Page 8 of 21 Week Hiatus

I’m a sorry excuse for a father.

18 hours later…

After Trent left, I spent the night at Logan’s place. It felt wrong to leave him on his own while he’s feeling so dejected. Naturally, he’s feeling down, and we spoke briefly after, but I only manage to get one-word answers from him before I get the sense that he wasn’t in the mood to talk. So, I leave him to his own devices and go to bed. Unfortunately sleep eludes me and I spend most of the night tossing and turning, restless without him by my side.

As the clock strikes four in the morning, I can't take it any longer and get out of bed to search for him. I find him in the living room, sitting on the sofa with a glass of scotch in hand. The amber liquid swirls gently in the crystal glass, casting a warm glow in the dimly lit living room. On the small round side table next to him sits an almost empty bottle of Glenfiddich. A sense of melancholy washes over me as I gaze at him, wondering what woeful thoughts and emotions are swirling in his mind as he quietly sips his drink.

Careful not to make my presence known to him, I creep back to the bedroom and crawl into bed. The super king size bed feels like quicksand,sucking me deeper into its grasp as I toss and turn in a fitful sleep. It's nearly six in the morning when I finally succumb to exhaustion and sleep takes me. However, it felt like I’d just closed my eyes when with a jolt, I wake up, squinting against the harsh sunlight pouring through the window.

My bleary eyes struggle to focus as I push myself off the bed and stumble towards the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Logan's estate. Through my blurred vision, I see Logan dressed in his tight running gear—a black vest top and black shorts—jogging out the lofty chrome iron gates. Even from up here I could tell his broad shoulders were taut, and his strides lacked their usual confidence.

There has been a heaviness in my chest since yesterday, a feeling that I can’t quite shake off. I know it stems from Logan's pain, but I can’t help but worry. I keep telling myself repeatedly that it would pass, that we would be fine, but as the sun rises higher in the sky, the silence around me grows louder and the doubts in my mind become almost deafening.

Turning, I walked back into the bedroom, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the emptiness of the house. I’m unsure of what to do with myself, but I need to do something—anything—to distract myself from the weight of uncertainty that hung over me; so I put on one of Logan’s t-shirts which is two sizes too big for my small frame and head straight to the kitchen. He usually takes an hour for his morning run, and I suspect he would be nursing a hangover from knocking back a bottle of scotch last night.

This is where my relentless need to want to help people rears its ugly head again. However hard I try I’ll never really stop wanting to help someone I care about. So, I make Logan an all-white cheese omelet and some toast to soak up the alcohol. Using his electric juicer, I squeeze fresh orange juice and leave two Advil on the counter for him to take after breakfast.

In the wise words of my mother, the secret path to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I don't believe that my omelet will magically solve all his problems, but if it brings him some comfort, then it would have fulfilled its purpose.

After cleaning the kitchen and washing up the utensils and dishes I used to cook I put everything back as it was and go take a long shower. Standing under the waterfall shower with my head tipped back, I let the steaming hot water cascade over me to wash away my grogginess.

With my eyes still closed, I fumble around until my hand lands on the cubby hole. I grab Logan’s shampoo bottle and squeeze a generous amount into my palm. It's a routine for me to pack an overnight bag with my essentials when I stay at his place, but in my rush to get here, I didn’t even consider that I would spend the night. As I open my eyes and take in the fruity smell of the shampoo, I realize that it's not Logan's brand, but mine. Shocked, I look down at the bottle in my hand and gasp. I turn to look at the cubby hole and see not only my shampoo, but also conditioner and sea mineral body scrub and body lotions— all products I use religiously lined up neatly beside his products. My heart swells with happiness and I can't help but smile; Logan has gone out of his way to make sure that I feel comfortable staying at his place.

I set the bottle of shampoo beside his and a giddy feeling consumes me from head to toe. Lathering up the shampoo in my palms I work it into the roots of my hair and massage it through to the ends while humming quietly to the melody of‘Power over me’by Dermott Kennedy.

I'm midway through washing my body scrub off when a sudden rush of goosebumps race across my skin. Without even turning to look, I know it's Logan standing behind me. His powerful aura fills the room, instantly commanding attention. The man has a way of making his presence known without uttering a single word and I’m here for it.

His footsteps are heavy as he slowly approaches, sending ripples through the water at my feet. The air around us seems to crackle with unspoken tension. My wet skin prickles with every inch he steps closer. I keep my eyes closed and my head tipped back, acting as though I’m unaware of his presence, when in reality I’m waiting with my heart beating in my throat trying to anticipate his next move.

Please Logan, touch me.

It's only been eighteen hours, but it feels like an eternity since I last felt his touch or tasted his kiss, and when I tell you it took every bit ofcontrol I possess to not spin around and drag that sensational mouth to mine and taste him. If I wasn’t so afraid of him rejecting me, I would have done it. But as things stand now, I don’t know where his head is at and I’m not sure I’m ready or brave enough to find out.

I yearn to be held tight in those strong arms, even if that’s the only form of intimacy we can share. It is a necessary confirmation for me. It seems someone above is listening because my unspoken request is granted when his large hands rest on my hips, and he steps closer till my back is flush against his well-defined chest and his head dips so he’s nuzzling my neck. His touch sparks a warmth that quickly engulfs me from the tips of my toes flowing to the top of my head.

With a contented sigh I melt against him and drop my head back against his shoulder when his soft lips skim down the column of my neck. Logan’s hands wander up and he cups handfuls of my breasts at the same time as his lips part and he sucks the base of my throat. His soft lips skim down the column of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

I shiver when every nerve in my body ignites and a wave of welcomed pleasure washes over me, and I can't help but press my body closer to his, craving more of his touch.

“Logan.” His name is a desperate plea on my lips, barely audible over the sound of the water running in the glass-encased walk-in shower. Yet somehow, my hushed plea carries and echoes inside the steamy bathroom.

The sensation of his neatly trimmed beard grazing against my cheek, followed by the sharp nip of his teeth along my jaw, sends hot shivers down my spine. My skin tingles in response to the combination of roughness and tenderness, igniting every nerve with electric pleasure. I let out a guttural hum of satisfaction as he continues to explore my neck with his lips and tongue.

“Palms on the wall,” Logan burrs gruffly against my ear. I can’t detect anything in his tone, but I don’t have time to agonize over it because my arms are obediently lifting before the last letter rolls off that velvet tongue.

My hands flatten against the sleek and moistened marble tiles, the chill traveling down my arm, further adding to the anticipation of what’s to come. Logan reaches over my head, holding down my wrists with his one hand, while his right knee pushes my legs a shoulder width apart.

Pulses of electric heat shoot through my body as I feel the hard length of his manhood pressing against my lower back.

It feels like a raging fire has been lit deep inside my belly.

“I’m aware that we need to talk…” Logan murmurs throatily against my ear before he catches my earlobe between his teeth and tugs teasingly. His breath is hot and intoxicating, teasing me with every word. “But right now, I don’t have a conversation in me,” he groans, rocking his hips up, grinding his erection against my ass. “I don’t want to think.” He adds again, lifting his free arm and curling his long fingers around my throat, tipping my head back so he can kiss me. His lips are soft and demanding, his hold on me firm yet gentle. “All I want is to bury my cock deep inside your tight cunt and fuck you till I can’t see straight, Wildfire.” He finishes, his lips ghosting mine. The intensity between us is palpable; his lips brush against mine with barely contained desire as he finishes his sentence.

A faint trace of scotch, mixed with the peppermint toothpaste he brushed with this morning, lingers on his breath. The taste of scotch on his lips takes me back to the night we met at that bar, to the moment I kissed him just after he took a sip of his scotch.

Does he truly believe I would have an objection to that? The man must have taken a fall during his run and knocked his head if he thinks otherwise.

That suits me just fine. Heck my brain isn’t equipped to rub two coherent words together right now much less have a conversation. As important as the discussion may be, it can wait a few more hours. I’m sure our problems will still be there waiting for us tomorrow.

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