She (19 page)

“He was a politician. Why?”

“Good,” I grin. “That means I can google him. You know, learn a little about him before we meet,” I explain.

“Today I’ve learnt of your affinity for that search engine. Why don’t you just ask me?” Logan suggests.

“Because you omit things out of bashfulness, like your birthday, and Google does not.”

“You want me to give it to you straight?” he asks.

“I want you to give it to me,” I grin. “Straight,” I add, and he smiles. “This’ll be great, I can congratulate your parents on having such an exemplary lover for a son.”

“Oh, you and your American Mouth,” he chuckles.

I smile back at him and wrap my arms around his neck, as his encase my waist.

“I never know what you’re going to say next,” he tells me. “It’s thrilling! And a little bit scary,” he concedes.

“Right back at you, Leary. You often surprise me,” I tell him.

“Do I?”

“Yes. Take last week, for example. I had no idea why you asked me out to lunch, and no idea what you were about to say.”

“Neither did I,” he confesses. “I had no plan…zero clue as to what to tell you. Should I tell you about when I saw you at the party? Should I tell you I’ve been thinking about you ever since?” He shrugs. “But you made it so easy for me, Gemima. You and your American Mouth,” he says again. “Which, by the way, has some delightful talents other than its surprising speech…”

“Whatever could you mean?” I say, leaning in for a kiss.

He bends his head down to meet mine, and our passion for one another takes over. I kiss him forcefully, thrusting my tongue against his.
Mmm
, Logan is such a phenomenal kisser! His hands slide back down past the opening of my skirt and grip my backside firmly, pushing my hips against his. He’s hard; I’m wet. We start moving towards the bed, slowly and clumsily. We get only half way when Logan’s impatience gets the better of him, and he lifts me up, wrapping his arms around my legs under my backside, and carries me the rest of the way. He lowers me onto the bed, following me down, and crushing me under his full weight. I love it! Beneath me the bed is soft and smells divine, like the rest of Logan’s clothing. I
must
find out the name of that detergent!

Our kiss deepens, as does my desire for him. I squeeze my hands between his chest and mine and start unbuttoning his shirt. I want him naked. He smiles against my mouth, his light-green eyes looking at me with the same carnal longing that I feel within. He sits up and hurriedly finishes unbuttoning his shirt before pulling it off and tossing it aside.

“Undress me, lover,” I say to him.

“It would be my upmost pleasure,” he replies with a mischievous grin.

I lift my hips off of the bed, so that Logan can pull my skirt down over my backside, and once he’s got it to my knees I lie flat and he pulls it off of me, effortlessly. Then he straddles my legs, his hands reaching for my panties. He pulls them away slowly, revealing my sex, and bends over to kiss me
there
once. I moan at the feel of his lips. The sound that escapes me does something to him, and he’s quick to get my panties off completely, and even quicker to move to my upper body.

“Sit,” he tells me.

I sit up and raise my arms, and in less than a second he has me rid of my top. I grin up at him; his enthusiasm for me is evident, and is such a turn-on!

I can’t wait any longer. I reach behind my back to undo my bra and am free of it a moment later. Then, slowly, I lie back down, my breathing becoming more and more laboured. I gaze up at him in a state of sexual anticipation. I want him
so
much! He moves to lie between my open legs, and I brace myself for something magnificent.

He leans over me, his penis lingering at my entrance, teasing me.

“I love making love to you, Gemima,” he says, his lips upon mine. “Fast or slow?”

Decisions, decisions…fast will get us there quicker…but slow will intensify the experience, if either of us have the patience for it.

“Slow,” I whisper.

“Gentle or hard?”

I give him command. “Surprise me,” I tell him, closing my eyes.

I feel him smile. “Lights,” he calls out suddenly, and the room goes dark.

Oh
,
yes
!

*

Logan gives me a tour of his home, starting with his walk-in-robe. It’s a simple, rectangular room with shelving and hanging space occupying three of the walls, and a tall chest of drawers against the forth. I notice the room is void of colour; the walls are white and most of Logan’s clothes that are on display are business attire. Lots of blacks, greys, and more white.

One door down, his bathroom is bespoke, pristine and gleaming. Again in here most everything is white, but for one beautiful abstract painting on the wall, and the red towels that hang neatly from various towel holders. I spy the toilet and note its lack of flusher. Then I steal a glimpse at the shower and sink faucets.

“Oh good, you’ve got fixtures,” I say. “So, it’s just the toilet you talk to, not the shower and sink too. Tap on. Tap off.”

He laughs. “Just the toilet. Toilet,” he says loudly.

The lid springs to life, rising up.

“Flush,” Logan then says, and the toilet obeys him!

“Strange little robot,” I giggle.

“You must’ve come across these kinds of gadgets in your line of work,” he says to me.

“Yes,” I smile, “but I’ve never come across someone who wanted them in their house before.”

Logan laughs again, and then reaches behind the door and pulls from a peg there, two white bathrobes. I take the one he offers me gratefully, covering my naked body. It’s too big for me, hanging all the way down to my ankles, whereas it stops on Logan mid-calf. But it’s warm and I snuggle into it.

“I have lots of gadgets,” Logan warns me, grinning.

“All voice activated?” I tease.

He considers. “Hmm, mostly, yes. Come, I’ll show you around.”

Back in the large open space we entered from, I get my first chance to have a proper examination of everything. It’s the part of my job that I take with me everywhere: no matter where I go, I examine, critique and form fast opinions on the design and decor. I can’t help it, it’s my natural reaction when looking around a new space for the first time.

Coming out of Logan’s bedroom quarters, there’s an open floor space, creating a sort of walk way from the front door, on my far right, to the classic French double doors, on my immediate left, that lead out onto a large rooftop terrace. Against the wall that leads towards the front door, is a huge red-metal shelving unit, which houses a state-of-the-art music system, along with a myriad of books, mostly about building and construction, though a notable collection of photography volumes stand out, too. There’s also a vast collection of CDs, as well as two large photo frames, which capture my attention. Both in classic silver frames, the first is of an older couple: Logan’s parents; and the second is of a man that looks a lot like Logan, a beautiful brunette and their blonde-haired ringleted child.

“Taylor and his family?” I guess.

“Yes. That’s Karen,” he points at the woman, “and that’s Abigail, my niece.” Then he indicates his parents portrait. “Mary-Gene and Rupert George,” he announces. “My saviours.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting them,” I tell him. And maybe just a little bit nervous.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your mom, too,” he says, unexpectedly.

“Uh, yeah…that’ll be great…” I try to lie.

“What?” he grins.

“She, uh, doesn’t really like men.”

“Is she gay?”

“No, what I mean is…she started the Lonely Hearts Party for a reason…the reason being she thinks all men are idiots,” I tell him quickly.

“Ah…I see. To be fair, a lot of men
are
idiots.”

“So are a lot of women.”

“True. How was she with Jerry?” he asks.

“Disdainful.”

“That seems sensible,” Logan smiles.

“True,” I repeat with a grin.

“Hmm,” he shrugs, “I’ll just have to win her over.” He says it like it’ll be no problem, and for most women it wouldn’t be. But
my
mom? I don’t know. She’s firmly set in her opinions ever since her last marriage broke up. Logan looks determined and I can’t help but smile at him.

I nod, and then turn around, facing the room to continue my examination. Across the open walkway is the living room arrangement: two long, comfortable-looking sofas positioned on a rectangular shag rug, with an elegant glass coffee table placed between them. The sofas are draped with throws and cushions. I narrow my eyes at them before turning my eyes on the window furnishings: beautiful, flowing white curtains tied at the sides. The whole look is suspiciously familiar…

“Has Amelie Clemence been here?” I ask him.

He grins sheepishly. “Yes,” he admits quietly. “I hired her to make it look better. In building, I know about everything from aggregate to vapour barriers, but I don’t know the first thing about putting pillows and blankets on sofas!”

I laugh. “That’s, uh, not a pillow, it’s a cushion.” I run my hand over the ‘blanket’ and tell him, “And this is called a throw.”

“Because you throw it over things?”

“Exactly,” I smile.

The sofas are positioned in an L-shape, angled towards a fireplace that hangs down from the ceiling and separates the living space from the dining space on the other side. The flue is a charcoal colour, and looks very space-age and cool. Logan is on trend, I note happily. The fire opens both into the living area and the dining area. There is, however, one problem…

“We can’t shag on the shag in front of this fire place,” I tell him. “It’s too high.”

“Fucking design flaw!” Logan shakes his head in disappointment. “I will call Amelie and complain first thing on Monday morning,” he jokes.

I’m struck by a sudden thought. “Why didn’t you hire me to pimp up your pad?”

“Is that what you are? A pimp?”

“You know what I mean.”

He looks at me considerately. “I thought about it, Gemima.”

I look at him quizzically, wanting more of an explanation.

“I decided not to,” he tells me needlessly.

“Obviously,” I tease. “But why?”

“Amelie was already under contract for the rest of the building,” he says, but I know there’s more. After a silent moment, he gives in, telling me, “
And
, back then, the thought of working with you so closely…scared me. I don’t think I would’ve been able to stop myself from hitting on you, and given that you were in a relationship and I would’ve been your client, it would hardly have been appropriate.”

I gaze at him lovingly. “I think you have much more control over yourself than you think you do. That last sexploit, for example…
Wow
!” I smile.

He smiles back at me, looking deliciously smug. Deservedly so.

We continue the tour, picking up the pace slightly, moving through both the dining area and kitchen quickly. In the dining area there is a sturdy-looking solid oak table, stained dark, with three matching chairs on either side. Above it hangs a rustic chandelier, and on it sits a large vase of fresh flowers. Mercy must’ve brought them in, I think.

The kitchen has shiny white cabinets that open to the touch, and is topped by a beautiful piece of blue granite. There are lots of fancy gadgets on the countertop, most of which I can’t comprehend just from looking at them. I do recognise one fancy thing, though: a tap that issues only boiling water, meaning Logan has no need for a kettle.

On the end of the granite counter, near the front door, lie two notes for Logan that neither of us spotted when we entered, our thoughts being somewhat preoccupied.

The first says simply:
The flowers arrived at lunchtime. Dinner is in the fridge. Heat it up this time, dear. Cold pasta isn’t good for you! I’ll pick you up on Tuesday morning to bring you home. Enjoy your weekend. M.

“
M
is Mercy,” Logan tells me, smirking at her words.

“I didn’t know cold pasta wasn’t good for you,” I muse.

He smiles. “I doubt it makes much difference, but Mercy is full of such sayings.”

If the flowers aren’t from her, then who? The second note is contained in a small envelope, the type that often accompany flowers. Logan quickly opens it and skims the brief note within. He grins and hands it to me to read.

Good luck on Monday. Don’t die. Mom and Dad. Xx

I laugh; my sentiments were the same this morning! Don’t die, Logan. Don’t. You. Dare! I get mad just at the thought, until he kisses the top of my head, takes my hand and pulls me towards the last part of the apartment I still need to see.

On the same wall as the red-metal shelving unit is an open door, again something I failed to see earlier. Through the door is a large square room that looks like a man’s den. The walls are a very dark purple; the one long sofa and two armchairs are dark brown leather; and the coffee table, sideboard and TV unit, which takes up an entire wall, are rosewood. The television is huge; the biggest I’ve seen, and it makes me think that this is
the
place for Logan and Buddy to watch their sports. Speaking of, the fuze-ball table that Logan told me about stands, invitingly, next to one of the walls. And directly across from the entrance is another door, leading into another room.

Logan leads me to it. Again, the door is open and we enter another square room, both lighter and smaller than the man’s den. This is Logan’s office. A rosewood desk takes pride of place in the room; the walls are cream; and a large skylight gives a clear view up to the stars. Around the walls are some string-shelving units with more books on construction and building; as well as a few filling cabinets, a photocopier, and, to my surprise, a large water feature.

Logan is studying my reaction. “You’re very quiet,” he says, hesitantly.