him that though because I don’t think he’d be able to handle hearing it right now.

  “I promise, you didn’t hurt me.” Not sure he believes me, I take a tentative step toward him and count it as a small victory when he doesn’t try to jump out the window. “I’m okay—better than okay. Can we go back to bed now?”

  “I got jealous.” He reaches up to swipe a rough hand over his face. “Earlier. I—”

  “I told you, there’s nothing going on between Went and me,” I remind him gently. “He’s like a brother to me. I’d never—”

  “Not him.” He says it loud. Loud enough to make him stop and take a breath and let it out slowly in an obvious effort to calm down. “Not him,” he says again, softly this time. “Of Patrick.”

  “Patrick?” I say the name like I have no idea who he is. “My boss—our boss?”

  “You knew where the condoms were.” He flattens his tone and shrugs. “You knew where they were and for a split second, I thought—”

  “You thought I knew where they were because I slept with him and that made you jealous.”

  He nods. “And that dickhead who asked you to Homecoming—Jack. Justin.”

  “Jacob,” I tell him. “His name was Jacob.

  “Yeah—that little fuckstain.” He laughs a little at the ridiculousness of it all. “I got jealous of some kid I never knew because he asked you to a high school dance over a decade ago—that’s not normal, Jane and I can’t…” He shakes his head, looking miserable. “I can’t control it and I’m afraid I can’t control myself when I feel that way. What if I lose it? What if I—”

  turn into my father.

  He doesn’t say it but it hangs there between us like a curse. The things his father did. The reasons he did them. It’s all suddenly shoved between us and he can’t see past it. Neither of us can.

  “Is that what happened with Jenny?” I have to make myself say it. Make myself ask because even though I don’t want to know what happened to her, I need to.

  Forty-Two

  Logan

  Is that what happened with Jenny?

  As soon as she says it, I know it’s over. That whatever this is between us is done. That I’ve been selfish long enough. It’s time to come clean, so instead of answering her question, I start at the beginning.

  “I met Jenny my freshman year of MIT,” Aiming my gaze at the floor between us, I reach up to scrub my hand over the back of my neck, trying to loosen some of the tension that’s settled there. “We were both computer science majors but she was fun, you know?” I look up at her, hoping to make her understand. “She wasn’t like the rest of us computer nerds—she was pretty and outgoing and… a lot. Jenny was a lot. She was so much that I let myself get swept up in her. I—”

  “Did you love her?”

  The question lifts my gaze and I find her sitting on the arm of the sofa, watching me, her expression unreadable. “No.” It’s something I’ve wondered but could never quite figure out, but hearing Jane ask me the question I’ve asked myself a thousand time without ever being able to settle on an answer, brings it to me in an instant. “No, I didn’t love her but I let myself get lost in her because being with her helped me forget who I was. Helped me pretend that I wasn’t me—does that make sense?” When she nods, I drop my hand and sigh. “We started sleeping together—it was casual. No strings—I knew she was seeing other guys and I was fine with it.”

  “Were you seeing other girls?”

  “No.” I shake my head, a frown settling across my face. “I don’t work that way. I’ve always preferred casual but I don’t do random.” I hate the way it sounds. How it must make her feel about what’s happening between us.

  “Casual because you don’t want to get attached.” She doesn’t frame it like a question but I nod my head in confirmation anyway because I feel like I have to own it—my aversion to all the feelings Jane stirs up in me, if not for myself than for her. It’s what makes my sex life so hard to manage—the fact that I don’t want to have sex with strangers, coupled with the fact that getting involved with someone I actually care about is fucking terrifying. “So, you weren’t dating, you were just…fucking.”

 
“Yeah.” I hate the way she says it, what it might make her think of me, but I give her another nod and clear my throat because I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to talk about how fucked up I am. Not with Jane. “We’d been seeing each other for a few months so, when she asked me if I wanted to spring break in Myrtle Beach with her and bunch of her friends, I said yes because it didn’t feel like a big deal… and it wasn’t. Everything was great, we were all having a good time until our second to last night there, when she met someone in some bar we were all drinking in.”

  I expect her to ask me what happened next. What I did. If I flew into a jealous rage and did something bad. How Jenny went missing. When she doesn’t, I clear my throat and shake my head. “She was pretty drunk and this guy was all over her.”

  “Did seeing her with someone else make you jealous?”

  “No.” I know how that sounds. In the face of everything I told her about how thinking about her with Went and Patrick and that Jacob douche makes me feel, it sounds like a lie. “I knew what we were and what we weren’t—the fact that there was no real attachment is why I was with her in the first place but I also couldn’t just leave her there. All of her friends left for another club on the strip and I didn’t feel great about leaving her alone with a total random stranger she picked up in a bar.”

  “So, you stayed?”

  “I stayed.” I nod, feeling like a total chump. “Tried to hang back, just wait for her to be done messing around so I could take her back to the hotel and put her to bed.” This is the hard part. The place where things get sticky. “When she told me she was leaving with him, I tried to talk her out of it because it wasn’t safe and she flipped. Made a huge scene about how I didn’t own her and I didn’t get to tell her what to do and she could leave with whoever she wanted. She slapped me. Pushed me—” I stop talking. Wait for her to ask me if I hit her back. If I put my hands on her. When she doesn’t I feel a knot loosen in my gut that I didn’t even know was there until it was gone. “everyone in the bar saw us fighting. Everyone heard her call me a jealous, possessive freak who followed her on her vacation like a stalker and that the only reason she even talked to me was because of my rich brother.”