Page 70 of Two to Tango

I agree. Because that was the most amazing orgasm I have ever had in my life.

Chapter twenty-four

Julieta

Logan’s leg is wrappedaround mine when I wake up in the morning. His arm is draped across my stomach, a warm weight keeping me close. My body stirs, used to being up this early, even if I was up way too late last night. I’m in a post-orgasm stupor, some sort of bliss, when I look around the room and realize I'm still in the guest room. And then I notice he’s awake, too, and he’s smiling.

“I hate to be an asshole, but I’ve got to go.”

“Oh God, of course. I’m so sorry you got stuck here.” I try to sit up, but he pulls me in closer.

He laughs softly, raspy with sleep. “I didn’t get stuck here. I’ll be back soon, if you’ll have me.”

“Please.” It’s a quiet, embarrassing plea.

He leans over to kiss me gently, confessing, “I couldn’t stay away from you if I fucking tried.” Then he quietly slips out of bed, still dressed in last night’s clothes, and goes out the door.

I spend the rest of the early morning not wanting to get up, letting myself enjoy the calm and quiet of a Sunday morning. I almost fall into a guilt trap with it, but there’s nobody to tell mehow ridiculous it is, except for maybe those voices that like to pop into my head once in a while.

I should spend the time catching up on my cases, the ones I’ve been practically neglecting. It takes too much effort, but I drag myself out of bed and get to work. Except my mind finds ways to sidestep the focus, to go back to Logan and the night before. A recurring memory, a lingering feeling, something I can’t help but smile to myself about.

And then I fall into more worry, like what will happen to our partnership now that we’ve crossed a boundary? What about the lessons?

My mind finds another distraction with the loud sound of somebody harshly opening my door.

My brother stumbles in, dressed like he’s headed out to go play soccer with his friends.

“Don’t you knock?” I call out from my dining table surrounded by paperwork.

“Have I ever?”

Anybody else would probably be concerned by this, but the open-door policy between my family and me has led to always expecting guests. But suddenly I think about what would happen if he’d stumbled into my place with Logan here.

“Do you barge into Agostina’s apartment like this?”

“Definitely not.” He reaches for a LaCroix in my fridge, then grabs a glass and opens the freezer for ice. “Ooh, Uncrustables.” He reaches into the box and grabs one. “Mom asked if somebody could bring sandwiches de miga tonight.”

“Okay, and?”

“And I’m going to play right now,” he says like it’s obvious.

“And I’m doing work.” This is also obvious. “Call Delfi. Or Cecilia.”

“They’re all busy.” He practically chugs his drink.

“You’re not playing all day. Go to the store afterwards. What’s the big deal?”

“Can I go to that other bakery near the park?” he asks.

“No, they aren’t good. Go to Mariana’s.”

“Can you?”

I don’t know what snaps—the way I’m tired of fixing everybody’s problems, or tired of finding the solutions, or frustrated with how everybody else can do what they want but I’m expected not to. How my brother was raised to have everybody wait on him instead. But it pisses me off and I’m too tired to care.

“Are you joking? I am swamped with work. Look at this table. Look at this paperwork. Pick up the fucking phone and make an order if you need to. That way all you have to do is pick it up after your beloved soccer match. I don’t care. But you are more than fucking capable of doing it, sodo it.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Alright, sorry. Fine. I can do it.”

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