“Why? You are a bartender.”
He spanks me again and I yelp, but I like it. I like his hands on me. “I’m a fuckin’ proprietor, there’s a difference.”
“Ooh, you’re kinky.”
I can’t believe we’re doing this.
I can’t believe we’re fucking doing this!
Logan Dawson is hauling me upstairs to his damn lair. Holy moly, have I done it now.
Luna won’t believe it. Willow, my other bestie and Haze’s ol’ lady, won’t either. I have been asking them nonstop if I should approach him at the clubhouse—not that I go there much, but there are always eyes watching, and I don’t want to be put in the same category as a sweet butt. Not that I would be, because unlike them I don’t hang around the club for free booze, sex, and food. I go there to hang out with my friends. Cash often throws work my way, and I’m on retainer for the club if and when they need it, but all of that didn’t happen overnight. The club trusts me, and I respect their values, not that many people do because they’re judgmental idiots who don’t know the difference between a legit club and a 1% one—yeah, I’m down with the biker lingo.
He turns the lights off with his elbow and opens a side door, then he’s trudging up the stairs as I protest and repeatedly tell him to put me down.
I’m still over his fucking shoulder when he asks, “Last chance to back out.”
“Not on your life,” I tell him.
He chuckles and I like the sound. I don’t often see the soft side of Logan. He’s a closed book, a lot like Brew, and nothing like Haze. I don’t know much about him because it isn’t like I can ask anyone except Willow, and the information is sketchy.
He’s a dark horse. Fiercely loyal. Mysterious. And he’s hot as fuck. Well, that’s a given since I’m slung over his shoulder as if he’s a caveman dragging me to his lair.
I may as well make the most of this opportunity because I can’t wait to see him naked. Just the thought of it makes me squeeze my thighs together, something I didn’t think I could still do standing up, but when he heads straight to what I assume is his bedroom, my pussy throbs.
I need this.
I need him.
This big ol’ mountain man/bar owner/biker.
People assume because I’m corporate that I’m attracted to men in suits, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I loathe guys in suits as a general rule, mainly because I’m surrounded by them every single day. I much prefer a man in uniform whether it be a cop or military, then there’s the construction guys. Holy fuck do I love a tool belt and a bad attitude, throw in a hard hat and I’m a panting mess.
But Logan? Logan is a different breed of man. His broodiness only adds to my interest in him.
Nothing about him is chaotic, and he’s not like most people. In fact, he’s like nobody else I’ve ever met.
The simple truth is I barely know anything about him, and Willow is married to his damn brother. What she knows about Logan—which isn’t much—she’s already told me and none of it isparticularly shocking. He’s a man who can’t be tamed, nor does he want to be.
He keeps to himself and is a workaholic—something I’m well aware of already. I even find his work ethic damn appealing.
More to the point, why am I so damn interested?
When he unceremoniously dumps me on the bed, I kick off my heels and scoot back.
He stands before me in the dark and I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on by a man’s silhouette.
“Blouse,” he says, his voice gruff. “Off.”
“Bossy much?”
My eyes linger down his body and I lick my lips. Man, to have my fill of him and his dick, that is going to be something.
“In the bedroom I am.”
“You first.”
He smirks, then fuck me if he doesn’t lift his t-shirt off and pull it up over his head, discarding it on the floor.
