That chocolate gaze zipped up to his—hard, resolved. No f**king way was she backing down. And cutting her off before she could credibly use her safe word had pissed her off. If she’d succeeded, how quickly would Thorpe hustle her out the door? PDQ, no doubt. Likely, Logan would never see her again.
He needed another tactic. How would Tara respond to his genuine desire for her? She might hate what he’d done to her in high school. But as he admired her body, Logan saw that didn’t stop her from wanting him. Hard pink ni**les stood up and beckoned. The plump lips of her pu**y glistened. Something about this—about him—was getting to her. Mentally, she’d write off his spanking as abuse and cast him in the villain role. But what if he gave her what he ached to? What he’d bet that her body, deep down, wanted as well? How long would those walls she’d erected between them last? Maybe then they could get to something honest so they could sort this mission out—and he could heal himself.
Logan gripped his thighs through his leathers. “Take my shirt off, Cherry.”
Her gaze went saucer wide, locking with his. That look sizzled him, settling down in his throbbing cock. He vowed to drink in the arousal burning through him. For as long as he had her, he was going to gorge on her every reaction—and anything else she gave him.
Tara pressed her lips together, clearly reluctant. He watched her steel herself, then lift her hands to the hem of his T-shirt. She trembled as she did her best to lift up the cotton knit with an impersonal thumb and forefinger, and he thanked God for the tight garment. It forced her to lay her palms against his abdomen and shove the shirt up his torso, dragging across his skin, over muscle, so near his ni**les. She brushed fire everywhere she touched. He repressed a shiver. When the shirt bunched under his arms, she stopped.
“What’s the problem, Cherry? Keep going.”
He knew full well it would force her up on her tiptoes, putting her face breathlessly close to his.
Raising up, Tara grabbed a handful of shirt and yanked.
Logan grabbed her wrist. “Slowly.”
Bastard! Her expression screamed it. Her fists clenched.
He did nothing to help her as she raised the white cotton, dragging it up one arm, then the other, her mouth a bare inch under his own. He could smell mint on her breath. And that cherry-vanilla scent he’d always known as hers wafted between them. His mouth watered.
Her gaze fell on the bold black tattoo she’d revealed, etched permanently on his ribs from armpit to hip.
Logan tensed. “You read Japanese?”
She shook her head. “What does it say?”
“Never quit,” he lied. The truth would freak her out.
Finally, she jerked the shirt over his face, then stepped back the instant the cotton cleared his head. That wouldn’t do.
With one hand, he grabbed the garment and tossed it to a far corner of the room. With the other, he latched his hand around her neck. “You never back away from me without permission.”
“You going to spank me again?” she challenged.
No way would he give Tara the perfect means to ditch him. “Lie down on the bed, back flat against the mattress, legs spread.”
Though she didn’t gasp or betray herself, her shock rippled across the tense silence. He could almost read her thoughts whirling as she wondered, worried, what the hell he was going to do.
“Cherry, is there a problem?” He repressed a smile and crossed his arms over his chest.
Slowly, Tara dropped one knee to the bed, then caught her weight on her outstretched hands. After a pause, she turned over, until her back hit the cool sheet. She hissed at the unexpected chill, arched, then settled.
Fuck, all that red hair spread out across black silk, along with the sweet purity of her pale skin. Incredibly, he got harder. His dick would have a permanent zipper imprint if he didn’t get his leathers off soon.
Tara was, no doubt, the fantasy he’d harbored all these years—only better. As a teen, she’d been a little shy. He’d never understood why she lacked self-confidence; from his perspective she’d had it all. Tara now knew who she was, wasn’t afraid to exert her independence. She was still clever and a bit of a mystery . . . but Logan still knew her, felt her.
Right now, her trembling apprehension and anticipation damn near stole his breath and strangled his cock. Shit, he’d better get himself under control and seduce her into quitting or obeying, or he’d forget his purpose and do whatever it took to steal her for himself.
As before, saving her life was more important than saving his heart.
“I don’t remember you ever having trouble following directions, Cherry. There’s one more part of the instruction.”
She had to be mad enough to spit nails. But she hid any anger or apprehension fairly well as she complied, slowly drawing her slender thighs apart, revealing the inside of her knees, the creamy expanse of skin up the inside of her leg. More . . . more, until the little birthmark appeared on the inside of her left thigh, exactly as he remembered.
Satisfaction roared through him. Rightness. No matter what happened, a part of him would always belong to Cherry—and she to him.
Finally, she eased her legs far enough apart to show every bit of the pink, swollen heaven he was dying to sink into. Sheer f**king orgasmic heaven awaited. He belonged there. Connected to her—skin, breaths, hearts.