Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  Daddy takes a step forward, fixing my gaze. His expression goes serious.

  “Honey, are you involved with someone?”

  I square my shoulders, narrowing my eyes. “I’m still deciding,” I say. “Haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  He cocks an eyebrow, tilting his head toward the absurdly large vase of blue roses. “And is this his reaction to your indecision?”

  I nod.

  His lip turns upward. The corners of his blue eyes crinkle with veiled delight.

  “Well played,” he applauds me, taking a step back. “Make the right decision. Let me know how it turns out.”

  Ha. If only he knew.

  Maybe I will. But not soon. I need to be certain.

  After work, at home in my apartment, with a handful of roses brought with me from the office installed in a vase, I hold my breath while typing a text that I hope will mend fences.

  Bryn: You write a very pretty note, and make a strong case in your defense. You may have a future in the law. The roses are beautiful, BTW.

  I set my phone down on the counter, making fresh coffee while I wait. It doesn’t take long.

  Logan: Drake informed me I needed to send roses. I don’t have anything better to do, so I did.

  He makes me laugh. I know he tries to, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that he succeeds. It’s the rarest of people who can make me genuinely laugh. The rest just leave me with rolling eyes.

  Bryn: It’s a school night. I have to eat, read legal briefs, and go to bed. In court at 9:00 A.M.

  Logan: I’ll bring dinner. We’ll talk while we eat. I’ll let you read, and go home when you tell me to. Please.

  How do you argue with a man who makes his case so plainly, and always comes bearing something of value in exchange? I don’t have a thing in the house to cook, and I’m starving. I was going to order pizza.

  Bryn: Okay. Feed me. Long day and I’m hungry. The roses are lovely, but inedible.

  Logan: Next time I will send three dozen pizzas. On my way. What’s your address?

  He doesn’t even know where I live? Good. At least he’s not stalker material.

  I type out my address, then some additional instructions for good measure, hoping his navigational app is up to it. My apartment is hard to find. I like it that way.

  Thirty minutes later there’s a knock on my door.

  When I open it, he’s standing on the landing wearing a hopeful smile, bearing two Whole Foods grocery bags with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d let me in, so I brought cheesecake,” he says, biting his lip with genuine uncertainty. “And chocolate. I figured one or the other might tip the scales in my favor.”

  Logan Chandler does self-effacing charm better than anyone I’ve ever met.

  I flash briefly on Saturday night and the things we did. My knees quiver.

  “Cheesecake and chocolate?” I observe, opening the door wide, waving him in. “After roses and poignant declarations. A girl might think you’re trying too hard.”

  I close the door behind him.

  Logan sets the grocery bags on the counter, then leans on it, palms down, eyes fixed on mine, all humor leaving his expression.

  “You walked out on me, then flew home by yourself. You left believing some pretty awful things about me.”

  His eyes have gone dark. I realize then just how heavily the last couple days have weighed on him.

  “Bryn, I’m sorry. If I’m trying overly hard, it’s because I feel like I need to. I meant every word I said in that note—and then some.”

  And then some? What does that mean?

  I approach him, laying my hand atop his where it rests on the countertop.

  “It’s okay,” I say softly. “I over-reacted because I’m more than a little freaked out by… all the money. And you did choose some of your words poorly. But it’s all sorted. We’re good. We’re … okay.”

  “Are we?” he asks, a pained expression marring his lovely, sculpted face.

  “I think so,” I reply. “Anyway, we’ll figure it out. We’re not on a deadline here.”

  Logan steps closer; dark, moody eyes brightening. “No, we’re not on a deadline,” he says. “You’re calling the plays, but since ‘we’re good’ again, can I kiss you and satisfy myself that I didn’t imagine Saturday night?”

  He didn’t imagine it.

  Logan’s first kiss is cautious; he’s testing the waters.

  I must have punched his confidence harder than I realized. It’s the litigator in me. I was trained to spot the first sign of vulnerability and expose it, diving in hard without restraint to spread the fissure wide, showing off the instability in the whole foundation.

  I slip my hand up high, around the nape of his neck, my fingertips pulling him to me, meeting his kiss and escalating, parting his lips, drawing him in.

  He hauls in a heated, heavy breath, sucking my air into his lungs. His tongue and mine dance together, his teeth nick me, sending a promise of something down, rattling all the way to my belly and then back up.

  “Dinner can wait,” I murmur in his ear, my fingers gliding across the buttoned-down breadth of his chest. “We have unfinished business.”

  “Do we?” he asks in a whisper, his lips caressing my neck, his strong hands gently circling my waist, then reaching lower.

  “We do,” I declare, nudging Logan backward. I slip my hand into his, then pull him, leading, to my bedroom.

  It’s not like it was Saturday night. There’s no playful brute, throwing me over his shoulder or shoving me around, manhandling me. This is different. Tender. Sweet. Patient. He takes his time with us making out on top of my bed, both fully clothed, until I can’t stand it anymore.

  At every turn, he waits for me to make the next move, slowly, tediously, urging our progression forward. In between, his hands and mouth attend to every inch of bare skin I reveal to him by measure. His touch is electric and erotic. He makes every nerve ending in my entire body ignite.

  Before his lips and tongue are done with me, my body becomes impatient, wanting more. I feel the wet heat between my legs. I feel the empty void that wants to be filled.

  “Inside,” I beg, whining. “Please. Now.”

  Logan accommodates my demand, and does so much more gently than he did on Saturday.

  I feel the condom between us, woefully artificial. I resolve to do something about that as soon as possible.

  When he presses in, forcing past slippery muscle, sinking into a rhythm that’s both exquisite and alien, my body responds unconsciously.

  Logan doesn’t break eye contact. We’re seared together, our bodies one now, moving together in a single effort. We exchange the same breath, exchange one another’s heat, his length inside me, drawing back and then rushing in again like a regular tide on the beach.

  He feels so perfect inside me.

  My hands fall to his chest, then around to his broad back. My ankles hook behind his ass.

  Logan’s eyes meet mine as I feel the first quavers of pleasure peaking. I arch reflexively, my eyes searing shut.

  “Oh… oh…” I utter, waves rising inside me, demanding release.

  “Oh… God…”

  A visceral, electric charge of pulsing pleasure bursts from that space inside me occupied only by Logan’s cock. It rushes out, radiating from my belly, then up my spine and out to limbs, terminating at fingers and toes.

  My brain blanks. Every thought, every fear, every nagging worry slips away into a bliss of reflexive giggling and childlike awe. All I am is rendered happy under Logan’s possessive spell. He moves and he moves me. My body responds with clockwork rhythm.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, calling me back to the present.

  I open my eyes on his gaze, fixed on me. His face is full of wonderment. His mouth half-opened, slack, confounded.

  His thrusts lift me, then draw me back, every effort bathing my body in distracting pleasure.

  Logan bl
inks and I see a spark of tension ignite behind his eyes. He’s close. He’s holding back. That knowledge makes my sex convulse, then tremble, building again.

  “Cum for me,” Logan urges. He presses in deeper, slowly, fixing a pace that drives the tide of my climax to the brink.

  We cum in a crushing tangle of damp hair, fist gripped sheets, trembling muscles and unintelligible groans, our bodies seared, arching, aching as one thing, bound together in perfect harmony.

  I’ve never wanted to be possessed by any man. I’ve never wanted to belong to anyone. I thought I knew what those words meant, and I didn’t want any part of them.

  Now… Now I’m learning a new language.

  Chapter 16

  Logan

  Despite her hectic job, and the fact that she wants to keep us on the down-low for awhile (which I understand completely, and don’t disagree with,) Bryn and I have managed to spend some quality time together over the last couple weeks, getting to know one another better, in every way.

  She’s as smart as she ever was, but funnier than I realized. Her humor is dry, spitfire fast, and precision-targeted. No one is spared, least of all herself. She’s taken to calling herself my gold digger girlfriend. I don’t exactly like it, but I’ll take girlfriend any way I can get it.

  The truth is that I’m head over ass in love with her, and smitten with her too. She makes me laugh. She brightens every day. These last few weeks have been the best, even with niggling worries and the relentless grind of lawyers and people popping up out of the woodwork looking for a hand-out.

  Yesterday a guy cornered me in the grocery store. I don’t know how he knew who I was, but he locked on me and started pitching this idea his son had for some cancer-curing dietary supplement that he’s sure will make billions, if they can only get it to market. I was in a hurry because I was trying to buy groceries to make dinner for Bryn, but I had to stop and give this guy my time. He was insistent, intense, and slightly unhinged. All the literature says that they’re the ones who become dangerous if dismissed or denied out-right. As he ran out of wind I nodded and said the idea sounded great, that I looked forward to learning more. I gave him one of those business cards from the foundation and told him to call me there.

  I got away from the guy, but it was unsettling to find myself that easily marked, then pinned down. It reminded me why Bryn and I need to keep things quiet. My lottery story still hasn’t died down yet. Some days it feels like it’s just getting ramped up.

  I have more important issues to focus on, however.

  I want Mom to meet Bryn, and I want Bryn to meet Drake.

  There’s an axiom in southern culture (maybe all cultures) that’s as certain as it was one hundred years ago. No matter how much you adore your beloved, it isn’t real until you bring her home to meet the family. I’m making it real today.

  The Buckeyes are playing Rutgers at home, and I’m smoking a pork tenderloin in honor of the anniversary of my first starting college game, and my first college touchdown. Call me sentimental, but these things matter.

  My Mom and Bryn are hanging together under the portico, sipping wine coolers, talking about God-only-know-what, and Drake is peeling potatoes beside me by the grill.

  Shawn, Drake’s occupational therapist, has done wonders along the lines of making him helpful. I’m not sure I would have ever trusted him with a sharp-edged blade, but Shawn turned the simple act of peeling potatoes into a game that his OCD mind has fixated on, perfecting to a high art form. I’ve never seen prettier peeled potatoes than the bowl-full in front of him. They’re perfect.

  “I think that’s plenty, buddy,” I say. “Will you bring me the foil pan from the kitchen, so I can get them on the grill?”

  Drake retrieves the pan without arguing, then stands close, recording me with his cell phone as I work spreading the potatoes flat in the pan, laying strips of bacon over them, then dousing the whole concoction with thin barbecue sauce.

  “Bryn is pretty,” Drake says, rocking gently on the balls of his feet. “Pretty.”

  “She really is,” I agree, glancing toward her. She’s watching us, her expression unreadable.

  Finishing with the potatoes, I ask Drake if he wants to toss the football. He sucks at all things sports related, has zero coordination, but he likes running around, chasing his fumbles, and it helps burn his limitless energy.

  I throw the ball and he fails to catch it, then it’s a scrum to see who can get to it first. Drake and I have played this game since I was two. I credit him with making me fast. Since he was so much bigger than me, I had to be fast to keep him from catching me and crushing me.

  I’m almost as fast as I used to be, but not nearly so agile since I’m running on titanium knees pinned in place, wired to bone with mesh. A lot of range of motion has escaped me, but I can still outrun Drake, and I can still dodge him well enough to keep him from catching me. That said, I usually let him win the scrum.

  Before it’s all said and done, we’re rolling around in the grass, laughing like a couple of fifth-graders.

  Drake hoots and hollers, spiking the ball, “I win! I win! You lose! You lose again!”

  He cackles like a little girl, arms flailing, hands flapping, his head bouncing like a bobble-head doll on a dashboard. Then he gets his cell phone out and runs around with the ball, making more videos.

  He entertains me to no end. He’s almost enough to cause me to forget my smoker, my tenderloin, and kick-off time. Almost, but not quite.

  We eat in ‘Mom’s house,’ in the back wing, because there’s a wide screen in the den and we can see it from the kitchen.

  Mom made her famous red cole slaw and cornbread to go with the barbecue and potatoes, and there’s banana pudding for dessert. I wouldn’t eat like this every day, but it’s perfect for football season, and it gives me a chance to emphasize to Bryn that my family life is far from the gourmet Whole Foods scene I tend toward when cooking for her. I like both.

  “This reminds me of college tail-gating,” Bryn observes with unveiled amusement.

  I slide her plate in front of her, then pass her a cold beer.

  “Good,” I quip. “One day maybe we’ll tail-gate it up to Columbus and do this anniversary in the stadium lot. I never got to do that, since I was always in the locker room or on the field.”

  She shakes her head, rolling her eyes, teasing me. She’s taking in my family in bits, observing.

  We eat until we’re stuffed, conversing, while trying to keep Drake focused on eating his meal instead of arranging potatoes in patterns on his plate, filming his set stage like Martin Scorsese.

  I stab a potato with a fork, snatching it away, messing up his artistry. He scowls at me, then quickly replaces the missing spud with another. We repeat the process several times until Drake realizes I’ve eaten half his potatoes.

  He rocks in his chair, slurping slaw, chewing big mouthfuls of tenderloin. I make it clear there’s no banana pudding for him until he eats at least half of everything on his plate.

  I catch Bryn eyeing me as I say this. She doesn’t quite know what to make of Drake—new people rarely do—but her expression is at least accepting. She’s not disgusted or put off by his presence inside our circle.

  Later on, after dinner, after the game is over and the Buckeyes lose to Rutgers with an embarrassing performance, Bryn snuggles under my arm while we listen to music, sipping wine from coffee cups.

  “Drake is lucky to have you,” she says out of nowhere. “It’s pretty clear he adores you, and you’re great with him.”

  I shrug off her observation. “I don’t know how lucky he is,” I respond. “No one with autism is lucky. Mom and I have done our best to bring him up, and keep him safe.”

  She huffs a small laugh. “He’s your older brother,” she says. “And you talk about bringing him up like you’re his parent, like he’s your responsibility. I wonder how many siblings feel that way?”

  “I don’t know. But he is my responsibility. I’ve alw
ays felt like he was mine to look out after. I always will. I would do anything in the world to protect him. He’s my brother.”

  Bryn lays her head against my shoulder, curling against me. She sighs. “If I’d ever had a brother, I’d want him to be just like you.”

  I laugh, nearly inhaling my wine. “That would be one inappropriate sibling relationship,” I say grinning. “Given every impure idea I’ve ever had about you.”

  She shakes her head. “You know what I mean.”

  I do, and it’s sweet, but I am so glad I’m not Bryn’s brother. That would suck.