“I… he… that… asshole!” I pick up the magazine so I can throw it at the nearest wall. I’m not exactly a softball pitcher, and the wall isn’t exactly close by. The magazine lands in the middle of the floor, opened to the smiling, guffawing picture of a darling boy straight from the bowels of LA. What the fuck has he done! “How could he do this to me?”
“Look, Daphne, there’s something you should know…”
I can no longer pay attention to Ashleigh. Down goes my phone onto my couch. My mind is racing with terrifying images: like my super traditional and conservative parents finding out about this quote and losing their utter shit in my direction.
Be absolutely assured that everything Logan Dean has said about me is a lie! Not only have I never had sex with more than one person at a time, I certainly have never… whatever he is implying! Fuck! Why are words omitted! What did he say? What is he trying to get at? Furthermore, why is he torturing me long after we met? Leaving the restaurant should’ve been the last I ever heard from him.
We are far beyond that now. Oh, he’s about to get me in his face!
First, I must ground myself. Yes, this fucking sucks. But I can’t storm out of my apartment. There’s probably an army of paps out there ready to snap pictures of me in complete disarray over what Logan said in that tabloid trash.
I must set aside my rage for now. Deep breaths, girl. Prioritize, then rage.
My closet opens to reveal the outfits my stylist has put together for this week. I grab the one that was supposed to be for tomorrow: a mosaic black and white silk halter top with a short black skirt. I throw some of my nicer diamonds with it and start attacking my hair with a brush. Wear it down? Pull it back? Fuck it. I’m leaving it down and my hair can be happy tucked behind my ears. I double-check that I look presentable in my mirror, and on second thought add some subdued red lipstick and my tortoiseshell cat-eye sunglasses. Bam. Badass bitch and still ready to be papped for those stupid fashion columns.
After snatching some black pumps out of my shoe closet and picking up a black Chanel bag, I finally decide I’m ready to leave.
Ashleigh has kept calling me this whole time. I decide to answer on my way out the door. I need the fucker’s address, right? She’s ready to give it to me. Sounds like she’s got it memorized, honestly. I bet you a thousand bucks she slept with Logan. You may not be able to tell from meeting the mousy socialite, but she gets around. She was on a date with one of the nation’s most notorious playboys. Of course she slept with him!
Why she’s in such a hurry to give me his address so I can take his ass down is the real mystery. Maybe he was bad in bed or insulted her. More ammunition for me to want to kill him.
As I suspected, a flurry of photographers await me outside. They snap pictures on both sides of me as I ignore them, stepping calmly to the sidewalk and hailing the first cab to come by. Usually, I would have a driver to cart me around the city, since Daddy is always going on about the Evils of Public Transport. (Cabs qualify, in his mind.) No time for the driver today. I have things to accomplish, complete with me taking out a baby wipe to rub down the leather seat I’m about to sit on.
Someone save me. The cab driver is looking at me in his mirror, ready for some conversation. “Dressed to kill, huh?” I glare at him through my sunglasses.
The man won’t shut up after I give him the address and we leave the pap-ridden street. I’m trapped in this hell-hole for half an hour as we get caught up in traffic and the driver swears he’s lost in a town he should know inside and out. I think he wants to keep staring at me. Does he think he has a chance with me? Sorry, pal. I only fuck strapping college athletes (so many little dicks) and loaded heirs (they’re just dicks.)
This whole time I’m thinking of something unsavory. Something my father mentioned about a month ago when he called me into his office and dropped a huge bomb.
Going to see Logan Dean isn’t about my personal pride. It’s about my family’s pride, too. I swallow and start counting out bills as we reach our destination. Thankfully, I don’t see any paps. Then again, who knows how they’re hiding out these days.
After paying the ungrateful driver handsomely, I steal into the building, hoping to avoid any paps who might be lurking about. A doorman and receptionist both greet me. I can tell from the female receptionist’s face that she recognizes me. Sure enough, a copy of The Big Hello is turned over on her desk. Great.
The doorman hurries to escort me up to Logan’s apartment on the third floor. The building is short and squat, a Mediterranean style complex that could either be brand new or recently updated, who damn well knows. I didn’t even know they had Mediterranean luxury apartments out this way. Of course Logan would live here. Probably makes him think of California.
As soon as the doorman is back down the hall, I slam my finger against Logan’s buzzer. And hold it. Hold it.
“Coming!” comes a groggy voice. Don’t care. Still holding down this buzzer. I hope he’s internally screaming from the obnoxious sound. “For fuck’s sake! Could you…” The door unlocks. I finally pull my hand back and cross my arms, face as stony as I can muster.
When he opens that door, he will see the Queen Bitch of his nightmares.
The door swings open. He’s… shirtless.
My mouth drops open. Fuck it, I admit I’m gawking, because he’s like a marble statue. Fucking. Delicious.
“Eyes up here,” he says, leaning in his doorway. I raise my flushed cheeks to his face. He’s wearing jeans, low-slung on his hips, and that perpetual grin is driving me crazy.
What kind of crazy? That I do not wish to admit.
“Well, well, well.” Logan matches my crossed arms, covering half of that sculpted chest. Naturally, this flexes more than a few muscles. Kill me. “What a lovely surprise this is.”
Chapter 4
DAPHNE
Curses speckle my lips as I shove my way into his apartment. Logan Dean will not be showing me the exit today. I’ve got a new asshole to rip this perverted jackoff, and…
Is it warm in this apartment? It’s warm in this apartment. I think steam might be exuding from my skin.
Oh, wait. That’s his skin. Apparently, he has emerged from the shower. A towel litters the floor and that thick hair is sopping wet. Are those water droplets on his chest?
Hello, there.
No! No hellos!
Logan strolls in behind me, closing the front door with a soft click. “I take it you saw the article.” His cheeks keep puffing out in contained laughter. He looks like a squirrel who thinks he’s oh-so-funny.
“You bet your ass I saw it!” Volume? Tone? Who cares about either? With a few short words, Logan has me riled up again. Doesn’t take much! “What the hell were you thinking? How could you fucking do this to me? What have I done to you?”
I don’t want to showcase the panic and anger inside of me, but when I get really emotional, it’s almost impossible. To think, my doctor put me on birth control back in high school to help me with this. I think it’s time to switch brands.
Logan feigns innocence with that boyish grin. “Just being honest,” he says, way too cheerily. “If anything, I’d think you’d be flattered. Didn’t I pay you a compliment?”
“A compliment!” Someone’s shriek echoes in Logan’s apartment. It’s mine, isn’t it? Suddenly I’m the big fat Italian stereotype I’ve been shrugging off for the past twenty years. To be fair, I haven’t heard this side of my voice since… Daddy…
Nope! Not thinking about it here!
“You said I was a kinky slut! You said I had threesomes and orgies and whatever the fuck else the editor had to censor!” Those words sink deeply into me. My reputation. My honor. All ruined because of Logan Dean getting mad that I didn’t positively react to his sick jokes the other day. MEN. No, no, this isn’t a man. This is a boy. I don’t care if he’s a year older than me. He’s about as mature as a twelve-year-old discovering boobies in a Playboy magazine. “Do you know what this is going t
o do to me?”
“Isn’t it true, though?” He looks me straight in the eyes and widens his smile. That’s it. I’m going to knock the teeth out of his mouth. See how much people want to take pictures of him now!
“No, it’s not fucking true, you God awful asshole!” Tears burn in my eyes. My arms shoot into the air, purse flailing at my side. “I’m a perfectly presentable member of society! I’m a part of the Young Women’s Club! My father holds a key to the city! I’m respectable!” Somehow, I keep my tears in my body. “Unlike you, Logan.” Fed up with my obnoxious purse, I slam it onto his floor and stand up with a huff. I can’t see anything because of how blurry my anger has made my vision. I think it might be colored red now, too.
However, I can make out that Logan is not looking me in the face anymore. His arms remain crossed in front of his chiseled chest, but one of those hands is going up to his mouth and stifling another wicked chuckle.
“I wouldn’t say you’re respectable at all right now.” There it is. The escaped guffaw, and a finger pointing right at my dress. “Can you say wardrobe malfunction? Or is it Miss Jackson if you’re nasty?”
I’m horrified before I even look down. Why. Did I. Wear this. Top? Because it’s betrayed me, one halter strap unsnapping and falling down my chest. Behold, Logan, ‘tis my breast! Contained in a hot pink bra, but it doesn’t exactly cover much.
Of course. Of course my clothes are falling off my body around this prick. It’s like I subconsciously wanted to be half naked like he is. With that stupid chest and those stupid six-pack abs and that stupid aftershave wafting in my direction. Oh my God. Is that my hard nipple poking through pink fabric? I’m gonna hurl – then die!
Not before I take Logan Dean down with me!
I throw myself at him. No, not like that. My nails are extended, ready to draw blood, or to at least make it physically known that I am not a woman to be trifled with. I know I shouldn’t try this haphazard violence, but what else do I do? Cry in front of him? I’ll never! I’d rather be indicted for manslaughter than cry in front of Logan Dean!
He takes a huge step back. It’s not enough to make me miss him. All it does is make me trip in my black pumps while a snarl takes over my demeanor. Anger mounts. Rage boils my blood. Those tears are finally coming out and clouding my vision. I draw upon the last of my energy and lunge at him once more, crying out in the most embittered frustration I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing.
Why do men do this? Why has Logan singled me out for his bullying? Why is Daddy trying to control my life and future?
Why am I thinking of Daddy right now?
“Principessa,” I hear his voice echoing in my memory. “It’s time we talked about your future. Namely, who you are going to marry…”
I make contact with Logan. He tries to push me away, but I end up landing against his chest, hot tears exploding on his skin. I don’t expect him to wrap those big, strong arms around me, but he does. And I…
I feel safe. Protected. Independent.
Wait, what?
“Okay, wow.” Logan doesn’t move, either to shove me away or bring me tighter into his embrace. “This took a turn. First your tit busts out, then you’re crying…”
These tears transform into one last surge of anger. We’ve stumbled through a doorway, and with one last push, I’ve broken through his hold and fallen forward.
Right onto his freakishly big bed. Unmade, because God forbid someone make his bed around here.
The soft sheets greet me like an old lover. I instantly roll over and wonder what thread count they are, because it’s better than realizing I’ve popped through Logan’s bedroom door and thrown myself onto his bed.
“All right, this isn’t what I had in mind.” I don’t know what that means, but Logan grabs my hands and pulls me back onto my feet. No, I don’t want to touch him again. I’d rather twist my arms and make my escape now. Nope. Outta here!
Except he’s still grasping me, attempting to force me to turn around so he can say something to my face.
“Get off of me!” I inadvertently hit his bicep. Because we’re already teetering against his bed, he loses balance and smacks against the edge of the bed – taking me down with him.
“Uh…”
My vision clears. Here I am, on Logan Dean’s bed… with the man himself beneath my straddled thighs. I’ve got his muscular chest pinned down with nothing more than my black miniskirt and the legs beneath.
“I hate you,” I whisper, looking straight down in his shocked countenance. “You have no right to say those slanderous things about me. You don’t understand what it could do to me. You think it’s funny?” I slap my hands on either side of his head, ass lifting off his chest but my sharp teeth coming closer to his nose. My hair slips off my shoulder and grazes his skin. “You think it’s cute destroying a woman’s reputation and damaging her relationships with lies? Because it’s not. You had no reason to do that other than to sate your evil ego. I…”
His eyes have glazed over. Not out of disrespect, but in what I think might be attraction.
No. No way.
Whatever words I was going to say next disappear. It’s like Logan’s expression is passing onto me. By the way, did I know that I was straddling his hips like no big deal? Speaking of big deal, what the hell is that poking into my…
Into my…
Oh. My. God.
He’s got a hard-on!
Either Logan Dean is secretly into dominatrixes, or he’s been this attracted to me for a while now. I don’t know what to think. Other than that’s a big hard-on brushing against my ass and trying to make its way beneath my skirt. All I’m wearing underneath is a pair of black undies. It wouldn’t take much at all for him to spear his cock right into my waiting…
What the fuck am I thinking!
I nearly topple over the bed when I realize I’m fantasizing about fucking him. Once I catch my balance again, I look down, meeting a burning, aroused gaze. “I want you,” Logan’s blazing browns say. “I want to fuck you if nothing else.”
No words necessary. This guy wants me. That’s as clear to me as the heat rushing to my pussy and saying sure, why not?
Why not? Why not? How about because this guy’s a total asshole and I have a very strict don’t fuck douchebags policy? How about because two minutes ago I was chewing him out, and the one thing I shouldn’t do is reward his stupidity with, uh, my pussy?
I bet he would love that. I bet he would love to slam me down on this bed and pound me until I incessantly come.
Wow. Where did that come from?
Only a few seconds have passed, but in those few seconds, my brain has done a terrible 180. We’ve gone from wanting to kill this jerk to wanting to fuck him!
As if he’s on the same wavelength as me, Logan lifts himself onto his elbows and meets my kiss halfway. His lips are more locked on mine than mine are on his.
He’s a maniac. A kissing killer. Somehow, in the span of ten seconds, he’s managed to transform me from a rampaging psycho to a famished woman who wants nothing but him.
I’ve never felt a kiss like this before. Let alone when I’m straddling a guy’s lap, his cock stirring directly beneath me, threatening to pop out and take me right here. I almost want it to. Wouldn’t it be great if we could get this over with? Before my senses return to me and I realize what a horrible mistake this is?
Come on, Logan. Take me over. Consume me. Fuck me like a real man.
His tongue darts into my mouth, slamming against mine and attempting to penetrate my throat. His chest pushes harder against mine, the dark hairs on his skin grazing the top of my exposed breast. I already feel like we’re having sex. Everything is heating up. My skin. His skin. That place between my thighs that realizes we have access to a cock that is hungry for nothing but us. I bet he’s bigger than I feel. I bet Logan Dean knows how to fuck hard and rough, taking a girl for a wild ride until he bursts all over her. Oh my God. The shivers!
I’ve yet t
o really react. Passively sitting here, accepting his hungry kisses, is all I can do. When his passion softens into a chaste bite to my lower lip, I sigh, eyes rolling back in my head. Now I’m the one initiating a kiss. Long. Meandering. Demanding compensation for what he so erroneously said about me in that article.
“You said I’m a kinky slut! You said I had threesomes and orgies and whatever the fuck else the editor had to censor!” Shit, I wish that was true. When I’m in the mood, I start fantasizing about all sorts of crazy scenarios. Right now I’m fantasizing about the wild way Logan Dean could fuck me. I want the whole kit of nasty. The crass words, the spanks to my ass, the hair pulling, the hands pushing me down, the unsheathed cock filling me with hot...
I’ve never done that before. I want to do it right now.
“Knew you wanted me,” Logan groans against my lips. “You don’t kiss like no prude.”
“Do I look like one?” My bright red nails tug against my blouse, showing him my exposed breast again. If I rock just right in his lap, the mound jiggles, and we both appreciate that spectacle. I like the way it feels, and based on how much he’s growing beneath my ass, he likes the way it looks. In case he still thinks I’m a prude, I kiss him, my tongue running along his perfect teeth and my hands exploring his hard chest. Hard. Everything is so damn hard.
If he doesn’t fuck hard too, I will be so disappointed I may have to swear off men forever.
“You know what I want right now?” I say without thinking, my thighs grinding against his jeans. “I want you to fuck me. Do it now, before I realize what the hell I’m doing with you.”
His groan grows louder, arms encircling me, hands grabbing my ass and yanking up my skirt. I can’t believe how strong he is. This man could toss me like a stone and not break a sweat! Could he toss me around a bit? Throw me around and show me what a man he is? I’m limber and eager enough to take it. Take it. That’s what I want to do. I want to feel my clothes ripped from my body and his body surging into mine on the road to breaking every piece of me so I can be born anew.
I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances Page 41
