Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
He chuckles, touching his face again as if to confirm it’s still there. “Nah, I’ll take it off in the spring. I just wanted one better than Jack’s. It’s better than his, right?”
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
“I could use one that isn’t from my mother.”
I laugh. “Fine, it suits you.” I add after a beat, “And it’s better than Jack’s.”
“I can’t wait to tell him.” Logan chugs half a glass of water, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the hard swallows. I remember having my mouth on that very spot, along with so many other spots on that perfect body of his. Heat rushes through my core. It’s impossible for me to be around him for any length of time without this yawning ache growing.
“So, you really think it was Robbie?”
“Huh?” I fix my ponytail while I quickly regain my composure. “I mean, he’s the most obvious person and the first one I’d talk to.”
Mischief twinkles in Logan’s eyes. “Come on, Em. Relax. It’s just me.”
“There’s never been anything ‘just’ about you.” And I guess some things don’t change, not even with so many years gone by. He’s always been able to read me like he has an Emery how-to manual.
“You’ve gotta stop looking at me like that.” There’s a mixture of a plea and longing in his voice.
“Or what?” I don’t mean it to sound like a challenge.
He cocks his head, his eyebrow arching.
My heart starts racing. I’m acutely aware how close his bed is. “Isla’s game is about to start.” I duck past him and cut across the room to settle on the couch. “Let’s see if I can do this.” Isla taught me how to cast on our television at home, but each one is different.
“Sorry, I can’t help.” Logan drops onto the other side of the couch. “I keep locking myself out of my phone. I have to ask my twelve-year-old nephew to fix it for me. We can probably call Thomas.”
I fiddle with the settings until finally I manage to link it to my phone. The live stream to Isla’s game comes on just as she wins the first face-off.
“She really loves playing, doesn’t she,” Logan says.
“Yeah, she does.” I reach back to work at the knot in my neck. “It’s not as good as watching it live, but it’s better than not watching at all.”
“You’ve been doing that all day.”
“Hmm?”
He juts his chin toward my hand where it squeezes.
“I’m fine.”
A few beats pass and then he orders, “Come here.” Before I know what’s happening, Logan’s moving in to grip my hips and lift me over his lap, fitting me between his thighs. “Where is it … here?”
I stiffen instinctively as his fingertips prod. “Yeah, around there.”
Sweeping my hair over my other shoulder, he sets to work, kneading at my muscles with surprising skill.
My eyes close as I revel in the relief. I can’t recall the last time someone touched me like this and I didn’t pay for it. Dillon tried working out knots but often complained after a few minutes that his hands were sore.
A groan of contentment slips out of me. “I don’t remember you being good at this when we were together.”
“Yeah, I was too busy trying to get my hands under your shirt.”
I snort. “And you’re not now?”
“I didn’t say that.” He chuckles, his admission stirring my pulse. “I’ve just learned how to play the long game.”
“I’ll say.” I focus on his touch. “Seriously, how did you get so good at this?”
He hesitates. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone, but I had this cellmate. Bruce. We had a deal where, if he gave me half his dinner, I’d rub him down every night—”
My head snaps over my shoulder to meet his gaze.
Logan’s expression holds for one … two … three seconds before a wry smirk curves his lips. “I never had a cellmate. We were mostly singles.”
“Oh God, you’re making prison jokes.”
He juts his chin at the TV. “Stop distracting me. I’m trying to watch Isla’s game.”
I return to it, but I struggle to pay attention, my focus on Logan’s strong hands as they work slowly and methodically over my back, my shoulders, my arms, my neck. As soothing as his ministrations are, I keep letting my mind wander to a place where his hands are sliding under my sweater, over my breasts, down the front of my leggings.
Until it’s all I can think about. By the time the second period is over and the teams skate off the ice to allow for a flood, my breathing is shallow.
“Better?” he murmurs.
“No,” I lie.
He laughs. “You want me to keep going?”
Yes. My lips part, but I can’t force the single word out because I know where it’ll lead.
“It’s just you and me in here, Em. No one else. We can be whatever you need us to be out there, but right here, right now, it’s just us.”