Page 35 of Baby For The Bad Boy Billionaire

And then a burst of ecstasy radiates through me transforming into a powerful wave that crashes over us both. Her name falls from my lips as I feel her clench around me, her body trembling with her climax.

Our orgasms hit us together. I stay inside her, letting our bodies ride out the aftershocks together.

As our heavy breaths slowly subside, reality starts to creep back in. The papers on the floor, the disarray of the closet, us.

A rude awakening.

Bailey steps back from me, hastily pulling her disheveled clothes back into place.

"Logan." The sound of my name on her lips fills the room with tension. I can see the panic in her eyes, the fear of what we just did. "This... This was a mistake... We shouldn't have... I shouldn't have let this happen."

She's backing away from me, putting physical and emotional distance between us. The heat of the moment is replaced by a chill. "I don't want this," she whispers, and I can see the regret, the battle raging within her.

"Sure, Bailey." I lean against the wall, buttoning my slacks with deliberate slowness. I watch her, my gaze intense yet nonchalant, as if all we did was share a cup of coffee. "Just another day at the office, right?"

She scowls at me, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red. "You're such a... such a jerk, Logan."

I shrug, even though inside, I'm anything but cool.

As she walks out, leaving me alone with the mess of our actions, I get a strange twist in my gut. I've always been the one to walk away, to leave before things get too real. But right now, as I watch Bailey's response, I realize that I don't want to be the one who's left behind.

I, too, build walls to protect myself. I'm used to the game, the chase, the thrill of conquest, but this... this is new territory for me. I don't know how to handle these emotions, these... feelings that are starting to come to the surface.

"Fuck."

I slam the closet door shut and I rake a hand through my hair, frustration boiling beneath the surface. She's right. That was a mistake. I knew the rules, and I broke them. I let myself get too close, let myself feel too much.

"Dammit, Logan," I mutter to myself. The lingering scent of her, the disarray in the office, it's all too much. I grab my jacket, not bothering to straighten the mess we've made. The office feels cold, as if it's judging me for my lack of control. I walk out, not looking back as the door clicks shut behind me.

My mind races as I step onto the city street. The noise, the lights, the rush—none of it appeals to me. Not today. The image of Bailey, her eyes wide with fear and regret, burns behind my eyelids. "No feelings," I remind myself, my fist clenching. "No attachments."

With a bitter laugh, I realize the truth: I'm not angry with Bailey, I'm angry with myself. The bad boy who didn't do feelings is feeling too much.

I pull out my phone and dial Steve's number.

"Hey man, wanna hit some balls at the range?"

He laughs. "What, bored of the office already?"

"Something like that... See you at the range in thirty?"

A half-hour later, I'm stepping onto the greens of the golf course. The smell of fresh-cut grass fills my nostrils, and I feel a hint of calm wash over me. Steve’s already there, leaning on his golf bag and grinning like he knows a secret.

“You look like hell, Logan.”

I ignore the jab, and I take my position, stare down the fairway, and let the golf club swing. The white, dimpled ball sails into the air, and for a moment, I can pretend that everything else doesn't exist. Just me, the golf club, and the ball cutting through the air.

With every swing of my club, I channel my frustration into the small white sphere, watching as it flies through the air and disappears into the distance. I'm smashing ball after ball, each one with more force, more anger.

Steve's observing me, and I can tell he's piecing together the puzzle. He's seen me like this before – restless, agitated – but it's been a while since I've let my guard down like this in front of him.

Finally, he steps forward, blocking me from swinging another ball. "Alright, man. Enough," he says, grabbing my club and facing me squarely. "You're hitting balls like you're trying to knock out Mike Tyson. What the hell is going on?"

I look away, gritting my teeth. I don't want to talk about it. I want to ignore it, forget about it. But the look in Steve's eyes tells me he's not going to let it slide.

He knows me too well.

Damn it.

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