“This is not what the picture looked like,” I remind him.
He smiles, “But this way I can kiss you,” he leans into me. “And I can watch you,” he says quietly.
A moment later his solid member sinks into me and I whimper into his mouth. He’s got a good point about watching, I admit to myself, immensely enjoying the tense but satisfying look that overcomes his face as he feels me from the inside. He pushes his body more firmly against mine, bucking his hips upwards so that he’s deeper than he’s ever been before. He feels phenomenal! Our mouths are open against one another, our breathing laboured, our eyes unfocussed.
“What is it about this window that makes everything feel so damn good?” I whisper.
Logan smiles again but the time for talking is over. I lunge at him, forcing my tongue against his at exactly the same moment that he starts moving his hips against mine. I forget entirely about the cold glass, all I can fathom is Logan: the taste of his fresh breath, the exquisite force that he penetrates me with, the low and airy groans of his gratification, and the strong pressure that is already beginning to build inside of me, slated for explosion.
My legs are wrapped tightly around his waist, but as he continues thrusting into me, he reaches around and unhooks them, instead pushing my knees up towards my chest. The result is that I feel him deeper still and I call out loudly and repeatedly as he picks up the pace.
“
Logan
,” I moan. “
Don
’
t
drop me.” If he does I’ll end up with a broken coccyx.
“Never, baby,” he pants, before screwing up his face in primal, carnal enjoyment. “
Ah
,
Gemima
,” he cries.
The feel of him, the sight of him, and the sound of him are overwhelming. Anyone of those three things would be enough to bring me to orgasm, but all three of them combined sends me to the edge of the precipice in under a minute. As we both teeter, so close to release, Logan speeds up, thrusting into me so fast, his face buried into my neck, his groans muffled, as I tilt my head back, mewling effusively.
“Baby…
baby
!” I cry, my voice shrill.
My legs start trembling when I hear it: that fucking ping of the elevator!
Not again
, my mind screams.
Logan hears it too, instantly freezing in his actions, which leaves both of our bodies shaking profusely, protesting against the sudden stop in movement. We’re too far around the corner to be seen or to see who the intruders are, but they make themselves known quickly.
“Do you suppose they’re still asleep?” Mary-Gene says.
“They’re probably in the shower,” Rupert replies.
“The shower,” Logan pants. “What a good idea.” He releases his hold on my legs, which I’m quick to wrap around him once more, as he pulls me away from the window and, still joined, we hurry back into the bathroom, me throwing the door closed behind us.
Stopping would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it, I think. Calling it quits, and going out to say good morning to his parents would be our best option. But we do not, we cannot. Logan turns on the shower, but it’s just for noise, just for distraction. We end up where we started, me nestled on the edge of the vanity, my legs wide and Logan standing between them. There’s just one difference — he’s buried inside of me.
“We should stop,” I say to him, my breathing extremely ragged.
“Of course,” he agrees.
Neither of us makes a move to end our union, neither of us really wants it to end. Logan pulses inside of me, each infinitesimal movement pushing me that little bit closer to orgasm.
So
close. But my body is so full of tension, far more than yesterday when Mercy nearly sprung me, that I don’t know if I even
can
come anymore. Logan looks down at me impassively, and all I know is that I want to try.
My hands return to his backside and I squeeze him. Half a second later he thrusts deeper into me and I whimper in ecstasy. OK, this’ll be easier than I thought, I realise quickly.
Logan’s mouth swoops down over mine. “We’ve gotta be quiet, baby,” he breathes, and I nod, silently promising him that I’ll do the best that I can.
I rest back on my hands, letting my head hang back as he starts taking me once more. Oh,
fuck
! How can I stay silent when I’m feeling
this
good? My breathing is so erratic and grows even more so as I inch closer to my release.
Ah
,
Logan
! Keeping everything so pent up makes me feel like I might pass out, but I don’t, I stay with it until my legs are shaking.
“Logan, hurry up,” his mother calls from the other side of the door.
I’m sure in hindsight I’ll find this funny, I tell myself vaguely, but right now I can’t. I’m too filled with adrenalin.
“Coming,” Logan calls back, as casually as his voice allows him.
“Bad, bad,
bad
choice of word,” I whisper to him.
He laughs into my mouth, his hips working furiously against mine. “Ladies first, Gemima,” he whispers back.
His words undo me. Inside, I tighten spectacularly around him, causing him to buck forward, his body shaking violently as he’s coaxed into coming. Pleasure surges through every cell of my body as my orgasm claims me, and I let out a silent scream, releasing all of my pent up energy as I quiver on the vanity.
Breathing heavily, Logan leans forward to kiss me, looking supremely satisfied. He then pulls out of me and stands under the shower for all of five seconds, just to give his parents the illusion that that’s what he’s been doing. His body twitches as he washes himself clean, his penis still so sensitive.
I watch him in awe, as my breathing slowly regulates. I’m exactly where he left me, legs spread and leaning back. Logan looks through the water rushing down his face and smiles at the sight of me. I love that we have exactly the same reactions to one another, we really are just as bad as each other.
Stepping out of the shower, Logan kisses me again, smiling, “Thank you for climaxing quietly in front of my parents.”
I crack up, bursting into laughter, ridding my body of even more tension. “You’re…you’re so welcome,” I stammer.
“Take your time, baby,” he says, walking towards the door and pulling a bathrobe from the back of it.
Before stepping outside he waits for me to leave my station and step into the shower, just in case someone is lingering on the other side of the door and might see me. Fortunately, no one’s there. Logan disappears to play host, and I stand, fully sated, under a torrent of warm water.
* * *
Five minutes later I walk into the living room fully dressed. Despite Logan’s words, I’ve never showered and dressed so quickly in my life. My manners won’t let me keep his parents waiting, though it’s not just his parents who are here.
Around the dining table with a steaming cup of coffee apiece, sits Logan, his parents, and his brother. Suddenly nerves fill me.
The infamous Taylor George is in the building
. I hurry through the living room, comically dodging the sofas and the chimney flume, and stumbling over the length of my pantsuit, whose legs are too long for me when I don’t have my heels on, in order to reach them quickly.
All three men stand when I approach the table, taking me by surprise, though the look on Mary-Gene’s face tells me that this is normal behaviour. They’re southern gentlemen, I remind myself.
“Good morning,” I smile at his parents.
“Gemima,” Rupert nods in greeting.
“G’morning darlin’,” Mary-Gene beams at me.
Any minor suspicions lurking in the back of my head that Logan and I were overheard are eradicated as I take in her joy at seeing me. However, I immediately note that I don’t like housing this sort of suspicion, it’s embarrassing, and yet there have been three incidences in the last twenty-four hours to cause it.
We should cool our fire
, I think, turning to face Logan and his brother, but taking in the sight of him in that bathrobe I know instantly that that will be a lost cause. I can’t cool the flames of desire that I constantly feel for him, nor do I want to.
I instinctively take ahold of Logan’s hand as he steps to the side slightly, so that I can access Taylor. It’s remarkable how similar they look, despite their age difference. They have the same colour hair, the same shape of face, and the same tall, broad structure, but regardless of these similar features there is something quite great that sets them poles apart: their eyes. It’s not their colour — Taylor’s are a very dark, forest green — but the way they stare out of them that makes the brothers different. Just like Logan told me, Taylor looks dissatisfied, pissed off, like he’d really rather be somewhere else. He surveys me with a mixture of disdain and curiosity, as if both wondering who his brother’s new girlfriend is, while also looking like he doesn’t give a fuck. I abruptly realise that I could be royalty and Taylor would still look down on me, like he is right now, simply because I choose to be with Logan.
Buddy’s words ring through my head about he and I being allies against Taylor and his lack of respect of Logan. I haven’t even said a word to him, and yet I already feel like Buddy will be right.
“Hello, Taylor,” I force myself to say, holding out my hand, a polite smile slapped across my face.
“Gemima,” he nods like his father, smiling back, though his smile doesn’t reach his eyes; not like Logan’s does. He shakes my hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too. How’re your family?
Where
are your family?” I add.
“Still asleep, we got in very late,” he reminds me.
Everyone sits down, Logan pulling me naturally onto his lap. It doesn’t escape my attention that he shifts me to rest on the knee that’s furthest away from Taylor. He’s not aware of doing it; at least, not consciously.
“You look nice,” Logan mutters into my ear, his chin on my shoulder, his eyes roving my outfit, my favourite pantsuit.
“Thanks, baby,” I say, kissing his cheek. “How’re you this morning?” I ask his parents, taking a sip of Logan’s coffee.
“Ready and raring to go,” Mary-Gene tells me. “We’ve just popped in to say happy birthday. We can’t stay long,” she adds hastily, “I want to be at the Louvre when it opens.”
“For your fifth visit?” Logan teases her.
“Our ninth,” Rupert sighs, less than enthused by the idea.
“It’s only for a few hours, Rupey,” she tuts, “then we’re meeting you for lunch, right, sweetheart?” she checks with Logan.
“Yes, twelve-thirty. Are you joining us?” he asks Taylor.
“Sure,” he nods again. “They should be awake by then,” he says, throwing a look across the road at the hotel, where he’d obviously rather be.
“Gemima, you’ll be there?” Rupert assumes.
“I’d love to be, but I have to work this lunchtime,” I say regretfully. And spying the clock in the kitchen, I realise that I have to leave immediately to avoid being late.
I say a rueful goodbye to Logan and his family. This is the only flip side of our impassioned morning — running late for work is fast becoming my daily routine, though I tell myself if I’m going to get fired, there’s literally no better way to go about it.
Today more than other days, however, I have other cause for being in trouble with Amélie given that I didn’t complete the project report last night, which I’m sure she’ll be anticipating I hand in first thing.
This results in me spending the entire morning trying to blend in with the office furniture in case Amélie should walk by, and whenever I get that distinct feeling of her presence nearby I pick up the phone and pretend to be listening to a client speak. My fear of her legendary tantrums is sad, I know, but it’s also very real. At lunchtime, I rush out of the building with my laptop underarm, feeling so preoccupied that I nearly get rundown by a bevy of tourists on Segways.
I hide myself away in the back corner of a nearby cafe to finish the report. After about ten minutes of minimal progress, I spot Rosita, Amélie’s personal assistant, standing at the service counter and it’s only after I’ve ducked low in my corner booth that I realise how completely ridiculous I am being.
Stop it
, I chide myself, straightening back up.
Nobody likes a scaredy
-
cat
,
Gemima
.
Pushing my fear of Amélie to one side, the next ten minutes are very productive, and I’m almost finished when my phone vibrates on the table, distracting me. It’s a photo message from Logan. I tap it and impatiently wait for it to load.
Underneath it reads:
*Lunch with my family.*
The photo becomes clear and I can’t help cooing, “
Aww
!”
The six of them — Logan, Mary-Gene, Rupert, Taylor, and his family are seated around a table in what looks like a lovely courtyard cafe, smiling for the camera. I study them as a whole.
Jeez
, they’re a good-looking family. My eyes linger on Taylor for a moment; the only person whose smile, again, looks insincere, which sends a flicker of annoyance through me. Then Logan steals my attention, his eyes shining as he conveys absolute delight in lunching with his family on his birthday. His smile brings out my own, and I find myself zooming in on the photo to focus solely on him. He’s so gorgeous, so effortlessly sexy, and so genuine in his happiness. This morning he told me that my inhibition is inspiring; well, so too is his free-flowing charisma. The joy he exudes, at all times, is contagious, infectious, and I’ve never been happier to be contaminated.
Another photo arrives, this time of him and his niece.
Oh my
! For some inexplicable reason his sexiness increases tenfold. The accompanying message reads:
*This is Abby. She says she’s the most excited to meet you.*
Then another message comes in, saying:
*Mom told me to send the pic of my niece and I. She’d seemed to think you’d enjoy it, saying something about women liking pictures of “men and babies”…?*
I laugh out loud. I can definitely get on board with the way his mother thinks. I type back:
*You have such a beautiful family, Logan! Please tell Abby that I can’t wait to meet her as well, and MG is 100% on the money ;)*