Taking a deep breath andanother sip of my hot chocolate, I braced myself.
“I owe you an apology,” Itold my half-melted marshmallow, assuming Logan would hear.
“For…?” Logan asked.
Right.
I’d made a lot more thanonemistake, hadn’t I? From firstimpression to coming after him with a riding crop.
“Lots of things, you’reright,” I said. “I was thinking specifically about kissing you, though. Ishouldn’t have done that.”
“You were upset,” Logansaid. “And tipsy.”
Tipsy.
Exactly. Not drunk. Not atthe point where I couldn’t havestoppedmyself, where I was too fargone to know that what I was doing was a bad idea.
I had dozens of excuses. Iwas lonely, I liked Logan, I neededsomeoneuncomplicated to comfort mefor a few hours.
None of them were goodenough. I knew better. Iwasbetter.
“That’s not an excuse,” Isaid. “You don’t have to be okay with it. You’re allowed to be mad at me.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “People get madat you a lot, huh?”
I opened my mouth to saymenlike you get mad at me, but that didn’t really feel true.
Men wholookeda littlelike Logan got mad at me. Clean cut men who wore dark colors and went to thegym and complained about being covered in glitter after they’d fucked me gotmad at me.
But Logan wasn’t quite likethem.
He had a spot of glitterunder his eye that caught the light every now and again. That had to have comefrom me.
“Yes,” I said instead, notup to explaining all that. “People get mad at me a lot.”
“Well,I’mnot mad at you,” Logan said. “Don’tworry about it.”
It was hard to believe hemeant that. Not because I thought he was a liar, but because no oneelseever meant it.
Logan, though… he had noreason to lie. He could walk away anytime. He could tell me I’d crossed aboundary and hewasmad at me for it, and he’d have every right to.
Did that mean…?
No. No, it didn’t mean he wantedto kiss me again, it just meant… he was being cool about it.
He’d been cool abouteverything else. Instead of wondering if that meant there was another makeoutsession in my future, I should have been grateful that he wasn’t about to leaveme.
“What if I worry about itquietly?” I asked, taking another sip of my hot chocolate. Itwasreally good.
I might even have tried itmade with goat’smilk, if Logan was in charge of making it.
“Don’t,” Logan saidseriously. “Man, I’ve beenshot. Blown up. Set on fire. Had a buildingcollapse on me. Trust me, I’ve had worse than a drunken drag queen kissing me.Gives me a story to tell later.” He smiled wryly.
My cheeks heated, but Isupposed that was the least I deserved. To becomea story.
Part of me even liked theidea of being a permanent part of Logan’s life like that. A storyhe told other people about this one client who wore lace panties and kissed himafter a party.
Hopefully, he’d have nicethings to say about me, too. I’d make sure he did.
