by Jill Blake
Did Logan have his own place now? Something sleek and modern, with high-end appliances and a king-sized mattress that didn’t squeak every time he rolled over?
He must have read her thoughts. His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “I’m about five minutes from here, if you’re interested in coffee. I can even dig up some decaf.”
She was tempted. Oh, yes. Her pulse skittered at the thought of Logan, naked and aroused, his muscles bunching beneath her hands, his skin slicked with sweat.
Her insides clenched with need. How long had it been since she’d willingly stepped into a man’s arms? How long since she’d let down her guard enough to experience that panty-melting flash of heat?
But what if she froze in the middle of things? What if fear overcame desire?
Intellectually, she knew Logan wasn’t Harry. She also knew that what Harry had done to her had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with power and control.
She knew that, damn it. Except knowing didn’t stop the nightmares, or the flashbacks, or the irrational panic that welled up at the most unexpected moments. Like now.
She forced herself to smile. “Maybe next time.”
Logan held the door for her. “Okay.”
She breathed a sigh of relief as he walked around to the driver’s side. In the shifting light from other cars and passing streetlights, she studied the shadowed planes of his face. What was he thinking? Was he disappointed? Annoyed? Impatient? Or worse yet, indifferent?
He flicked her a glance at a red light. “What’s your schedule like next week?”
“Pretty light. Mostly C/L—clinical liaison—rounds in the morning, individual and group therapy appointments in the afternoon. Journal club or grand rounds over lunch.”
“How about in the evening? Will you have time for dinner, maybe a movie?”
“Absolutely.” This time her smile was genuine. “I haven’t seen anything in forever. I don’t even know what’s playing.”
“I’ll find something good. Do you trust me?”
“When it comes to movies?”
“What else?”
“Yes,” she said. “I trust you.”
And the surprising thing was, she meant it.
They agreed to meet Thursday after work at a café just off campus. By the time Logan pulled up in front of her grandmother’s house, Grace felt like she’d been given another reprieve. The heavy discussion over dinner was nearly forgotten, the anxiety over awkward after-date fumblings allayed by his easy acceptance of her decision to end the evening early.
“I assume no coffee here either?” he said, helping her from the car.
She felt comfortable enough to laugh. “You definitely get top prize for persistence. But not tonight. I really am tired.”
“At least tell me, on a scale of one to ten—one being most annoying, ten being totally endearing—where this persistence thing ranks.”
She punched in the code to open the gate. “I guess that would depend on the day, and the situation.”
“Here and now. Don’t over-think it.”
Motion activated lights marked their progress toward the house. She unlocked the front door and turned, ready to bid him goodnight. His expression, illuminated by the outdoor wall sconces, made her pause. The banter of the last few minutes had masked the underlying desire she saw reflected in his eyes. For a moment, she wavered. Considered inviting him in.
Her hand hovered over the breast pocket of his crisp oxford shirt. Time stopped. Heat singed her palm as she bridged the final gap and leaned into that solid wall of muscle. She heard him inhale sharply, felt the hammering of his heart beneath her fingers. Rising on her tip-toes, she brushed her lips against his. “Goodnight, Logan.”
His lashes dipped. “You sure?”
She stepped away, into the safety of the doorway. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
“Thursday.” He sighed. “Right.”
He was halfway down the front walk when she called out. “Oh, and Logan?”
“Yes?”
“On that scale of one to ten? I’d say nine-point-five.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grace woke up feeling more refreshed and optimistic than she had in a long time. The feeling carried her through the remainder of the weekend and into the week, buoyed by a few dozen flirty texts she and Logan exchanged between inpatient rounds and outpatient clinics, before lectures and after therapy sessions.
She breezed through her ob/gyn appointment, and got a prescription for birth control pills. While waiting at the pharmacy, she bought a box of condoms. Wednesday night, she slipped a couple foil packets in her purse, and the following morning added a few more for good measure.
By Thursday afternoon, she felt jittery and giddy and barely able to sit still. As if she were a teenager, fresh out of braces and training bra, about to go on her first date. It didn’t matter that she had left her adolescence behind more than a decade ago, or that she and Logan had known each other intimately for years.
She had been out of the game too long, and traumatized too thoroughly, to take anything about this getting-to-know-you-again dance for granted. The prospect of sex, even with someone whom she trusted not to hurt her—at least physically—was both frightening and exhilarating. She almost wished they’d get the dinner and movie part over with quickly, or skip it altogether, before she lost her nerve.
In the end, she managed to choke down some food, though if asked ten minutes later what she had eaten, she wouldn’t have been able to recall a single thing. The movie was likewise forgettable, though under different circumstances Grace might have enjoyed the strong female lead who kicked butt and took no prisoners.
Despite the late hour, the heat of the day lingered in the air, rising in waves from the sidewalk as they exited the theater.
Logan nodded toward a line that spilled out from Diddy Riese and stretched halfway down the block. “Interested in some ice cream?”
“No, thanks.” She took a deep breath, stifling the temptation to blurt, Can we just get on with it?
He must have sensed her impatience, because he grinned and caught her hand. “How about some coffee at my place?”
Finally. “Lead the way.”
He lived in one of the high-rises along Wilshire Boulevard, just south of campus. She barely heard his rambling explanation of how he ended up there. Something about a mix-up in faculty housing assignments and a failed tenure case—whose, she didn’t quite follow—that resulted in an empty one-bedroom unit midway through the year.
The walk took fifteen minutes, and by the end Grace was ready to frog-march him through the marble lobby to a bank of elevators that turned out to be the slowest in God’s creation.
Eyes glued to the indicator display, she tried to ignore the tightening sensation in her chest. She could do this. As long as she remembered to breathe, as long as she concentrated on the moment, as long as...
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Logan’s hand brushed her back. The elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors slid open. Too soon. She wasn’t ready.
“We’re here,” Logan said, extending his arm so the doors wouldn’t close prematurely.
She had a vague impression of carpeted hall and cream walls, and then he was sliding his key into the lock, and ushering her inside. It wasn’t until he’d turned on the lights and air conditioning that he seemed to realize something was wrong. She stood rooted to the floor, just inside the door, clutching her shoulder bag as if it were a lifeline.
“Grace?” He retraced his steps. “Are you okay?”
She swallowed. “Yes. Of course.”
“We don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
His eyebrows shot up at her fierce tone. “If you’re sure...”
She forced herself to move. “How about a tour?”
He cleared his throat. “You don’t want coffee first?”
She swept past him, ignoring the attempt at humor.
He trailed after h
er, flipping on switches as they went. “There’s not much to see. Powder room. Living/dining area. Kitchen.”
She stopped abruptly in the final doorway. A massive bed dominated the room. Oh, God. She could feel Logan’s presence behind her. The heat of his body. The smell of his cologne. She closed her eyes, tried to calm the jackhammering of her heart.
His fingers raised goosebumps along her arm, her shoulder. His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Grace.”
“Yes.” She tilted her head, allowing him better access. Light kisses trailed down her neck, in a slow, hypnotic path to the pulse that fluttered above her collarbone. A hand stroked up her waist, across her stomach. Another hand settled on her hip. She could feel his chest expanding with each breath, brushing against her back. His erection nudged her bottom.
The stiff material of his jeans felt rough against the back of her leg. It distracted her, long enough for his fingers to glide beneath her shirt and up her ribcage, pausing just shy of her bra. And then he went higher, palming her breast through the thin material, squeezing lightly, as if testing the weight.
She was so focused on the thrill of his fingers circling her nipple, plucking and teasing it into a tight bud, that she nearly missed the movement of his other hand, drawing up the hem of her skirt and skimming the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Her eyes flew open.
She could see their reflection in the sliding glass doors along the opposite wall, back-lit by the soft spill of light from hallway. His dark head bent over her, his massive shoulders and arms surrounding her, dwarfing her.
Her lungs seized. Spots danced before her eyes, and the room wavered.
She dropped the purse and grabbed his hands. Drew a shuddering breath. “Stop.”
For a moment nothing happened. Then his fingers loosened, withdrew. Not completely, but enough to allow the tight band around her chest to ease.
“Grace?”
She started trembling, fine tremors expanding from her core until it felt like her entire body was shaking uncontrollably. The air shifted, and suddenly he wasn’t behind her anymore, but in front of her, peering down into her face, brows drawn, hands lightly gripping her upper arms.
She jerked away, backing up until she bumped into the wall and there was nowhere else to go, and then she slid down, all the way to the floor, pulling her knees into her chest and wrapping her arms around them. If she squeezed hard enough, maybe this would all go away, like a bad dream, and she would open her eyes and be back in her old bedroom at her grandparents’ house. Her forehead dropped to her knees. Her throat tightened, and she felt the familiar pressure behind her eyes. Not now. She wasn’t going to cry. Not again, not over this.
She heard Logan moving around. He probably thought she was crazy. Certifiable. Or worse yet, a cock-tease. Hadn’t he tried to slow things down? He’d given her plenty of outs along the way. And what had she done? Had she listened to the voice of reason? Of course not. She’d barreled straight ahead, into territory she clearly wasn’t ready for. She wondered if she’d ever be ready. If she’d ever feel normal again.
“Here.”
She raised her head to see that he’d returned. He was crouching in front of her, a wad of tissues in his outstretched hand. When she made no move to take it, he slowly raised his free hand and brushed his thumb across one cheek and then the other.
“Okay,” he said, raising the tissues toward her nose. “Now blow.”
Her fingers closed around the tissues before he made contact. The trickle of tears accelerated into a flood, as if released by a water main break deep inside. Harsh, ugly, racking sobs shook her body. Logan’s image wavered.
“Oh, Grace.” His arms came around her, and she felt herself being lifted, briefly, and resettled. Instead of hard floor and wall, she was now surrounded by warm male, and miraculously the flare of panic seemed to recede, soothed by the slow stroke of his hand down her back, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. She buried her nose in the collar of his shirt and breathed in the clean woodsy scent that even with her eyes closed she now identified with Logan.
She didn’t know how long they sat that way. Eventually she stirred, used the tissues she was still clutching to wipe her cheeks and nose. She raised her head, careful not to meet his eyes. It took a few tries before she found her voice. “Sorry about your shirt.”
He lifted her chin with the tip of a finger. “Feeling better?”
“Yes.” And amazingly enough, despite the embarrassment of having Logan witness her meltdown, despite the disappointment of having an entire week of sexual tension fizzle out in a last-minute display of waterworks, she did feel better.
He shifted beneath her. That’s when she realized that she was sitting in his lap, her bottom pressed against his groin, her legs draped over his hard thigh. She bit her lip, trying to figure out how to scramble up without compromising what remained of her dignity. He stirred against her buttocks and she froze.
He sighed. “You can relax, Grace. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” He broke off, cursing softly. “I can’t help the way my body reacts around you. All I have to do is look at you, think about you, and I get hard. But I can control what I do about it. You say no, and I stop. Okay?”
She exhaled softly. “Okay.”
He nodded and lifted her onto her feet before pushing off from the floor to rise beside her. “Now, how about that coffee?”
“I don’t think—” She backed up and her heel slipped on something.
Logan caught her elbow and steadied her. “Grace—”
She followed his gaze. Her purse lay on its side, its contents spilled across the floor. Wallet, keys, lipstick, condoms. An entire trail of them, including a packet peeking out from beneath her shoe. She flushed and scrambled to gather everything back into her bag. Logan’s fingers closed around the last condom packet just as she reached for it.
She raised her eyes to his. Pupils large enough to swim laps in stared back at her. She swallowed. “I’m sorry. But I can’t—”
He stood abruptly and offered her a hand up. Before she had the chance to step away, he cupped her hand and dropped the condom in her palm, closing her fingers over it.
Then he pivoted and headed down the hall. She stared in bemusement at his retreating back.
What just happened here?
She found him in the kitchen, filling an electric kettle with water. Two mugs sat on the counter, along with a green-topped jar of coffee.
“There’s milk in the fridge,” he said, without looking up.
She hesitated. “I should go.”
The water cut off. “No,” he said, his jaw tightening. “You should sit down and drink some decaf and talk to me. Tell me what the hell is going on.”
Her fingers tightened on her bag. “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.”
“Neither is turning tail and running.” He set the kettle on it base and turned it on. “Look, Grace, the only way this is going to work is if we talk. Get things out into the open. I know I haven’t been the best at doing that before, but I’m willing to try if you are. No more secrets. Whatever it is, whatever is going on, we’ll deal with it. Together. What do you say?”
Could it really be that easy? She doubted it. There were too many potential pitfalls.
What if she told him, and he couldn’t handle it? What if it changed the way he saw her? What if he couldn’t bring himself to touch her afterwards?
And even if he managed to get past it, what about her? What if she freaked out every time he ventured beyond a certain point? What if she was unable to have sex like a normal person, freezing every time a particular move triggered the memories?
No matter how well intentioned and patient a person was, everyone had his limits.
Even Logan.
But if she didn’t at least take the chance, if she simply refused to say anything and walked out of here tonight, was that any better?
She th
ought about the support group at work. About the woman who’d left her abusive husband, and was even now struggling to move on. If Grace walked out of here tonight, how would she be able to face her patients tomorrow without feeling like a complete hypocrite? How could she possibly counsel others to try what she herself was unwilling to do?
She dropped her bag on a nearby chair. “I’ll get the milk.”
###
On the surface, Logan managed to maintain an attentive expression and calm voice. Inside he was seething. If he didn’t hate Harry already, he certainly would have after listening to Grace.
He didn’t care what rationalizations Grace offered, or how much she tried to camouflage the truth with psychobabble. The man was scum. Mental illness did not automatically predispose toward violence any more than poverty or a dysfunctional childhood did. And it certainly didn’t absolve a man from personal responsibility for his actions. To Logan, it sounded like Harry Blackwell was simply a vicious bully who used his diagnosis of bipolar disorder as an excuse for habitually bad behavior.
The fact that he got away with it for so long, and that Grace had suffered in the process, made Logan see red. Nothing short of slow castration would be punishment enough, and that, unfortunately, was about as likely to happen as a second coming.
The only thing Logan could do was hold her hand, wipe her tears, and wrap his arms around her when she finally ran out of steam.
At some point, well past midnight, Grace accepted a T-shirt and cut-off sweatpants, too exhausted to muster more than a token resistance to his offer to stay the night.
“We’ll just sleep,” he assured her, smiling as innocuously as possible, given his unavoidable physical response to the sight of her with her hair down, face freshly scrubbed, and wearing his clothes. He leaned against the headboard and pulled the covers back, coaxing her to join him.
“Just sleep,” she repeated. “Nothing else.”
“I promise.”
As he watched her succumb to sleep, Logan reflected on the evening’s revelations.
