Her eyes search my face. “Are they really that bad?”
“Yeah. They genuinely suck. But I’ll protect you.” I bring her hand to my chest, letting her feel my heartbeat—still racing, still wrecked from her. “No more hiding. No more keeping you out. You want all of me? You’ve got it. Even the ugly parts.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I watch the emotions flicker across her face—surprise, relief, something soft and aching that makes my chest tight.
“OK,” she says finally. “This weekend.”
I help her sit up properly, smoothing her skirt down over her thighs with hands that are surprisingly steady, given how hard I still am.
“Now,” I say, “are you ready to discuss the project? Or do you need another orgasm first?”
She blinks at me, then lets out a startled laugh. “Is this how you’re going to handle all our arguments? Going all alpha Logan on me and making me come until I’m compliant?”
I consider this. “That depends. Do you like it?”
A grin spreads across her face—slow, wicked, absolutely devastating. “Yeah,” she admits. “It was fucking hot.”
“Then yes. This is exactly how I’m going to handle all our arguments.”
She laughs again, shaking her head, and pulls me down into a kiss. It starts soft, almost sweet, but within seconds it’s deepening, her tongue sliding against mine, her fingers threading through my hair. I groan into her mouth, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer to the edge of the table?—
She pulls back with a gasp, her eyes suddenly wide. “Oh God. Logan. There are cameras in here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
She smiles against my mouth. “Of course you will.”
Her hand finds my belt, tugging me closer. “But first,” she murmurs, “I believe you mentioned something about handling arguments?”
“Multiple orgasms until compliance. That was the agreement.”
“Then get back to work, Dr. Whitman.”
CHAPTER 23
Logan
Dominic’s place is a converted textile factory in Bucktown—three stories of exposed brick and industrial steel that he bought for a song ten years ago and turned into something that looks like it belongs in an architectural magazine. The ground floor is all workshop space: concrete floors, massive rolling doors, enough room for the various projects he cycles through when his brain needs something to do besides make money.
Today, he’s hunched over a 1973 Triumph Bonneville that’s propped up on a hydraulic lift, his hands deep in the engine compartment. There’s a socket wrench clenched between his teeth and a look of intense concentration on his face.
“Hand me the ten-millimeter,” he says around the wrench, not looking up. “Should be on the bench behind you.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Your footsteps. You walk like someone who’s never been in a fight.” He straightens up, pulling the wrench from his mouth and wiping his hands on a rag that’s already more greasethan fabric. “Also, I have cameras. Very high-tech. You’d be impressed.”
He stands, and I get a good look at him—faded jeans, a T-shirt that probably cost three hundred dollars but is just as covered in grease as his rag. Only Dominic could make motorcycle grease look like a fashion statement.
“Hey, lover boy.” He grins, tossing the rag onto his workbench. “How’s domestic bliss treating you?”
I open my mouth to give him a deflecting answer, something light and easy, but nothing comes out. I just stand there, hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of everything I came here to say pressing down on my chest.
Dominic’s grin fades. He studies my face for a long moment, and I watch the shift happen—the transition from casual friend to the guy who’s had my back since we met at Harvard.
“Shit,” he says quietly. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Everything.” I run a hand through my hair. “Audrey wants to meet my parents.”
