I peek at him between my fingers, cheeks burning hotter than July asphalt. “You areridiculous.”
“Just honest,” he drawls, with a cocky smirk.
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. And I hate how much Ilikethat he said it. That I’m still thinking about it. That I’m now very, very aware of theproblemtucked under those jeans.
My thumb grazes along the seam of his hand, just enough to say I feel it too. Just enough to saysoon.
His fingers tighten around mine, possessive and rugged.
The ride goes on, and it feels like every second is a countdown.
When the car finally pulls up to Logan’s hotel, the rain has slowed to a lazy drizzle, just enough to gloss the pavement and make everything shimmer under the glow of streetlamps. Logan thanks the driver with a quick nod, then opens the door and helps me out like a goddamn gentleman—which would be sweet if the way his fingers press into my hip didn’t make my knees go weak all over again.
I’m just about to follow him toward the hotel entrance when I glance to the right.
And freeze.
“No fucking way,” I murmur.
Because there, glowing like a neon invitation from the sex gods, is a 24-hour adult store. Tacky red signage. Mirrored windows. OPEN flashing like a dare.
Logan follows my gaze and grins. “Well, would you look at that.”
“Coincidence?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Fate,” he murmurs. “You ever been in one?”
I shake my head slowly. “Never.”
He takes my hand and tugs me gently in that direction. “C’mon, darlin’. Let’s go shopping.”
The bell over the door jingles as we step inside, and suddenly we’re surrounded by shelves of toys, silky ropes, leather cuffs, and lubes with names I can’t even say with a straight face. It smells like latex and trouble.
My cheeks flame. Logan looksentirelytoo comfortable.
“Okay,” I whisper, scanning the wall of restraints. “This is a lot.”
“If we’re doing this, we may as well do it right,” he suggests.
“I like the way you think.”
We pick up a blindfold—black satin, smooth as sin—and then nipple clamps, the kind with little, dangling silver chains. I shiver just imagining it.
Then Logan plucks something else off the shelf and holds it up with a wicked smirk.
A remote-controlled vibe.
“Oh my God,” I say, laughing and half mortified. “That’s evil.”
“That’s hot,” he corrects. “And I promise to use my powers responsibly. Mostly.”
I shake my head, still grinning, when something catches my eye. Tucked just beneath a display of riding crops and cuffs is a black nylon, under-the-mattress restraint system—four soft cuffs connected to adjustable straps, designed to disappear under hotel sheets like they were never there.
I hold it up slowly. “What about these?”
Logan’s pupils dilate. “Fuck, yes.”
His voice is a low growl now.
