Wild (The Ivy Chronicles #3)(28)

That finger landed in the center of my stomach, feather soft. He dragged the blunt-nailed tip down, then up and around. His other fingers joined in. So slow and barely there that a chill ran down my spine. My breathing grew harsh, a hoarse rasp, and I squeezed my thighs together against a familiar ache. This was so not a good idea.

He looked up at me from hooded eyes, braced over me like some sort of hungry beast. At least that’s how I felt. Like someone about to be devoured.

“Nothing?”

I shook my head, afraid to speak.

He clucked his tongue. “That’s too bad. I guess I lose.”

A ragged breath shuddered past my lips. My right hand dug into the side of the futon like I was hanging on for dear life. Only he didn’t move away. No. His fingers continued to work a lazy pattern over my quivering skin.

I looked from his face to his hand, strong and tan, so much darker against the peaches hue of my skin.

He traced a fingertip over my belly, his expression intent and serious. Like he was doing important work.

I wasn’t even close to giggling. That was the furthest possibility. Moaning would be more probable. Begging him to keep touching? Check. Pleading with him to move his hand lower? Double check.

He bent his head and fixed his gaze on the flesh above my navel, moving his finger in a deliberate, precise manner.

My stomach muscles contracted and quivered. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Writing my name.”

And then I felt the letters there. His name written on my skin. L-O-G-A-N. As though he’d just marked me. Branded me for life. Yeah. Fitting, I supposed. That’s how I felt right now.

Poised above me, he relaxed his hand, lowering it to my stomach, splaying each finger wide against me. He lifted his gaze to my face, his stare deep and penetrating, the pupils hardly discernible against the dark blue of his eyes.

A muscle feathered in his cheek and I realized he was holding himself in check. Restraining himself above me. One word. One move and we would pick up right where we left off outside the kink club. He’d told me it was on me. All I had to do was say the word if I wanted this to happen between us. I just needed to open my mouth . . .

“I have to get up early,” I blurted.

He hesitated and then removed his hand. Settling back on the futon, he was relaxed and at ease again. “Then we better go to bed.”

“Yeah.” I grabbed the bowl of popcorn and swept into the kitchen with it. When I turned he had stripped off his shirt, treating me to the familiar, mouth-watering sight of his chest again.

I hurried past the futon and into the bathroom. Staring at my reflection, I brushed out my hair until it crackled and shone. My brown eyes looked both tired and exhilarated beneath my dark brows. This was the third night in one week that I had stayed up so late. My eyes looked bloodshot. And yet there was a flush to my skin and I was breathing hard.

“Get a grip,” I whispered to myself. Shaking my head, I made quick work of brushing my teeth. Taking a final look at myself in the mirror, I stepped out into the dark apartment.

“Need me to turn on the light?” Logan asked, his disembodied voice drifting from the futon.

“I can get to the bed.” I made my way without mishap to the bed.

Once under the covers, I curled onto my side and strained my ears for the sound of Logan stirring on the futon.

Clearing my throat, I called out. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, Pearls.”

My chest squeezed at the nickname. For some reason it didn’t annoy me at all. Not tonight. It felt more like an endearment. I brought my knees to my chest, curling into a tight ball and biting down hard on the fleshy pad of my thumb, fighting the urge to invite Logan into bed with me.

It was going to be a long night.

By some miracle, my exhaustion won out and I fell asleep, waking again to an empty apartment.

I sat up in the bed, blinking my eyes in the morning light and staring at the futon, seeing Logan there as he was last night, desperately trying to tickle me, tracing his name on me like some painter immortalizing his name forever on a piece of art.

My hand drifted to my stomach, convinced I still felt his name there.





Chapter 10

MAY SLIPPED INTO JUNE and summer arrived.

Logan didn’t ask to crash at the apartment anymore, and I tried not to wonder why. According to the shift schedule, he was still working. He just wasn’t knocking on my door at the end of the night. Maybe it got too weird that night he wrote his name on my skin. Despite the chemistry between us, I wasn’t going to sleep with him. Maybe he decided he already had one female friend and didn’t need another one. I did force him to watch a chick flick and then sleep on a bumpy futon. Whatever the case, the days passed without any more encounters and I told myself it was for the best.

With the advent of summer, I didn’t need a jacket in the evenings anymore. Not that I was out too much at night. The mornings were still chilly though when I stepped outside Mulvaney’s into the smoky blue predawn for my morning runs. But by the time I finished my newly amended route that cut through a nearby park rather than campus, I was sweating and the crisp air felt good on my skin.

I developed a new summer routine. After my runs, I showered and headed to campus. I worked in the library through the afternoon. Usually by myself. I hadn’t seen Gillian since our first meeting. Sometimes Connor would join me, although he wasn’t tasked with compiling statistics. I didn’t mind his company. Working on research was a solitary task, and his presence kept me from getting lonely. There were several more coffee dates at the Java Hut, and I guess they were dates because he always paid.