Page 50 of Snared Rider

“I really am going to kill that fucker.”

Not if I get there first.

Logan strips out of his zip-up hoodie and seizes his t-shirt at the back of his neck. Then, he drags it over his head in one sexy as hell motion. I blink as his chest comes into view.

Oh, hell.

I knew Logan was built, but I did not know how built. His muscles have muscles. He’s also a walking, talking canvas. Running down both arms and part of his chest are colourful tattoos and my gaze is drawn to them all. However, it’s on the phoenix my eyes stop. It’s a gorgeous wash of colour, and it covers most of his arm and shoulder.

“See something you like?” His amused voice has my gaze snapping to his face as heat infuses my cheeks.

Busted.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean…” Fuck. Stop talking. “I’ve just…” I take a steadying breath before saying, “Your tattoos are amazing.”

He glances down at his chest. “Yeah, they’re pretty cool, I guess.”

I snort. “You guess? That phoenix looks like it could literally fly off your skin. Is there a story behind it?” I know a lot of the brothers have tattoos and most have meaning—Dad included; all his tats are special to him. Logan is already building his canvas.

He gets a weird look on his face I can’t place until he speaks. “I got it to remind me of my father.” And I realise what that look is: grief. I hate myself for putting it on his face.

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.

He shrugs and holds the T-shirt out to me. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

Timewise, yes it was, but emotionally it might as well have been yesterday. His pain is written clearly all over his face.

Logan’s father was killed in a car accident, of all things. In our lifestyle we expect brothers to die on their bikes, not driving cages. Logan was maybe eleven or twelve-years-old at the time and had been with him when they were hit by some idiot drunk-driver. Frank Harlow died instantly. Logan was messed up for months. The scar running through his eyebrow is a constant reminder of how close we came to losing him too.

“Anyway,” Logan clears his throat, “the phoenix just resonated with me, you know?”

I don’t know, but I nod anyway because I don’t want him to see me as the little girl he thinks I am, the unwise girl who let a boy drive her hundreds of miles from home and got into a mess as a result. He thrusts his top at me again, urging me to take it. “Wear this.”

“What’re you going to wear?”

“Don’t worry about me, darlin’.”

But I do worry about him. I worry about Logan all the time. He’s always in my mind. I don’t say this because I don’t want him to think I’m nuts.

Instead, I head into the bathroom and get changed. As soon as I slip his T-shirt over my head I know it’s a mistake. It smells like him, and being encased in everything Logan Harlow is torture. I almost rip it off my body, but the intimacy of being in his clothes stops me.

I smooth the top down my thighs, wincing at how much leg is exposed. I feel nearly naked. Still, it’s better than sleeping fully clothed—or in my underwear. Besides, it’s not like Logan will be looking at my legs. He sees me as a sister, nothing more. It’s all in my head, not his. To him, this is innocent; to me, it’s a dream.

I do my best to clean the makeup off my face although it takes longer than it should using only soap and water. When I head back into the room, Logan is under the covers, his jeans and hoody tossed on the chair.

Is he… is he naked?

Holy shit.

I hesitate, not sure what to do, but my indecision is enough to catch Logan’s attention. His eyes come to mine and I see something in his gaze, something I’ve never seen before as he takes in my body.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and I don’t know what that means either. All I know is the way he’s looking at me is making every inch of my body take notice.

“Do you… do you want me to change back into my stuff?”

I know I don’t have the best figure; I’m not skinny and I have more than a little extra padding on my hips and bum but the way he’s looking at me I can’t help but squirm under his scrutiny. No one has ever looked at me like this. Not Ryan, not any of the boys I’ve dated. It’s pure, carnal desire.

My breathing quickens as I stop at the side of the bed, uncertainty clouding my thoughts. Do I get in? Does he want me to get in? What happens if I do?

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