“Do you want a photo?” He asked. “I seem to recall that you wanted your picture taken in front of the Statue of Liberty.”
She nodded, beaming at him. “Want to do one together?”
“Of course.”
They took pictures in front of the Statue, pausing to switch off so they could both have photos on their individual phones. Brontë laughed at the sight of them in one shot. “Your eyes are closed in my picture, Logan. We have to take it again.”
“Let’s change up our pose, then,” he said, and took the phone from her, holding it low so the picture would be an uptilted view.
And he leaned in and very lightly kissed her mouth.
Immediate heat flushed through her body. Brontë clung to him, her hands going to his cheeks and anchoring her mouth against his. She’d wanted this for what felt like forever, and when his lips parted, she took advantage and swept her tongue into his mouth, letting him know her need. He groaned low in his throat at her kiss, and then his tongue was rubbing up against hers. An ache settled low in Brontë’s hips, and she whimpered in response.
Logan slowly pulled away from her lips and grinned down at her. “Let’s hope that photo turned out.”
Dazed, she stared up at him, and reached out to take the phone back. The photo was tilted awkwardly, and the Statue wasn’t even in the picture. “It’s fine,” she murmured, still flushed and tingling.
“It’s not. We need to do it again,” he said, and his hand went around her waist as he took the phone back from her. He angled it up once more, adjusted it, then leaned in and began to kiss her again. The kiss this time didn’t start off delicate. His mouth immediately claimed hers, sending driving desire rocketing through her. Over and over, his mouth slanted over hers, tongue licking at hers in a way that made her knees weak. People were probably watching, and she didn’t care.
She nearly sagged when he released her again, and glanced down at the phone. “Better?” She asked in a wobbly voice, clinging to him.
“My eyes are closed again,” he said, and couldn’t hide the triumphant expression on his face. “We should do it one more time.”
“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose,” Brontë protested, but her words were cut off by the heated kiss he bestowed on her mouth again. And oh, God, desire was hammering staccato notes through her body, and all her nerve endings seemed to be demanding one thing. His body, over hers. In hers. ASAP. All this dating and yearning seemed like one big cruel tease at the moment.
Endless, endless foreplay, she thought, lost in the feel of his mouth against hers. A low moan almost escaped her when he pulled away, but she bit it back. His gaze moved over her face with that same heated look that she was positive was plastered all over her own face. She licked her lips and nearly moaned again, because she could taste him on her skin.
Logan glanced down at her phone, and then handed it to her. “Perfect.”
Dazed, Brontë stared down at the picture. A hot flush crept over her cheeks—in the photo, she was clinging to Logan, the two of them wrapped around each other, the Statue looming in the distance.
She loved that picture.
He leaned in and her breath caught. She stared up at him, hoping for another kiss, but his mouth moved to her ear.
“I want you,” he told her. And he bit her earlobe.
She did moan then, the sound low and full of longing.
“Shall we find someplace private?” he asked her, still nibbling on her ear and making her bones turn to liquid. “Get to know each other a little better . . . all over again?”
“M-my place,” she breathed. “Not yours.”
“That’s fine. Your roommate?”
“Working today,” Brontë told him, and was suddenly wildly thankful that Gretchen had a job of some kind that got her out of the apartment. “All ours.”
“Good,” he told her, and the sound was full of so much satisfaction and promise that she went weak in the knees all over again.
Brontë clung to him on the ferry ride back to Battery Park. His arms were wrapped around her, and she had gone all too easily into his embrace. Waiting to get back to the apartment was a slow, delicious torture, but it gave her time to think . . . and stew in her own thoughts.
He’d taken her out to Liberty Island to see the Statue. Brontë thought of her comment on the plane ride to New York. She’d asked him about seeing the Statue and teased him about how clichéd it was and how she still wanted to do it. Such a small, offhand comment, but he’d remembered it. He’d remembered that she loved sightseeing and had wanted to see the city, and had taken her on a tour of New York City with every date. Even when Logan was deliberate, he was thoughtful.
And he’d completely stolen her heart.
Gretchen had warned her about falling too fast all over again, but this was Logan. Her Logan. Warm and delicious and handsome and thoughtful . . .
And totally loaded. And all wrong for a poor Midwestern waitress.
Well, she wouldn’t worry about that right now. They were heading back to her apartment she shared temporarily with Gretchen, and they were going to make love. Her body thrummed and ached with need for him.
He hadn’t told her he loved her, though.
She wouldn’t tell him she loved him, either. This, she told herself, was just mutual using. Both parties seeking satisfaction. No emotions had to be involved, really. It was just the natural progression of a normal relationship, after all.
It sounded totally convincing in her head.
Truth was, their relationship had never been all that normal. From the moment she’d met Logan until now, it seemed they’d done everything half backward and sideways.
He wasn’t the right guy for her in the long run, she told herself. No billionaire could see himself with a waitress long-term. Those sorts of things were generally pretty incompatible.
But she could enjoy him while she had him. And she would. She would think about the future some other time.
***
Logan rubbed Brontë’s shoulder as she leaned against him in the car. The drive to Gretchen’s apartment was f**king endless, and his entire body sang with a need to pull Brontë into his lap, tear down her panties, and drive into her.
But he had to be patient. She was calling the shots for now, because she needed to feel comfortable again. That was why they were going all the way across town to Gretchen’s apartment instead of heading to his place on the Upper East Side. Brontë was in control.
At least until he got her nak*d and squirming under him. Then he was taking control, and he’d make sure she was screaming her pleasure before he even thought about his own.
He nearly swore with relief when the apartment building came into sight. He opened the door, got out, and then held the door for Brontë. He gave the driver a nod, signaling that he wouldn’t need his services for the rest of the evening, and then wrapped his arm around Brontë’s waist again.
She stared up at him with a soft, passion-dazed expression that made his c*ck hard. “What about your driver?”
“I dismissed him for the night.” He met her gaze, almost daring her to contradict him and send him home with a peck on the cheek—like he’d been doing to her—and a raging hard-on.
He forced himself to be patient as Brontë fumbled with the keys, and then they climbed the stairs of the walk-up. By the time they got to Gretchen’s floor, he was pretty sure he would kill Audrey’s sister if they opened the door and found her standing there. His c*ck was so hard he ached, and he’d just spent four flights of stairs gazing up at Brontë’s perfect ass as it flexed with every step.
To his relief, the apartment was dark. Brontë flipped on a light when they entered, and a wrinkly gray animal darted across the room, startling Logan. “What was that?”
Brontë seemed amused by his reaction, her laughter chasing away the soft desire in her face. “That’s Igor. He’s a hairless cat.”
He glanced at the animal, which seemed to be all ears and wrinkles. It stared back at him with wide golden eyes. “Hideous.”
“It does take some getting used to,” she agreed with a smile.
“Can you shut him away in Gretchen’s room?”
“I can,” she said, and her voice had gone all breathy again. She bent low and snapped her fingers, and the cat darted over to her. Brontë scooped it up in her arms and disappeared into a side room, returning a moment later and shutting the door behind her. Her cheeks were flushed as if she’d been running . . . or was aroused. The anticipation was getting to her.
Good. Because it was driving him mad. Had been for the past week.
Brontë was gazing up at him, her eyes shining with a look that seemed half expectant, half anxious. Her expression was so full of emotion that it was driving him wild . . . and tormenting him. There was hurt in her eyes—hurt that he’d put there. And a little bit of fear that she might get hurt again.
They needed to move past that moment. And he had an idea of how to do that.
He pulled the blindfold back out of his pocket again and offered it to her. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”
Her eyes widened as she looked down at it, then up at him, realizing what was about to happen. “I . . . Logan . . .”
“You can say no,” he told her. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
She nodded, swallowing, and then her entire face seemed to flush red as she took the blindfold from his hand with trembling fingers and lifted it to her eyes. “Would you tie me?”
An innocent question, but it fired his blood. He moved behind her, taking the ends of the blindfold from her and tying them against the back of her head. She was standing there, stiff and wooden, so he leaned in and whispered huskily in her ear. “Too tight?”
She jumped, her elbow nearly slamming into his jaw. “N-no! It’s fine.” Her hands reached for him. “Just a little unnerving is all.” She turned and grasped his jacket in her hands and then gave it a small tug. “Should we go to my room?”
“I’ll lead the way,” he told her, and swept her into his arms, enjoying the muffled sound of surprise she made and the way she clung to him. Desire surged through him, mixing with triumph. He’d won her back. She was in his arms, and he was going to make love to her and show her that he’d never wavered.
His arms tightened around her possessively. Brontë was his again.
Good.
He pushed open the door to the other bedroom. Brontë’s room. There was a single twin bed in the corner of the room with a plain wrought iron headboard, and a small dresser that held a few mementos from their dates that week. A vase of flowers—flowers that he’d given her—sat in the windowsill. There were no pictures on the walls, and the entire room seemed barely lived in. The realization pleased him—she’d be back with him after tonight. His place felt empty and lonely without her.
Logan gently laid her on the bed and admired her, the curves of her body, the beauty of her face, the way the ends of her hair curled wildly. The way she bit her lip as she anticipated his touch. Carefully, almost reverently, he brushed his fingers down the length of one denim-clad leg and enjoyed seeing her shiver in response. He turned and shut the door to Brontë’s small room, just in case her roommate did show up again, and she jumped at the sound.