Logan (Wild Boys After Dark, #1)(13)

“Only of not seeing my family again.” He’d never admitted that to anyone, and as the words came, a lump formed in his throat. “Who are you running from?” he asked to distract himself from the painful memory.

She shook her head, closed her eyes.

“Okay.” He softened his voice, understanding just how deep her wounds went. “Are you running from the law, or for your life?”

She lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. He watched the skin on her neck pull tight as she swallowed.

“For my life.” A whisper.

A whisper that cut like a knife.

Logan lay on his side. He slid his knee up over her thighs and curled his left arm around her head, then leaned in close so his body blanketed the left side of hers, and he pressed his hand to her cheek, holding her face to his chest. He didn’t say anything at first. He wanted her to feel safe. His mother hadn’t wanted to share her fear with her sons after the attack that left her blind. Late one night Logan had relentlessly pursued the truth, peppering her with questions, and when she’d finally told him how she’d been too scared to call out for help and his father had risen from bed and charged the menacing burglar without fear—and the stranger had shot him twice in the chest, then savagely beat her, leaving her blind and barely breathing—he’d seen the fear come rushing back. That was three years ago, and Logan knew that although her fear had lessened, it would never fully disappear.

“Why?” he finally asked.

“I made a bad choice in a boyfriend.”

“What has he done to you?”

He felt wetness on his fingers and looked down at the tears slipping from her eyes. He brushed them away with his thumb and pressed his lips to her forehead. Seeing her like this made his chest feel tight and achy. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered feeling this way when his mother had confided in him. Anger born from the memory of his mother’s tears began to replace the ache.

“Your turn,” she whispered as she stroked his cheek.

Stormy’s voice brought him back from the memory.

Her hand was soft and warm, and her touch was tender as she ran a finger along his jaw, down his neck to his chest, hesitating for a few seconds at the scar over his right pec. She followed the thin white scar that mapped a path to the second, lower patch of marred skin. “This? Did you get it while you were a SEAL?”

He opened his mouth to lie, but no words came. He was usually so good at avoiding intimate questions. When women asked about his scars, he shrugged and said, Life’s a bitch. Sometimes it leaves scars. He didn’t want to feed Stormy that line. She was sharing her secrets, and he felt compelled to share his.

“No,” he admitted.

She pressed her palm to the scar and held his gaze. “How, then?”

His breathing came harder as the night he’d tracked down his parents’ attacker came back to him and played like a horror movie in his head. He wanted to run from the memory, from the tightening in his chest. He wanted to forget the way they’d had to pry him off the man’s limp body as he pummeled him with his fists while blood poured from the bullet wound in his gut.

He gazed down at Stormy again and saw the softening of the walls that had separated them only moments ago, and he wanted in.

“Getting a bad guy out of the way.”

“Did you get shot?” She pressed closer to him, as if she thought he needed to be comforted more than she did.

“Yes.” He tried to caress the tension lines from her cheek, but the more her eyes scrutinized him, the more pronounced they became.

“Were you scared?”

He dropped his head between his shoulders and closed his eyes for a beat.

“Terrified.” The admission felt like a thousand pounds had fallen from his shoulders.

“Of dying?” she whispered.

“No.” He raised his eyes to hers. “Of dying before I killed him.”

She stared at him then for a long time, and the air between them didn’t heat with passion the way it had been doing since they met, but it shifted. In those few seconds Logan felt his world tilt, their answers tethering them together. When she lifted her head and pressed her lips to his, he let her control the intensity, pulling her closer, wanting more of her, but not wanting to put any more fear into her head than she already had. She kissed him tenderly, planting soft kisses along his lower lip. He closed his eyes and lowered himself to his back, wanting, needing to be touched. She pressed her hands to his cheeks and slanted her lips over his, deepening the kiss, until it felt like salvation. She kissed him hungrily, and he met her efforts, as if they each could provide redemption to the other. Him from his past, her for a future. He couldn’t hold back. He wanted to claim that redemption, to claim her as his own. In one swift move he swept her beneath him and spread her legs with his knees, the tip of his arousal pressed against her swollen, wet flesh.

“Condom,” he breathed against her lips.

“I’m on the pill.”

He knew he should be worried about STDs, but he wasn’t. For the first time in his life sex felt like more than just a release, and he wanted to feel every bit of her velvety heat. He wanted to possess the woman who’d kissed him like he was hers—and damn did he want to be hers.

But he needed her to have peace of mind.