Exposed

by Jasinda Wilder

I give Logan every corner of me, I don't look away, I let him look into me, and I take that same from him. It is a gift.

  We move in sync now. We find our rhythm. The music of our bodies uniting is dulcet, palpable. This is what each of us was meant for; we were meant to be this way, together.

  "Isabel, god, Isabel." He sounds as if there is a world of words waiting on the other side of his teeth, and he's just barely holding it all back.

  "Say anything, Logan."

  We move madly now. I am coiled on top of him, legs pulled up beneath me, hips circling, breathing his breath, kissing him now and then, sipping at his lips.

  "I love this," he says. It is ripped out of him, it sounds like.

  I bury my face against his neck. "Me too. So much."

  "I feel like I've been waiting for this for my whole life."

  "I know. I have been, too," I say.

  "I--" he starts, but breaks off.

  I push up so I can look down at him, not daring to break our rhythm. This has been my entire life, I think. There has never been anything but this, but us. Nothing else exists. Only now. Only this heaven.

  "Say it, Logan." I bite his lower lip. Suck it into my mouth. "Say everything in your heart."

  "Scared before battle has nothing on what I'm feeling right now, Is." He murmurs this against my cheek.

  "I know. I feel it in you."

  "If I say it out loud, I'll never be able to go back."

  "Me neither. I don't want to go back."

  He sits up and tucks his legs beneath his buttocks, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He cups my bottom and holds me up. Lifts me, lets me fall down to impale him in me. I clutch his shoulders and lift myself up, relax down. This way, he drives up into me so deep it takes my breath away, sends stars bursting behind my eyes, novas of amazed ecstasy detonating inside me.

  I surge against him. Drive against him. Cling to him and breathe against his skin and smell him and go wild on him, around him. Let go, let the madness out, growl and whimper and scream as my climax builds with his.

  "Logan, god, Logan . . ."

  "Isabel. Fuck, oh god." He bites my earlobe and then speaks to me as we love each other with mad abandon. "If I tell you I love you and then you go back to--if you go back, I'll break. I've survived a lot . . . rebuilt my life more than once. I can't do it again, not after you. You're everything to me now. I don't know how it happened, but I'm fucking gone for you, baby. I don't want to take this back, but I'm fucking scared to goddamn death that I won't be enough for you, that he'll still have his fucking hooks in you, and--" He rhythms his words to his movements.

  "Never, Logan," I cut in. "Never. I won't do that to you. I won't go back. I won't take it back. I'm yours, Logan, please please please believe me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

  We still move together, and he's still going somehow, still holding back, some kind of superhuman control keeping him back from the edge until he's ready to let go.

  "Sorry for what?" he asks.

  "For going back. For letting--what happened, happen." Neither of us is willing to say it out loud, not now, not in this moment. I give him all my truth. "I didn't mean to. And I hated it. Every moment, I hated it. And I hate myself for letting it happen. I was yours then. I was yours from the moment I saw you in that bathroom, from the first time I heard your voice."

  He's losing it now. His movements are ragged, lurching, and his breath is coming in gasps, and his grip on my buttocks is so strong, so powerful.

  I'm there, too, ready to come apart all around him.

  He can't let go, though. I can tell, I can sense it.

  I touch my lips to the outer shell of his ear, sunk down on him, fully pierced by him, his cock throbbing inside me, his hands keeping me aloft. I let go, let him hold me, let our joined bodies hold me. I cup his head, feather my fingers through his hair and writhe on him, inhale his scent.

  I whisper to him. "I love you, Logan. God, I love you."

  He arches his spine and pushes up into me and his voice rises in a wordless shout of release, and I feel him explode inside me. He flings us over so my back hits the mattress and he's above me and pushing into me wildly, his mouth on mine, and he's coming and coming and coming, driving into me so powerfully my breath is stolen. I'm with him, riding this with him, and now I'm coming apart too, and like I promised I clench around him as hard as I can and I scream his name and rake my fingernails down his back.

  "Isabel . . . I love you, Isabel." He says this as he sags against me, his hips moving furiously. "I love you so much. So fucking much."

  We collapse, I go limp, and he sinks against me, his face on my chest between my breasts, my hands smoothing in gentling patterns on his back, tracing the lines I gouged into his skin, both of us shuddering still.

  Our sweat commingles.

  Our breathing synchronizes.

  I feel complete, for the first time in my life. I need nothing. Nothing but this. Nothing but him. Nothing but us.

  And then Logan rolls off me, goes into the bathroom, and returns with a wet warm washcloth. He parts me and cleans me, gently and tenderly. Tosses the cloth into the bathroom and lies beside me.

  That act alone means everything to me. The fact that he never looked away from me.

  That each moment we just spent together was each of us giving, and thus each of us receiving exactly what we needed.

  He climbs into the bed beside me, gathers me in his arms, cradles me against his chest.

  I listen to his heartbeat. "Can this be forever?"

  "Yes, Isabel. This is our forever."

  "Promise?"

  "On my life."

  And that is all I need.

  THIRTEEN

  Logan is asleep; I am not. I cannot. His digital clock says it is 4:30 in the morning. I should be exhausted. I should be sore. I am sore, but not at all tired. Deliciously sore, perfectly achy. I feel delicate.

  On the inside as well as the outside.

  I lie on my left side and watch Logan sleep, gaze at the boyish innocence on his face. Absorb the beauty in the slack weight of his muscles as he rests. He's drooling a little, and I've been stifling a giggle at it for an hour and a half now. I half want to wipe it away, but I don't want to wake him, and it's just so cute I can't.

  I'm fighting tears. Warring with a maelstrom of emotions. I'm so happy, deliriously happy. Vibrating with joy. Overwhelmed with incredulity.

  He loves me. He loves me.

  ME.

  Logan Ryder told me he loves me.

  Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I consider this, as I relive over and over and over the wondrousness of that moment, hearing those words.

  But then I think of . . . everything else.

  Caleb.

  Caleb's lies.

  Caleb's truths.

  The complicated, labyrinthine tapestry he's woven of truth and lies, and how I'm not sure I'll ever untangle the two.

  How, forty-eight hours ago, a little more now, I was pressed up against the glass of Caleb's high-rise penthouse window, being fucked by him from behind.

  How I felt that happening, felt him strangling me with his toxic sorcery, his manipulative magic. How I seemed powerless to stop it. I always have the intention of refusing him, denying him, but I never actually am able to, and I do not understand why. What hold has he over me, that I cannot control my own body? What torture have I put Logan through, with this weakness? What kind of future can we have together, if I am so weak?

  How can I ever face Caleb again, now that I've slept with Logan?

  Not slept with--made love to.

  I've fucked Caleb. Been fucked by him. Had sex with him. Been used by him. I've never made love to him.

  I had sex with two men in a forty-eight-hour time frame. What does that make me?

  It doesn't really mitigate things that I enjoyed it with Logan and did not with Caleb, nor that with Caleb it was . . . not forced, not involuntary, but--I don't know. I don't have the words for it. It felt i
nvoluntary. It felt like he was forcing me. But he was not holding me down, was not technically raping me. But yet I wasn't entirely willing, either. I didn't want to want him. I didn't want to be used by him.

  I don't want to be his plaything anymore. But whenever he's around, that's how things end up.

  I belong to Logan. I've chosen that, chosen him, chosen to belong to him.

  But Caleb feels as if he owns me.

  What do I do?

  I can't stay in bed any longer.

  I need to move, need to do something. Anything.

  I slip out of bed, tug on my underwear and Logan's VOTE "NO" ON DALEKS T-shirt. Pad out of the bedroom, tiptoeing softly, shut the door behind me. There are four doors in this hallway: the bedroom, the bathroom, Cocoa's room, and one more. I try the one room I haven't seen yet: an office, a simple but beautiful dark wooden desk with a large flatscreen desktop computer, stacks of envelopes and papers, file folders, a white mug full of pens. The mug has a stylized bear paw print on it, surrounded by a red ring slashed top and bottom and both sides with vertical lines, like a rifle reticle, I think, and the word Blackwater across the top. There are photographs on the walls showing Logan in combat gear, wearing a featureless black ball cap, an assault rifle hanging by a strap, held casually in one hand, barrel pointed at the ground, his other arm around another man similarly dressed; another photograph shows him in more traditional-looking army fatigues, a camo-print cap on his head, surrounded by half a dozen other men posing in front of a mammoth truck. All the photographs are of him from his combat and military days, in pairs or with groups, smiling. Looking younger, harder, and sharper. There is one photograph, though, that stands out. It's in a little frame on his desk, all by itself. A tiny picture, smaller than my palm. It's a much, much younger Logan, barely into his teens, I'd guess, with his arm slung around a Hispanic boy the same age, both of them holding surfboards larger than they are, sporting huge, happy grins. His best friend, the one who was murdered by the drug dealer.

  I leave the office; it feels sacrosanct.

  Upstairs then.

  I pause to stare at the print of the Van Gogh painting on the landing, Starry Night. I feel like I should be moved by this, but I'm not. Or, not as much as I once was. It still has meaning, but it doesn't cage my heart the way it used to. I wish I knew why.

  I tread quietly up the stairs and find exactly what I'm looking for: a workout room. The whole upstairs has been opened up, every wall torn down, the load of the ceiling held up by a couple of thick square pillars running the center of the huge room. Every kind of exercise equipment available lines the walls, with free weights in the spaces between the pillars in the middle, and a black punching bag hanging by a thick chain from the ceiling in one corner.

  I start with the free weights, doing stretches and lifts in several sets of reps to warm up. I'm not wearing a bra, so my workout will have to be low impact, as my breasts are far too large to run or anything like that without one. I lift free weights for a good thirty minutes, then move to the machines, starting in one corner and working my way around until I'm so weak and tired and sore I can barely move. But it's a good sore, a good tired. I'm drenched with sweat and smelly, so I limp downstairs and rummage in Logan's refrigerator until I find a water bottle, and I take it into the bathroom with me, drinking it as I close the door behind me and run the shower.

  I peek in on Logan, who is still asleep, curled up on his side now, one hand under the pillow. I want to slide into bed with him, but I need space and time to sort through my feelings. Not to mention, I stink of sweat now.

  I take my time in the shower, running it so hot my skin tingles and aches from the heat, letting it beat down on my shoulders. I try not to think of Logan in here, try not to think of his hand stroking his huge, hard member. To no avail. I can't think of anything else, and I know I'll think of that scene every single time I take a shower here now.

  As I'm drying off, I think of my conversation with you. That story. It smacked of truth. If there are lies being told, it's not overt lies, but lies of omission, I think. I'm not sure. The story felt real. Felt true. And you seemed affected by the retelling, distraught remembering. Could you be telling the truth? I don't know. You could be. You very well might be. But there are undeniably elements you are either lying about or leaving out. There was no mugger, of this I'm sure. It was a car crash, as Logan claims. My memories, such as they are, jibe with that story, the car crash. My dreams, too. My dreams do not speak of violence, not the sort perpetrated by a criminal, but the violence of an accident. There is bloodshed, yes, but not drawn by a gun or a knife or a fist.

  You lie, but speak truth.

  You saved me. Stayed with me. You were there when I woke up. You were there every day after that.

  I have to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet, as a memory hits me. Not of precoma, but of my recovery. Of you, on a treadmill beside me. You ran, dressed in a sleeveless black shirt and black shorts, earbuds in your ears. You ran, ran, ran. You didn't encourage me with words, but with action. I was walking. I wanted to give up. Holding on to the railings for dear life and struggling to merely put one foot in front of the other, to manage a slow walk. I wanted to give up, but then I would look at you and you were still running. As long as I was walking, you were running.

  You helped me dress. I remember this, too. When I was released from the hospital, I was still working on coordination, regaining fine motor skills. Dressing myself was a slow, laborious affair, and you were there to help. Never touching inappropriately, never behaving awkwardly at my nudity. But looking back, I do remember you stealing looks, carefully avoiding my eyes and avoiding my skin. Curbing your desire, I now realize.

  You helped me eat. Even fed me, in the hospital. And at home, on hard days. On my feet, staying upright, talking, it was all taxing. Just holding a normal conversation was tiring. So at the end of the day, feeding myself seemed like an impossibly hard task. And you would feed me. You never complained. Never showed impatience. You were always there.

  You became my world.

  The daily exercises to help me regain my mobility became a daily regimen of exercise to build my strength and shape my figure. I lived--not with you, but near you, and you provided everything for me. Food, clothing, entertainment; life. I never questioned it, because I had no idea what I'd do without you, where I'd go. I was so dependent on you. Utterly and completely helpless. I remembered nothing. I was no one. Knew nothing. You never claimed to be a boyfriend or family member. You never explained who you were to me, you were just . . . there. Stocking my refrigerator and cabinets with food, my closet with clothes. Showing me exercise routines and techniques, bringing me books, by ones and twos at first, and then by the armful, and then by the box load as my voracity for books grew.

  And then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, apropos of nothing, you crept up behind me and I felt your not-quite touch like electricity. And that began a sexual exploration that didn't really qualify as a "relationship." You retained all the control. I was . . . not quite a slave, but nearly. And, if I am being honest with myself . . . a willing one. You would use one finger and stroke me to near orgasm, and you would keep me there for . . . so long. Tickle my clit until I was thrashing, begging, and you would tell me to wait, order me to not come until you told me I could. And if I came before you said I could, the next time you would bring me to the edge and not let me go over it for even longer. You would pin my hands over my head and torture me with near-orgasm for long minutes, what felt like hours. Until I swore I would do better next time.

  I never got to touch you. I never watched you come, face-to-face. You were always behind me. I was always facing away. Face down, stomach to the bed. Knees spread apart. Or on my hands and knees, a pillow under my stomach. Pressed up against the window.

  You really enjoy that. Pressing my naked body up against the window, taking your pleasure in me while I'm exposed for anyone to see. As if displaying your trophy, your prize, bragging, say
ing: Look at what is mine, look, and want, and know that you cannot have her.

  I cannot count the number of times I've been taken by you, pressed that way up against the window, breasts flattened against the cold glass.

  Why never face-to-face?

  I wondered, but never asked.

  It's like you were always hiding from me. But what were you hiding? There were a couple of times, especially more recently, before I left and found Logan, that I got a glimpse of the man you could be. The man who could perhaps be . . . not gentle, not tender, but very nearly. A man who could almost be intimate. Not merely a conquest-driven sexual dominant, not merely a predator, not merely a primal force of nature. But a man. Not a lover, perhaps, but at least a sexual partner.

  I was never your partner. I was your subject. Your possession.

  I remember you talking, a few days ago, in your home, about wanting me, about how even when I was a shaved-headed thing, frail and weak and lost, you wanted me. I remember thinking that if I want to truly leave behind Madame X and all that I once was, if I want to assume a new identity, I need to change my appearance.

  I don't give myself time to think about it. I hunt in Logan's cabinet under his bathroom sink and find what I'm looking for: electric clippers.

  My heart is pounding, hammering in my throat. Can I do this? My hands shake.

  I click on the clippers, and the bathroom echoes with their humming buzz. My hand vibrates. I grab a fistful of my thick black hair, which when loose hangs to the middle of my spine. Pull it back and gaze at my reflection, try to imagine myself with no hair. I'm almost ten years older than in that photograph I saw on Caleb's phone. It would be such a drastic change, and part of me rebels against the idea of sliding this device over my scalp, feeling my hair fall away, having no hair at all.

  But I need to change. I need to look different. I cannot resemble any longer the creature created by Caleb Indigo.

  I fight my breath, blink away tears of I-know-not-what emotion. Bring the clippers closer and closer to my scalp. I feel the teeth whispering against the skin of my forehead.

  And then, a mere eyeblink away from contact with my hair, Logan's hand encircles my wrist and pulls the clippers away. Tugs the device gently but firmly out of my hand.

  "Isabel . . . baby . . . what the hell are you doing?"