Page 171 of Snared Rider

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Babe, I love you but no way can I give you this…”

My heart shatters at his words. I reach for his hand. “I don’t give two shits about money, Logan, and I don’t want this. I never did. This—” I wave my hand in the direction of the flat. “—is what Alistair wanted.” My hand goes to his neck and I pull his face close. “All I want is you.”

And that is completely and utterly the truth. I hate this flat. Alistair’s parents bought it and gave to Alistair when he turned twenty-one. I’m not going to lie, the building and décor is spectacular, and it really is, but it was never mine and Alistair’s; it was always Alistair’s.

“You’ve got me, Beth. Always.”

I lean over and kiss him. “That’s all I need. I’ll go up first, talk to him and then you can come up with the boys to move the stuff.”

Logan stares at me, then says, “No.”

“Logan!”

“You think I’m going to let that weaselly little wank near you?”

I roll my eyes. “Honey, I can manage Alistair.” I have, after all, managed him for years.

“I’m sure you can, but you’re not going to.”

I open my door and climb out of the van even as Logan does the same.

This man…

I love him, but God is he frustrating!

“I don’t need my hand held.”

Logan rounds the front of the van and comes to stand in front of me. His fingers cup my jaw and I momentarily forget what the hell we were fighting about as I meet his liquid brown eyes.

“I know you don’t, but my job is to support and protect you. I can’t do that if I’m banished outside, can I?”

That is a fair point, but he’s still wrong.

My resolve disintegrates further as his mouth moves to mine. He kisses me senseless, to the point where I’m clinging to his arms to keep my legs from folding under me.

Jesus.

Logan Harlow can kiss.

When he pulls away, I wobble on my feet.

“You can’t keep doing that,” I breathe, dropping my head against his chest.

“Doing what?”

“Kissing me to stop me fighting with you.” I raise my eyes to him and I wish I hadn’t because he disarms me completely with a full-dimpled grin.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not playing fair.”

He sifts his fingers through the hair at the side of my head. “Who says I need to play fair?”

“Do you two think you can put each other down for five bloody minutes?” Jem’s voice sounds from behind us and I twist to look over my shoulder. He’s hanging off the driver’s side door of the car he borrowed from the garage to drive down here. He’s smirking like a maniac.

Weed, who for some reason also came on this road trip, climbs out of the passenger side. His expression is one of confused disdain.

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