by Ella Frank
Tate decided if ever there was a time to remind Logan that he was exactly where he wanted to be, that time was now. He reached out, took him by the lapels, and jerked him across the console. When their noses were touching, he ran his fingers along the scruff covering Logan’s jawline.
“I didn’t think it was possible for you to be any sexier, but damn, Logan…you proved me wrong.”
This close, he could see the way Logan’s eyes dilated in response, but the pleasure was short-lived when he heard him ask in a gruff voice, “Then why did you leave me?”
Before Tate could remind him that he hadn’t left—he’d just needed space—Logan cupped the back of his neck and connected their mouths.
Molten fire lit his veins as his lips parted and Logan pushed inside. As their tongues tasted and they strained to get closer to one another, Tate felt the hand at the back of his neck slide up into his hair.
He groaned as Logan’s fingers twisted and tightened, reminding him that he loved the slight bite of pain that came when getting his hair pulled.
Damn, I’ve missed this—missed him.
The forceful way Logan took what he wanted and demanded that he do the same made Tate’s body respond in a way it never had with anyone else.
As a deep growl reverberated through the car, Tate felt his cock harden in response. Then Logan pulled his mouth free and demanded, “Stop.”
“Stop?” Tate repeated, not quite sure he’d heard correctly. He couldn’t remember that word ever leaving Logan’s mouth.
“Yes. Stop,” he said again, moving to his side of the car.
Tate sat back in his seat, pressed a palm to his erection, and moaned.
“Don’t do it.”
He looked over to see Logan’s eyes moving between his hand and his face. “Don’t do what?”
“Sit there and get off in my car. You put me through the fucking wringer this week.”
“So you didn’t—”
“Didn’t what? Jerk myself off to the guy who told me to get lost? No, I didn’t.”
Tate removed his hand, his cock instantly deflating. Then Logan’s voice cut through the tense silence.
“Tate?”
“Yeah?”
“A cabin.”
Tate looked confused as Logan pulled the car back out onto the main road.
“That’s what’s in New Buffalo. My cabin. And I want to see you in it.”
Well, Tate thought, Logan certainly had no problem telling him how he felt about that, and there was no way in hell he was going to argue with him.
* * *
Logan drove the car along the empty street to the cabin nestled in amongst the green forestry at the far end. He then turned onto the dirt drive and made his way down until he came to a stop in front of the two-story home made of brick and wood he’d purchased a little over three years ago.
He loved it out here. The quiet and the calm—the solitude.
Which would probably surprise most.
For so long, he’d been on his own. It was where he was most comfortable. So it was ironic that, as he sat in front of his sanctuary, he was more uncomfortable than ever. Stuck somewhere in the middle of hope and fear, he wasn’t sure how to cross the line into one or the other, and Tate wasn’t a decision he wanted to make lightly.
Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he turned to see Tate looking out the window.
“It’s too dark,” he said. “I can’t see anything.”
“You will in a couple of hours. The sun will be up before we know it.”
He moved to open the door when a hand landed on his arm. He turned to Tate but said nothing, just waited for him to speak.
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
Logan nodded and got out of the car, moving around to the trunk. He popped it open and grabbed a bag, and when he shut it, he found Tate standing by the vehicle.
His grip tightened on the handles of the bag, and he walked over to the stairs leading up to the front door. When he reached the top, he turned to see Tate waiting at the bottom of them, looking up at him.
“I don’t have anything.”
Logan clutched the bag in his hand and watched Tate as he climbed the stairs. When he reached him, Logan heard himself saying, “You have me.”
When that pearly white grin of Tate’s appeared, Logan backed away.
He is too fucking irresistible.
He wanted to get his head on right. To gain a little perspective—think about all that had been said.
“Come on. Let me show you inside.”
“Logan?”
He’d just unlocked the door and pushed it open as Tate stopped next to him on his way in. “Hmm?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner.”
Logan couldn’t explain why that was what he’d been waiting to hear—but it was. He knew that even just a simple text last week would have made him feel more…More what? Secure? Jesus, he hated feeling vulnerable.
He shut the door and flicked on a light. A rustic chandelier lit up the main living room and a huge stone fireplace on the far wall. As Tate looked around, Logan watched him.
“Wow. This place is…wow.”
Logan shrugged out of his jacket, placed it over one of the hooks on the wall by the door, and then walked farther into the room, stopping beside Tate.
“Yeah. I like it.”
Tate shook his head. “Like it? It’s fucking gorgeous.”
Logan felt the side of his mouth quirk at Tate’s obvious approval and then indicated with a tilt of his head that he should follow him as he showed him down a narrow hall.
“That’s the master bedroom down there,” he said, pointing to the far end door.
Tate nodded and looked where he was showing him. “Okay.”
Logan swallowed and then indicated behind Tate. “That’s the guest room in there.”
He watched as Tate turned his head to the room he’d pointed out, and once he was satisfied he knew where to go, Logan began walking down the hall to his room.
“Hey? Logan!”
He’d known it was coming, so he wasn’t surprised. He opened the door to the master bedroom and then turned to face Tate, who seemed…baffled.
“Yes?”
“So I’m…”
“A guest?” he suggested.
“Yeah…”
Logan reached up and began undoing his shirt buttons, and when he was halfway down, he said, “Yes. Right now, you’re my guest. Sleep well, Tate.”
He reached out and shut the door—stealing himself some time.
If Tate got five days to work out what he wanted, then he could damn well give him a few hours to catch the fuck up.
* * *
Tate walked into the ‘guest’ room and turned the light on.
It was huge—and empty.
In the center was a bed the size of a swimming pool, and on the far side of the room was a tallboy dresser made out of beautiful carved wood. It almost looked hand carved to go along with the heavy bed frame.
He wandered across the lighter hardwood floors and sat down on the side of the bed. God, he was more exhausted than he’d realized.
As the mattress dipped down under him, he toed his shoes off and lay back across the cream duvet. The soft fabric enveloped him as he relaxed back into it and thought about the man at the far end of the hall.
He couldn’t actually believe Logan had sent him to a separate room. But then he remembered the look on Logan’s face last week and maybe…Yeah, I totally deserve it.
He could wait, and he would.
The complete and utter lack of tolerance from his parents had shown him one very important thing—love was not something that was simply there because you were born of the same blood, and it should never come with a fucking disclaimer.
He’d tried to call them during the past week and nothing. It was as if they’d decided he didn’t exist. They’d just cut him off like a rotting limb that was infecting the rest of the body, and he stil
How could the people who were supposed to care the most hurt him so deep?
Don’t I deserve to be fucking happy?
And what it all came back to was Logan. Logan made him happy.
So now it was his turn. His turn to convince Logan that he, Tate Morrison, was worth it. When he wanted something, he was stubborn enough to wait it out and take it.
Logan would be his, and he wasn’t going anywhere until he had him.
19.
Logan woke the next morning to the sun slipping in through his bedroom window. He glanced at the time and groaned.
Fuck. 6:34 a.m. Sunrise, of course.
Yawning, he let his eyes adjust and looked out the window at one of the many ponds on his property.
When he’d been searching for a place and the realtor had brought him down the narrow street lined with cabins, Logan hadn’t thought this place was for him. That was until she turned onto his drive and weaved him back between the trees to show him the way the end property spread out behind the place.
It had taken two hours for her to walk him around the thirty acres and convince him this was the place he wanted, and he’d never regretted the decision.
He’d purposefully left the curtains off the bedroom window so he could see the view, so the sun waking him wasn’t unusual. It was, however, unwelcome after only a couple of hours sleep.
Of course that made him think of the night before and Tate.
He wondered if he was awake yet and, if he was, how things would be between them this morning. It was strange to be off his game, but when it came to Tate, he was starting to realize he needed a whole new rule book, and the first rule would read: No long periods of dead air space.
Rolling to his side, Logan picked up his phone to check for any messages and was happy to find none. Cole said he’d take care of everything at the office, so he didn’t have to worry about that, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d thought maybe Tate would—
Okay, this is ridiculous. Just fucking text the guy.
He found Tate’s name and typed in: You up yet?
He put the phone down and tried not to stare at it while he waited for a response. He also reminded himself that Tate was just down the hall.
Then it vibrated.
Tate: Define up.
Usually, he was the first to slip in a sexual innuendo, but this morning, he wanted something different, so he typed: Awake.
Almost immediately, the phone buzzed.
Tate: Yeah, I’m awake.
Logan looked at the screen for a moment before writing: You sleep well?
Christ, when did I become the person who pussyfoots around a situation?
Tate: An hour or so…Logan?
Logan looked at his name, wondering where this would go if he responded. Well, there was only one way to find out: Tate?
One heartbeat, two heartbeats—
Tate: I missed you.
The words were so simple, and as he focused on them, Logan realized that it was the first time they’d ever been used in relation to himself.
While that made him happy, it also made him…wary.
He typed back: When? He needed to know if Tate had felt any of the misery he had during their time apart.
Tate: All of last week. Last night. Right now.
Logan felt a smile cross his mouth as he read the last message—at least three times. He didn’t think written words had ever been more satisfying, and then his phone vibrated and made him realize that the written word could be insanely powerful.
Tate: I miss lying beside you.
Suddenly, his heart wasn’t the only thing that was happy.
As he imagined Tate lying in the huge king-sized bed down the hall, his cock took immediate interest.
When he didn’t reply right away, his phone buzzed again.
Tate: Logan?
Quickly, he typed back: I’m here. It scared him that he couldn’t imagine a time where he wouldn’t be there if Tate wanted him.
He kept trying to think of that precise moment when Tate had slipped in under his defenses, because he sure as hell hadn’t pursued him with forever in mind.
The actual thought of forever still freaked him out—even as it was becoming more appealing.
Tate: Did you sleep well?
That was easy enough. No.
Tate: Why not?
He’d known that was coming, and his answer made his palms sweat. I missed you too.
Several minutes passed and he started to think he’d said the wrong thing, but then, as usual, his addiction reached out to him and reminded him he was still hooked.
Tate: I’m right down the hall.
Tate Morrison. He might as well change his name to temptation, because that’s what he was. Pure fucking temptation.
Logan steeled himself against what his body wanted and tried like hell to keep things above his waist. I know.
Tate: You don’t want to see me?
The text was innocent enough, but the tease was underlying. He knew Tate, and Logan could sense the way he was leading them, building them towards more than a casual texting session. I do.
Tate: Then come see me.
Groaning, Logan reached down under the sheet to press a palm against his morning erection. If I do, I’ll touch you.
He could almost see Tate’s grin when he read the next question.
Tate: And you don’t want that?
He shook his head. Of course I WANT that.
Tate: But?
But…I don’t think so. Not yet.
He was battling the desire to take his time and move slow against walking down the hall, opening the guest bedroom door, and pounding Tate into the mattress.
Then, frustrated, he typed out: You really fucking scared me last week. I thought that was it. That you were done with me.
Logan read his message and felt the fear from the last few days creep back inside. The pain of having everything he wanted ripped away had opened his eyes in ways he’d never expected.
At first, he’d been furious, but it was after the anger seeped out that the empty sadness had found him. When he’d really thought he’d lost him.
Tate: I know…I’m sorry.
And Logan knew that he was. Logically, he was aware that Tate had needed time. But to go from having him available and within talking and touching distance to nothing…Well, it was a reality he never wanted to experience again.
I know.
Fuck. This was not like him. He wasn’t the kind to hold a grudge, and he certainly didn’t believe in that bullshit of withholding sex. But right now, he needed to make sure that his heart was strong enough for whatever was ahead of them.
Because his heart was now one hundred percent involved.
Tate: Logan?
Yeah?
He waited for whatever Tate was going to write, but instead of words, an image loaded on his phone that made him ache with longing.
There, staring back at him, was Tate.
The curve of his lips was subtle but definitely there.
Total sex face.
His brown curls were visible against the cream pillow, and the photo caught a glimpse of the top of his chest with all of that delicious honeyed skin. He’d sent it with the caption: Wish you were right here, lying beside me.
Fucking hell. So do I.
God, Tate. You’re fucking gorgeous.
He took another look at the photo and found himself stroking his cock.
Damn, I can’t stop looking, he typed, his hand moving faster.
The morning shadow lining Tate’s cheeks made Logan want to lick and bite his way up his jaw, and as he imagined just that, another message flashed up.
Tate: Just looking? Or…
Definitely or…
Logan knew nothing would stop this from going below his waist now. He was already there.
Tate: So you still want to...
Be with you? Yes. Don’t doubt it, Tate. My head may be thinking things over but my cock is sure of what it wants, and you’re it.
Yeah, his heart had said its piece this morning. Now it was his cock’s turn.
* * *
Tate’s hard-on knew whom it wanted too, and even rooms away, Logan still had him ready to go.
When his phone chimed earlier, he’d hoped it was Logan, and after pulling some hard truths from his moody lodger, Tate was determined to see if Logan was closed off to his reaching out with the need to…be needed again.
What he really wanted was to touch Logan, to show him that he cared, but for now, this would work—if Logan was open to a bit of play.
With his phone in one hand and the other down between his legs, Tate remembered the first time they’d done this. He’d been so unsure that night, but by the end of it, had the best orgasm he’d had in months.
He was not unsure this morning, and he was going to chase after that amazing release. The one he knew was right there, in Logan’s hands. He was the only one who could give it to him.
He imagined Logan naked and hard, ready for him, and text back: That’s one hot visual.
Logan: Is it?
Jesus, yes it is. He pushed his hips up into his palm. He wasn’t about to play coy now. The teasing was done, and he wanted Logan to take him there as only he could.
Yes. When you’re turned on, nothing compares. Everyone should be so lucky to see. But I don’t share, so they can fuck off. He hit send, and then, quicker than he thought his fingers could type, he followed up with: You’re even sexy when you hate me.
Not two seconds after the message was sent, his phone began ringing. Tate pressed answer and brought it to his ear.
“Hey.”
“I could never hate you.” Logan’s deep voice filtered through the phone and sent a shiver of desire straight down his spine. “I missed you so much last week. I was a fucking mess.”
Tate winced at the thought of causing Logan pain. He needed him to know that it hadn’t been easy for him either.
“I had to delete your number just so I wouldn’t call.”
He heard a muffled, “Fuck,” at the other end of the phone.
Then Tate admitted in a low voice, “I hated not talking to you. Not seeing you. And I’ve discovered I need to be touched by you—daily.”
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