I grab the front of my dress, flapping it back and forth to generate some cold air. I do it a couple of times, then realize Logan’s staring at me, the surface-level shield gone.
His jaw is tight. His brown eyes don’t look haunted or disinterested.
He lookshungry. For me.
Only me.
I let my hand drop. His eyes flit to my breasts and cleavage, and an unmistakable sense of triumph overwhelms me.
There’s something there. Attraction, at the very least, even if he doesn’t want everything I do.
He walks ahead of me, unlocking the door and gesturing me into the lobby.
As I walk by him, his heat leaps from his muscled alpha body to mine.
It’s like our bodies are roaring at each other. Mine’s screaming, and his is booming like a war drum.
Closing the door behind us, he walks beside me, his hand trailing across my arm. I’m not sure if it’s by accident, but the sensation makes my panties even stickier and not with sweat.
Fantasies from last night return to me when I imagined him in my room, in my bed, his big fingers pressing against my sex, pushing it deep, knowing exactly what to do, how to make me crazy.
BecauseIwon’t know….
We walk into the main hall where he gave his speech the night we met. It’s empty now, all the chairs and tables tucked away.
“There’s an office upstairs,” he says. “Next to the bedroom.”
I pause, and he turns, a smirk on his face.
“It’s a small room for support when people want to stay overnight.”
“Oh,” I say, laughing dully. “For a second, Mr. Locke, I thought you were going to be inappropriate with me.”
“It would be, wouldn’t it?” he goes on, his voice gruff, deep. “Look at me, hair as gray as….”
“I think of it as silver,” I cut in.
He tilts his head. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
It’s because it’s not gray, not really.
It’s silver like the moon. It’s a powerful color, not faded at all, not old.
“The point is,” he goes on, “you don’t need to worry about an old man jumping your bones.”
“You’re not old,” I say. “Forty-one, it’s mature, experienced, but not old.”
“Still, age gaps can be difficult.”
He’s speaking in an ironic way. After a moment, I realize I’ve been doing the same. It’s like we’re skirting around this topic, almost like it’s a joke, but slowly I’m starting to think he’s not joking.
IknowI’m not.
“It doesn’t bother me,” I tell him honestly. “Not even a little bit. I hate immature boys my age. They’re so….”
Not you, I almost say.