When You're Ready (Ready #1)(36)

My hand wandered down my body, becoming bolder with every touch and caress of my skin. Moving down my hips and slowing working back up, I grasped my aching br**sts, pinching the sensitive ni**les and rubbing the tips. Need blossomed in my belly, making my movements bolder. Would it feel this way if Logan touched me here? Needing more, my hand descended to the juncture of my thighs, spreading the tender folds with my fingers. My heart was racing, and my breath became ragged in anticipation. Knowing Logan was in the next room, mere inches away, drove me further, my fingers slipping into my tight, wet core. My knees suddenly weakened from the contact, and I braced myself against the shower wall with my other hand. My fingers brushed my clit, oh God, it felt glorious.

For a split second, I worried that Logan might hear me, but the new, bolder Clare took over, and she didn’t care. I sunk my fingers in further, moving them in and out, rubbing my clit at the same time. My stomach muscles tightened, and I felt a familiar flutter begin to bloom deep in my pelvis. My fingers moved more quickly in and out as my mind replaced my fingers with Logan’s hard lean body.

“Oh God,” I moaned out loud.

Just when I thought I might pass out, I came, seeing stars as I called out my release. My knees finally gave way, and I sunk to the bottom of the shower in a mindless puddle.

Somehow, maybe years later, I managed to eventually stand and finish my shower. I couldn’t imagine what I just cost Ms. Thompson in water.

Completely sated, I finished my nightly routine, or what I could considering the lack of toiletries. I slipped into the borrowed night shirt and climbed into bed, utterly relaxed.

I was dreaming when I abruptly awoke, startled by a noise in my room. I kept still, listening intently. Suddenly, the floor creaked as if someone was walking toward me and I screamed. I flipped on the light next to me and found myself in an empty room.

“What the hell?” I swore.

I jumped again when there was a loud knock on my door.

“Clare, are you okay?” Logan asked, before barging in completely, concern clearly showing on his face.

He obviously left his room quickly when he heard me scream because he was wearing a pair of boxers. Only. And holy shit, the view was nice. My eyes roamed over his broad shoulders and chiseled chest. He had those sexy hip bones I loved on a guy that created a perfect “V” framing his tightly packed abs.

“Clare, are you all right?” he asked again.

Mmmm...Right. He said something.

“Oh, yes. Sorry, I heard a noise. It sounded like someone was in here. It freaked me out. Guess the ghost story got to me a little more than I thought,” I answered quickly.

“Oh, good. You worried me, I− what the hell are you wearing?” he questioned, noticing my night shirt for the first time.

“Oh!” Completely embarrassed now, I answer, “Ms. Thompson lent it to me so I wouldn’t have to sleep in my dress. Do you like it?”

The night shirt in question reached down to my knees and nearly swallowed my size four frame. It was periwinkle purple and had the words “#1 Grandma!” written in bright yellow script.

“It’s hideous,” he laughed.

“Yes, I know. What you have on is much, much better,” I added, continuing my leisurely journey up and down his body.

Taking a cocky step forward, he faltered before stopping himself altogether.

“I should go,” he said, keeping his feet glued to the floor, not taking a single step toward the door.

“Stay with me,” I pleaded.

I could see an internal war brewing in his brain.

“Just hold me. I don’t want to sleep in this room alone. If I hear another creak, I’m heading for the car,” I stated. And it was the truth. I loved old houses but I think Ms. Thompson might have ruined this one for me. Who knew I was scared of ghosts?

“Okay,” he agreed as he joined me under the blankets. His skin brushed mine, so warm and comforting. He wrapped his arms around me and I curled up onto his chest, throwing my leg over his, feeling cherished and secure. He smelled like the soap from the bathroom, clean and safe.

His hand absently ran up and down my back, causing me to shiver.

“What’s your father like?” I asked.

He hadn’t mentioned his father much. I knew they didn’t get along.

“The exact opposite of yours I suppose,” he mumbled, still stroking my back.

“Was there ever a time you got along? Did something happen?”

“My father isn’t like most fathers. He’s cold and calculating. When I was young, he set expectations and goals for me. I had a track and a plan. Private school, Ivy League and then some pre-approved career. Lucky for me, I loved medicine, which was a relief. I knew I’d rather do anything in the world than work for my father. As long as I followed the plan, I received his approval. Not praise. Just approval,” he explained, his words as emotionless as the man he was describing.

“When I married Melanie, she met his approval. She was from an approved family, had wealth of her own. When the divorce became public, my father basically disowned me. I haven’t spoken to him since. My father is all about image. And I tarnished that.”

He paused, as he often does in the middle of a memory, as if he was trying to find the words to express it properly.

“I moved down here to disappear. I realized I’d been living my entire life according to his predetermined plans, and I was done. With all of it. I wanted to find my own path, separate from my father’s expectations.”