Wild: The Ivy Chronicles (8 page)

He angled his head. “Oh, she’s terrified,” he agreed.

I narrowed my gaze at him sitting so calmly at the table. Why was he looking at me so pointedly? Was he saying
I
was that girl in his story? I bristled, not liking the implication that I was terrified. Or of the analogy of me as a recently comatose girl.

“Sounds interesting. How does it end?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

My fingers tapped agitatedly against the edge of the counter. “Hmm. You’ll have to let me know.”

“I’ll do that.”

I glanced at the clock above the microwave. “It’s late.” I walked across the loft and plucked the throw and pillow off my bed.

“You sure you don’t mind me staying here again?” He moved to the futon.

I shook my head, smiling tightly. “It’s like having a roommate again.”
God
. Had I just compared him to one of my former
female
roommates?

As his hand reached behind his neck and grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one move, I swallowed a squeak and hurried from the kitchen to my bed. Yeah. There was no mistaking him for Em or Pepper.

Pulling back the covers on my bed, I couldn’t stop my gaze from straying to him again as he slid his jeans down his narrow hips, leaving him in snug boxer briefs, his male glory on display. He was a feast for the eyes. My hand dove for my lamp, twisting the knob and plunging us into darkness. I exhaled in relief. Out of sight if not out of mind.

“Good night, Georgia.”

His deep voice was a feather-stroke to my skin in the dark. I hugged a pillow close to my chest, squeezing hard, welcoming numbness into my fingers. “Good night, Logan.”

Chapter 9

I
T WAS A LITTLE
after midnight a few nights later when a knock came from downstairs. I was still up, sitting on the futon watching
Love Actually
. It was one of my favorite movies. Whenever it was on, I always stopped channel surfing and settled in to watch it for the umpteenth time.

I had started to nod off earlier, but something stopped me from getting up and going to bed. Okay, I knew what that something was. Logan was working tonight. I’d checked the shift schedule pinned to the wall downstairs and knew. He hadn’t worked lately, explaining the sudden end to his late-night visits. I missed our sleepovers and had been a wreck with nervous energy all day, wondering if he would put in an appearance. Okay . . .
hoping
. No sense lying to myself.

Hopping to my feet, I brushed my hands over my shorts and tank top like I was freeing them from wrinkles. The real clue that I was open to the possibility of seeing Logan again was the fact that I still had on a bra.

Inhaling a shuddery breath, I hurried down the steps.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Uh, this is the guitar police checking to see if you’re hiding any guitars in your closet.”

Rolling my eyes, I opened the door. “Funny.”

Logan stood there in his customary Mulvaney’s T-shirt and jeans with his customary grin. My chest squeezed and my skin pulled tighter. Every time I saw him it was like getting reacquainted with his hotness all over again. The memory and the reality of him never quite caught up.

“Hi,” he greeted, his deep voice sending a wake of goose bumps over my skin. “Would it make you totally uncomfortable if I crashed here again tonight?”

Yes
. “No.”

Turning, I led him upstairs, acutely conscious of him behind me. I could feel his stare on my butt and thighs.

I motioned to the futon. “I was just watching a movie, but I can turn—”

“No. I’ll watch it with you.”

I made a face. “You sure? It’s a chick flick.”

He shrugged and dropped down on the futon, stretching his long legs out and looking relaxed and at home as he draped an arm along the back of the couch. “My best friend is a girl, remember?”

“Yeah.” Rachel. I sank down beside him. “How’d that happen anyway? You don’t seem to be the type . . .” My words faded, revealing too much. That I thought about him. That I thought I knew what type of guy he was.

He looked at me for a long moment before answering. “When her brother died, her parents kind of forgot they were a family. Their marriage fell apart. They ignored her for the most part. I understood that. My mom was dead. My dad . . .” His voice faded. “I think you know about my old man from Reece.” I nodded. He didn’t need to elaborate. “We understand each other. I try to look out for her. The kink club . . . that’s been her thing.”

I snorted.

His lips twisted. “I’m not denying I haven’t had my fun moments there, but lately . . . Well, I can’t convince her not to go anymore.”

“She’s seems like a girl who knows what she wants.”

“No. She doesn’t, but she’s stubborn. So. There it is. ” He stared at the TV, watching Hugh Grant dance across the room like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “I can’t let her go there without me.”

I stared at him for a long moment, the reality of him sinking in.

Logan Mulvaney was a decent guy.
I mean, sure, he got his rocks off while he was there. I saw that for myself, but he didn’t need to go to a kink club to get laid. I went to his baseball game. I saw the girls there. The guy was like a rock star with groupies everywhere. He went to the kink club to keep an eye on Rachel.

I sucked in a breath, a little rattled from this revelation. It was hard enough to resist him when he was just a hot guy, but now he’s hot and decent.

“What are you going to do about next year?” I asked. “Are y’all going to the same college?”

He shook his head with a faintly sad smile. “I guess I have to let baby bird fly the nest and hope for the best.”

I propped my elbow on the back of the futon and studied him. I felt my forehead knit, wondering if he would really be capable of doing that . . . of letting go and not trying to save his friend. “Who knew?”

“What?”

A slow smile lifted my lips. “That you made such a good mother bird.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like how?”

“Your chocolate eyes all big. Like I’m some good, wholesome guy. I’m not. There are things about me . . .” His voice trailed off. He was no longer smiling. “I’m just not.”

I wanted to ask, to press, but I couldn’t bring myself to demand more information on the not-good-wholesome guy he was. We stared at each other for a long moment until the tension grew too thick and I looked back at the TV. I still felt his stare on my face, but pretended to be lost in the movie.

Eventually, he started watching it, too. Asking questions. We slid to the center of the futon, our shoulders touching as I caught him up on the various plot lines running through the movie.

“So they don’t even speak the same language at all?” he asked, pointing to the couple on the screen. “That’s just wacked.”

I shook my head. “No, that’s the beautiful thing about it. They fall in love anyway. They’re in sync without even knowing what the other one is saying.”

I glanced from the TV and back at him as I was explaining, freezing when I caught the curious way he was looking at me. “You’re a romantic.”

My cheeks flushed at the almost tender way he looked at me.

I shrugged. “Me and every other girl.”

He shook his head. “No. You’d be surprised how many girls don’t care about romance. Or love.” And then I remembered this was a guy who spent a lot of time at a kink club. I remembered his baseball game, too. The girls shrieking his name like he was some kind of teen heartthrob. Did they see him at all? Or just some hot jock with all the college scouts after him? A piece of meat they wanted to taste. Yeah, maybe Logan didn’t have a lot of experience with girls who believed in love and romance.

I turned back to the movie, uncomfortable with these thoughts and realizing I hadn’t been that different from those girls in the beginning either. I hadn’t seen beyond his good looks and reputation. “You want a drink? Snack?”

“I could eat.”

I went in the kitchen and popped some popcorn. Tucking a couple cans of soda under my arm, I returned with a big bowl.

We sat back on the couch and continued to watch the movie, munching on popcorn and chatting, covering a wide range of subjects. From why husbands always cheat with the secretary to why girls loved guys with British accents.

“It doesn’t matter,” I insisted.

“Oh. Come on. You can’t tell me that if I opened my mouth and started talking like Prince Harry girls wouldn’t drop—”

“You’re not a proper test case. Girls drop their panties
now
when you open your mouth,” I accused.

“Not every girl,” he shot back, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully at me.

“Oh!” I blew out an outraged breath and tossed a handful of popcorn in his face.

Chuckling, he grabbed a handful and hurled the stuff back at me. Buttery popcorn pelted me and my laugh twisted into a loud, indelicate pig snort.

At the sound, I clapped and hand over my mouth and nose.

“Oh, that’s nice.” He threw back his head, the tendons in his throat working as a deep belly laugh rumbled up from him.

I plucked a piece from my hair and flicked it at him.

His hand shot out and walked along my ribs. “C’mon. Do you always snort when you laugh. Let’s hear that again.”

I looked down at his hand and back at his face, arching an eyebrow. “Sorry. I’m not ticklish.”

“What?” He looked at me like I was crazy. “Everyone is ticklish.”

“Nope. Not me. I’m an anomaly. It’s a freak genetic trait. My mother isn’t ticklish either.”

“I bet you are,” he insisted, looking knowing and smug. And sexy as hell.

I shrugged and shook my head. “Nope.”

His eyes narrowed on me. “Well, let’s see then.”

I held out my arms, inviting him to tickle me again. “Go ahead. I won’t laugh.”

He stroked his chin, considering me for a moment like he was trying to decide his strategy.

“Come on,” I taunted.

“What do I get if I make you laugh?”

“You can sleep in the bed.” His eyes darkened and a flock of butterflies took off in my belly. I quickly added, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Well, that would be kind of dick of me.”

“Chicken.”

“Ohh.” He shook his head. “It’s on. Prepare to laugh.”

His fingers started at my ribs again and then drifted under my arms. Nothing. Well, nothing except that flock of butterflies in my belly got so seriously out of hand that I suddenly thought I might puke.

His wide eyes fixed on me with awe. “You’re not human.”

A burst of laughter escaped me and I held up a finger. “That didn’t count.”

He moved his head side to side as if deciding. “Debatable, but okay.” His fingers hovered clawlike over me.

I clenched my teeth, waiting for his touch again.

“I’ve got a new tactic.” He gripped the hem of my shirt and tugged it up.

I squeaked and grabbed his hand, stopping him.

“C’mon. Don’t be a prude. I can’t really tickle you properly through your shirt. That’s an unfair advantage for you.”

“You sure you’re not trying to get me naked?”

It was his turn to look offended. “I don’t resort to manipulation to get girls naked.”

Sighing, I released my death grip on his hand. “Fine. It still won’t work though. You’ll see.”

He pushed my shirt up, stopping just below my bra. He stared at my bare stomach for a moment, holding one finger aloft.

“Go on,” I said tightly.

He flicked me an annoyed glance. “Patience. I’m trying a different approach.”

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.