by Aubrey Irons
“Fine.”
His grin widens, as if gloating over winning some kind of board room debate or something. “Fine what, Quinn?” He’s messing with me, and it’s making my blood boil.
“I mean fine, secret for secret.”
Logan flashes that grin at me again and holds out his hand. “Deal!”
I ignore his hand as I roll my eyes as I turn away from him. “Oh and just so we’re clear, Logan,” I shoot back over my shoulder. “That is never happening again.”
“Which part?” He calls out after me, chuckling. “Agreeing with me or fucking me?”
My face goes five shades of red as I whirl and flip his grinning, cocky face off with both hands before storming off. “Both!” I hurl back, hearing him laugh as I storm off.
Chapter Five
Logan
Great, more secrets. Just what I need. Pretty soon they’re going to bury me under all the secrets.
The fighting. Fuck, I mean, I know why I do it. I also know why I don’t tell anyone about it. Not even Hudson and Bryce, the two men who are my brothers in every sense of the word but who we were born to. That might actually be the worst part of all of it. That with everything I’ve seen and been through with these brothers of mine, I still can’t tell them. I mean part of it is to protect them, but I know the other part of it is because of who I am. I’m a fighter, and when you’re on the ropes, you don’t cower and call your friends.
You fucking hit back.
“You’re not my father.”
His eyes narrow into slits, and he gets that wicked looking smile on his face. I’ve seen that smile before, and it’s usually the prelude to a storm.
“Dammit, boy!” My mother’s words are slurred as she staggers out from the kitchen, holding the coffee mug that hasn’t held anything but vodka and orange juice in it for as long as I can remember. “You treat your daddy with respect, you hear?”
I whirl towards her, my face contorted in as much rage as an eleven year old can possibly muster. “He’s NOT my dadd-”
It only takes half a second for me to realize what a fucking terrible mistake it was to turn my back on Rich like that. A mistake he only too readily hammers home with a sharp cuff to the back of my head that sends me sprawling across the floor.
And she laughs.
My goddamn mother is laughing, like seeing her son get slapped across the room by her drunk piece of shit boyfriend of the month is the funniest fucking thing she’s ever seen. Rich wheezes out a chuckle too, his gravel-tinged nicotine laugh ragged and joyless. Tears sting my eyes as I grab at the threadbare carpet, but I’m grinding my teeth together, just sitting there on my hands and knees listening to them just laugh their drunk ass off at me, and something inside me just snaps.
I’m yelling as I surge up from the floor and throw myself bodily, head-first into Rich. I’m windmilling my fists as hard as I can at his stomach and his balls, just trying to HURT him in any way someone my size can to someone that size. I’d like to think I get a good few licks in, but then he’s got me by the shirt collar and hauling me back at arm’s length.
“By God, you’re gonna learn to respect me, boy!” He roars at me, the scent of beer wafting over my face.
“No!” I yell, willing myself not to cry. Don’t cry.
My mother is shrieking in the background. “Boy, you respect your daddy now, ya hea-”
“He’s NOT my daddy!” I scream, and then I do the only other thing I know how to do in that moment.
I haul back and spit right in Rich’s face.
And it’s the last thing I recall before he hauls back with his fist and sends it crashing into my face, and then it all goes black.
It was later that we went through hell, spit in the devil’s eye, and somehow came back from that. None of it makes sense, because in a just and fair world, we’d have been dead a long time ago. But somehow, we’ve gone from the dark hole on the outskirts of basic humanity to the men we are today And I don’t know if I believe in any sort of higher power, but that shit just doesn’t make sense.
When we came back from all that - when the Old Man rescued us that is - we were all broken. Broken in every sense of the word. Three years of running will do that. Three years after running off from the duties and orders none of us could bring ourselves to execute ever again. I can look back on that and wonder about what-ifs all I want, but I know in my heart that none of us could have kept going. Not after the shit we saw back in Afghanistan. There were three years of forcibly losing every sense of who we were as men, working as mercenaries to the highest bidder in the combat zones of Africa, and losing ourselves in drink, drugs, and women, probably in that order. Hudson always liked to say that Bryce was the worst of us back then, but his demons were just the most visible; needles will do that. Me, I like to drink as much as the next guy, but it’s in Ghana that I learned to fight. Sure, I’d hit people before, but in that mercenary camp, I learned how to fucking fight. And that became my drug.
And that’s how he found us; washed out, beaten up, drunk, and clawing at the last shreds of what made us men, and somehow, he saw promise in us. Don’t ask me how.
So now that we’re whole new men, worth more than we’d ever even dreamed we’d be and running William’s company after his death, why the underground fights? Goddamn secrets, that’s why. Because something followed us back from that hell. Someone, I should say, with a knowledge of a truth that I thought we’d buried back in the jungle. Someone with a knowledge about who we really are.
But you don’t stop fighting, ever.
You never stop fighting.
“Earth to Logan?”
Bryce’s words shake me from my thoughts, and I frown at him. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yeah, uh, probably the worst thing you could say at a wedding, bud,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Funny. You know what I mean though. Quinn on the team for the medical program. It just seems- I dunno, it seems like a conflict of interests is all.”
“What are you talking about?” Bryce shakes his head as he straightens his bowtie in the mirror. “It’s a healthcare outreach program through Archer Holdings. She’s a doctor, and her last name is Archer. I mean how much more perfect for the job can she get, man? You want her to be physically on-site, project managing the hospital constructions? Cause I bet she can do that too, she is the Old Man’s daughter, after all.”
Yeah, like I need to be reminded.
“Look I just don’t think it’s a good idea, that’s all.”
“Why on Earth not?”
Uh, because I know how she tastes riding my tongue? Because I know how she feels when she comes? Yeah, no fucking way can I say that to Bryce or Hudson, they’d kill me. Shit, I’d kill me.
“I just- I don’t think we’d get along personally.”
He glances at his watch. “Well, get personal, because in half an hour she’s going to be part of the family.”
I wince at that word, but then Hudson pokes his head into the room. “Hey, assholes, I’m getting married in twenty fucking minutes Think you could finish putting those ties on and get up to the altar with me?” He frowns and shakes his head at me. “Have I mentioned your face looks like shit by the way?” Bryce snorts from the other side of the room, and I glare at the both of them. “Oh and thanks for having a fight right before the wedding, buddy. Reagan’s going to love looking at your Goddamn black eye in the pictures later.” Hudson shakes his head, looking more amused than actually pissed at me. “I mean I thought you guys wore fucking masks at the gym.”
“Uh, yeah-” I can’t exactly tell them about the fights. Not these, which are most certainly not held at the gym.
The ones where there aren’t any gloves.
The ones where I bleed to forget.
“Yeah I guess I caught a bad hook or something.” I mumble out, trying to deflect the subject.
“You got hit?” Bryce grins at me from his spot by the window of the room. “Wish I’d been there to see th
at.”
Hudson snorts out a laugh. “You know, you could let me hit you, for once,” he says, referring to our sparring bouts where I basically wipe the floor with him every time. “It’d be a hell of a wedding gift you know.” He steps towards me and brings his hands up to straighten my bowtie. “So, what do you think about Quinn on the new-”
“Bad idea.”
Bryce growls at me from the other side of the room. “Logan, what is your fucking problem with it, man?”
My problem is I can’t stop thinking of that night. My problem is that I can’t stop picturing her naked body as she rides on top of me, her breasts swaying with her breathing, her lips trembling, and her fingertips raking my shoulders and my back as she explodes around me. Hell, I couldn’t stop thinking about that whole night before I knew who she was, but now it’s like pouring gasoline on a fire, and it’s about to blow up in my face. On top of that, the fact that she’s William’s daughter - my brother’s new sister-in-law, or whatever - and the fact that she’s so off limits isn't turning me off like it should be.
It’s making it worse.
I mumble something under my breath and push Hudson’s hands away as I move towards the window.
“Well, whatever problem you’ve got with Quinn, get over it, man.” Hudson says, and I turn to look at him. “You just have to work with her, Logan, not take her out or something.”
I can feel my gut seize up as I stare at Hudson standing there grinning at me.
He knows, he must know, and he’s fucking with me.
Except if he did know, he'd have already thrown me out this window.
“Alright, alright. Fine.”
“Atta boy.” Hudson checks his watch. “Alright boys, time to get up there and meet the rest of the family.”
I cringe. Fuck.
Chapter Six
Quinn
So much for ‘until at least Thanksgiving’ I think darkly to myself.
I’m sitting in some gorgeous, opulent conference room at the Archer Holdings building with jaw-dropping views of midtown Manhattan and Brooklyn out the big windows.
But it’s a view I can’t enjoy, because Logan Dempsey is sitting between me and that view, and he’s got that damned cocky grin on his face, and it’s making me squirm in my seat.
The meeting is Logan and I, which would be bad enough, except Bryce and Hudson are also here, which is making me feel like I'm under some sort of microscope. It’s a classic “Tell-tale Heart” scenario. I’m sure they can hear my pulse racing like an engine or can see the dirty, dark thoughts about Logan I’m desperately trying to shake from my head clearly across my face.
His lips are hot on mine, kissing me with a fierceness I’ve never felt as his hands explore my body. He’s pulling at my tank top, slipping it up the small of my back as his hands trace the skin there, sending shivers through me core.
There’s a fervency and a throbbing need here that I’ve never felt with any man before, and where I’d normally be put off with how quickly his hands are familiarizing themselves with my body, I find myself urging him on, wanting him to touch me.
Wanting him to know all of me.
He’s pushing his hands under my shorts and cupping my ass, grinding me against the hardness pushing in his pants that feels bigger and thicker than anything I’ve ever felt before. And my hands are reaching for him, finding a boldness in their need to touch that I’ve never seen from them before.
But he’s pushing my hands away and slipping my shorts and panties down and off my legs, and then he’s touching me, and I’m gasping as he finds me hot and wet and ready for him
When he pulls me up his body, pulling my sex towards his mouth, the shyness and the awkwardness I know would normally be there slips away, replaced instead with a heady, almost drug-like need to feel him.
I WANT this man. This total stranger.
His tongue slips into my folds, pushing deep against my opening and then curling up to tease at my clit. Hands grab my ass and coax my hips back and forth, back and forth across his magical tongue, urging me further, and higher, and harder until I’m almost screaming as I come and-
Oh, God, and now I’m fantasizing about Logan Dempsey in the middle of a business meeting at my job.
Something is severely wrong with me.
I glance around, suddenly self conscious about what is I’m sure a bright red blush across my face, but also the fact that my panties are hot and wet beneath the formal business skirt I wear.
I shoot a look across the table at the man responsible for these wicked and ill-timed thoughts, hoping to find some sort of counterpoint there. Hoping to find him as confused and ill-at-ease looking as I feel.
But, if he’s feeling any sort of uncomfortableness, he sure as hell isn’t showing it, that’s for damn sure. It’s just that same stupidly handsome, stupidly mesmerizingly cocky grin on his face. That cool, composed look staring right back at me and making my face burn despite my attempts to push him from my thoughts.
He’s also staggeringly good looking in a suit, which isn’t helping. I mean to be fair, all three of them are good looking guys and in amazing shape but Logan is just fucking criminally good looking - his broad shoulders and chest filling out the suit perfectly as he leans back in that big leather conference room chair and winks at me.
And of course, just to make matters worse, we’re joined in the meeting by Peyton, a young little blonde thing that looks all of twenty years old who also happens to be Logan’s chief affairs manager.
She’s also immediately a frosty bitch to me for no apparent reason that I can figure out, and on top of that, there’s something about the way she looks at Logan or the way her hand rests a little too long on his arm when she speaks to him that has my blood boiling.
Jesus, what am I, jealous?
Ugh. It’s a terrible thought, and one that I quickly try to push out of my head. God no. I am not jealous of flirty little bouncy-tits Peyton grinning away at Logan, just like I’m not going to get bothered by her cutting me off mid-sentence every three seconds throughout the whole stupid meeting either.
I’m just uncomfortable with this whole arrangement - the secrets upon secrets, and of course the fact that I’ve barely paid attention this whole first meeting because all I can think about is how the man across the table from me looks without that suit on.
This is going to be a problem.
How on Earth did I agree to this? I could blame Andy, my ex the administrative director for being an asshole, or Vicky, for being a job-stealing skank. Or hell, I could blame my sisters for encouraging this whole thing, or Logan for not recognizing me that night. But really I should just blame myself for saying yes.
…To the job, and to him, that night.
Finally, it seems like we’re done, and Bryce and Hudson excuse themselves, though Peyton sticks around.
“So, are we clear, Doctor Archer?”
I frown, realizing I have zero idea what little miss blondie is asking me.
“Hmm?”
She sighs dramatically. “Are we clear, about the schedule for the next few days and the D.C. meeting?”
“Oh, uh, yes?”
She rolls her eyes at me before shooting Logan a look as she snatches her papers off the conference table and marches out the door.
Logan clears his throat as she walks out, and I swivel back in my chair to look at him. “Well, she’s fun.”
“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, standing from the conference table and walking into his adjoining, office. “She’s a real firecracker.”
I can’t stop the frown that storms across me face as I follow him in, and when he turns and sees it, he grins. “Oh now what are you, jealous, Doc?”
“Of missy teeny-bopper back there? Hardly.” I roll my eyes as I brush past him into his office. “What is that, some sort of high school internship, Logan?”
He smirks at me. “Hey, you know you two may have more in common than you think,” he says with a wink.
I balk
and wrinkle my nose. “Eww, gross?”
Logan’s grin cracks into a full laugh. “No, I mean you’re both driven, and you both want for this project to work.” He winks at me again. “And hey, Peyton wasn’t the one staring at me through that whole meeting.”
“Oh, fuck off, please.”
“Well hey, we’re alone now.” He shrugs and arches a brow at his large wooden desk. “I mean we’ve got the room to ourselves, and this great view-”
“Dream on, Logan.”
He shrugs. “Hey we could always just keep things to your place or mine like last-”
“Oh and enlighten me why the hell you’re living in my fucking building? Aren’t you a billionaire for Christ’s sake?”
OK, I’ve got a great loft apartment in a great building in a fantastic location. But Logan’s in the sort of income bracket that keeps a whole other level of residences.
I narrow my eyes at him, suddenly suspicious of why the hell he’s “slumming it” in an East Village loft with practically zero furniture.
“Oh calm down, Archer,” he growls, rolling his eyes. “I already told you, the penthouse is under construction, so I just decided to crash there.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You, a billionaire, just ‘crashing’ at a place with a single piece of furniture and a punching bag?”
Logan grins. “So, you remember my single piece of furniture, huh?” He winks, and I know he’s talking about the bed.
The bed from that night.
“You can come by and see it whenever you want, you know.”
I huff my breath out in disgust. “You’re delusional if you think that would ever happen again.”
“Oh please, keep pretending you haven’t thought about it, cute stuff.” He taps the desk with his knuckle and then looks up at me in this over-the-top suggestive way that brings a flush to my cheeks. “I mean no one would have to know, darlin. Might make working together go a little easier.”
I roll my eyes, trying to subdue the grin threatening to spread across my face. “Oh, very romantic, Logan.”
