She woke up later to find that the sun had set and Logan was lying on the bed next to her. He’d pulled her close and spooned her body, still dressed in his suit. Brontë sighed and rolled over, snuggling close.
“Tired?” he asked in a low voice.
“More like bored,” she told him with a yawn. “Did you know that you have six remotes? And none of them turn on the TV?”
“It’s voice-activated,” he told her with a chuckle. “I can show you how to use it.”
“I’m afraid to touch it. Actually, I’m afraid to touch most everything in here.”
“Why?”
“It’s expensive. All of it.”
He snorted. “My home is your home while you’re here.”
But that was just it. This wasn’t her home. Her home had a big comfy easy chair with duct tape over a cushion rip and mismatched throw pillows. Her home had a mattress that sagged on one side, so she slept on the other. Her home had a few paintings and mismatched plates that she’d picked up at yard sales. If anything broke, it didn’t matter. Here, she was afraid to leave fingerprints on anything for fear that a maid would come by and smack her hand for daring to touch the great Logan Hawkings’s expensive furnishings.
He began to kiss her neck, nibbling on her skin. “Do you not want to be here?”
She sighed, his touch sending feelings skittering through her and making her ni**les hard. “No, I want to be here. I think I’d just feel better if this didn’t look like a museum. You need a puppy to dirty this place up or something.”
Logan chuckled, the sound muffled by her hair. “I have you.”
“Gee, thanks.” Her hand slid up to twine in his hair, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his lips on her skin. “I’m glad you’re back. Did your meeting go well?”
“Well enough,” he said. “We have a cocktail party to go to tomorrow night. I want you to meet some of my friends.”
She stiffened at the thought. “I don’t have clothes for that.”
“Tell my assistant your size. She can pick out something for you.”
“I’d like to buy my own clothing, thank you.”
He sat up in bed, gazing down at her. “I suppose you should change for dinner, too.”
Brontë groaned. “Logan, I don’t have anything to wear.”
“We can stop by a store and pick something up on the way out.”
She grimaced at the thought. It was nice just lying in bed, their legs tangled together. When his hand slid down to her stomach and began to slide under her shirt, Brontë burrowed closer to him. “Can’t we just stay in bed tonight? Surely you can get a pizza delivered or something.”
His thumb skimmed over her belly button. “Chinese?”
“Sounds delicious.” She leaned up and nibbled on his chin, enjoying the scrape of his stubble.
Logan pulled out his phone. “I’ll get my assistant—”
She pulled the phone away from him and continued to kiss along his jaw. “Or we could just order it ourselves. You know, like normal people. You don’t have to call your assistant for everything.”
“You win,” he said, leaning in and capturing her mouth. “You order, and I’ll pay?”
“Deal.” But she didn’t get up. Instead, she curled her fingers in his shirt, wishing that she could feel his skin underneath the layers of clothing. She kissed his mouth lightly again, her lips brushing over his, and when his parted, she began to lightly suck on his upper lip.
A low groan escaped him, and his hands began to rub up and down over her body. “Exactly how hungry are you?”
She shifted, her thigh moving between his legs. “Mm, not so hungry just yet.”
“Good,” he told her, and lifted her arm over her head. Her shirt was pulled up, revealing her belly, and he leaned down to kiss the exposed flesh. “I thought about you through my entire meeting.”
“Oh?” Her voice was shaky, just a little tremulous with desire.
“I liked the thought of you in my house, in my bed. Though, in my daydreams, you were naked.”
Brontë laughed. “In my daydreams, your library had real books.”
He grinned up at her, then kissed her belly again. “If you want real books, buy some. Buy as many as you want.”
She rolled her eyes. This man was constantly trying to get her to go shopping. “I didn’t come here to shop. I came here for you.”
“So you did,” he said in a husky voice, and pushed her shirt up farther, exposing her bra. He cupped one of her br**sts through the fabric, skimming his thumb over her nipple. “I find that very . . . arousing.”
“I find your touch very arousing,” she told him, running her hands over his shirt. She tugged on his tie, slowly undoing the knot. “Though you’re wearing entirely too much clothing.”
Logan peeled back the cup of her bra, adjusting the fabric so it clung to the underside of her breast and pushed her exposed skin up. “I could say the same of you,” he murmured.
Brontë cried out when he leaned in to suck on her exposed nipple. His mouth moved against the tender flesh, his tongue circling the areola in a teasing gesture that made her want to writhe on the bed. His teeth grazed the tip in a light scraping motion that was quickly soothed away by his mouth once more.
Her hands went to his hair, and she clung to him as he lavished attention on her breast. His hands were roaming over her body, too, smoothing over her skin as he eased her fully onto her back and then began to pull down the other cup of her bra until both br**sts were exposed. Then, with a nip, he left one breast and began to pay attention to the other, working it with the same maddening precision.
The feeling of his mouth on her br**sts was driving her wild with need. Her breath was coming in small pants, excitement and arousal pulsing through her body. When his knee pressed her legs apart, she rubbed up against him, a small whimper escaping her.
“I want you, Logan,” she whispered. “I need to feel your skin against mine.”
His hands went to her jeans. “You first.”
Within moments, they had her jeans undone and were working them down her thighs. He groaned seeing she had no panties on. “I think you forgot something.”
“I had a rendezvous with my lover in a freezer earlier, and I had to discard them.”