Exposed (Madame X, #2)(63)

Logan takes the bottle and does the same, drinking the same amount as me and chasing it with beer. And then he does something truly strange. He lowers himself to the couch, sets the whisky and his beer on a side table, and drapes my feet onto his lap, tossing my shoes to the floor. Lifting one of my feet and cupping it in his palms, he digs his thumbs into the arch of my foot, immediately eliciting a moan from me.

“What are you doing, Logan?” I ask.

“Giving you one of life’s greatest pleasures: a foot rub.”

It is incredible. I don’t want it to ever stop. It is intimate, so pleasurable it is nearly sexual. His thumbs press firmly in sliding circles over my arch, into my heel, the ball of my foot, and then his fingers crease between each of my toes and I giggle at the tickling touch. After a brief pause to sip beer, he gives my other foot the same treatment.

And then his fingers dimple into the muscle of my calf, kneading it in circles and from one side of my leg to the other. Higher, higher, near to my knee, and the massage becomes all the more intimate with every upward inch. The stretchy cotton of my dress is draped over his hands, one of which is holding my leg at the ankle, the other massaging my calf.

I’ve forgotten my beer; I take a pull, then peer at him. “This feels amazing.”

“Good. You need some amazing things in your life.”

“There’s you.” I didn’t mean to say that; whisky loosens my tongue, it would seem.

Logan doesn’t laugh at my faux pas. “One might say I’m a bad influence on you.” He hands me the whisky, and I take it, down two swallows, and immediately chase it. “Case in point: I’ve got you chasing whisky with beer.”

“That is true,” I say. “Very true, indeed. But I don’t mind. Mainly because your brand of bad is always so good.”

This earns me a laugh. “I’m glad you think so.”

His touch shifts from right leg to left, and it’s impossible to think of anything but his hands on my leg, the way his fingers dig into the muscle and the smooth skin just beneath the back of my knee. The intimacy of it, the way I wish and want, in the dirty places in my mind, for his touch to slide upward, even though I know that’s the worst thing that could happen right now.

“Hungry?” he asks.

I nod sloppily. “Yes. Very. Veryvery.”

“You’re drunk,” he says, laughing.

“I am. Yes indeed, I am drunk. Aaaaaand I like it.”

I also like this spot on the couch. It’s comfortable, cozy. The couch has swallowed me, sucked me in.

“Good. That was the point. Didn’t take much, though, did it?”

“I don’t really drink very much, or very frequently. Caleb kept me . . . healthy.”

“Well I’ve got something unhealthy and delicious for you. Just hang tight.” I hear plastic crinkling, silence, and then the microwave door open and close, the gentle hum of the microwave heating something. I’m curious, but far too pleasantly and comfortably drunk to make the effort of looking to see what he made. I smell it after a moment, but can’t identify it.

He plops himself down on the couch beside me, a ceramic plate in one hand, two more beers in the other. He takes the bottle out of my hand—I hadn’t realized it was empty, nor do I remember finishing it—and replaces it with the full one. I take a sip, and it is, like every sip before it, delicious. But then I smell the food. I don’t remember the last time I ate. The plate holds chips, yellow corn chips with cheese melted on them, liberal glops and strings and pools of orange cheese piled high on triangular white-yellow chips.

I try one; oh. Oh my. OH MY GOD.

“Wha-is-this?” I ask, my mouth full of chip and cheese.

He laughs. “It’s like feeding an alien. I swear you’ve never had any good food. It’s nachos, man. Cheesy chips. Best drunk or stoned food there is.”

“Except pizza,” I add, “and chicken shawarma.”

“And potato chips.”

“And beer.”

“Beer is very, very important,” Logan agrees. He reaches for a chip, but then stops and laughs. Apparently I’ve eaten them all. “You are hungry, aren’t you?”

I stare at him, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pig out.”

Logan just shook his head, laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous, and don’t apologize.” He reaches up and tugs a lock of my hair. “You want something else?”

I just nod. I can’t believe I ate all that already. It was a big plate full of chips. “Yes, please.”

He heads toward the kitchen but then stops and leans over the back of the couch, resting his chin on my shoulder. I want very badly to kiss him, his cheek, his mouth, his temple, his anything. I don’t dare.

“You ever have a P-B-and-J?” he asks.

“A what?”

“I’m guessing that’s a no. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

I shrug. “Not that I remember.”

“Comin’ up then. You’ll love it. Another staple food. I lived on P-B-and-J growing up. Still a go-to when I don’t know what else to have.”

He returns in a few minutes with four sandwiches, two for me, two for him. The first bite is . . . delectable. Crunchy peanuts, cool fruit jelly, soft white bread. I finish the first one in moments. I’m halfway through the second when it hits me.