Page 39 of Bloom: Part 1

“Only if you tell me what you have to think about.”

“What do you expect, Bloom? I have to rethink my entire stance with you because I can’t get you out of my head, no matter how much I try. Now shush.”

I clamped my lips together, inspired by his words to be good for him. Only him. I placed a hand on his thigh because I craved touching him. When he didn’t push me away, I relaxed, watching the glow of neon signs and streetlamps go by. When he turned on the street leading to his house, butterflies took off in my stomach. I already knew where he lived and had even passed by his house a few times, but I’d never wanted to cross that boundary that would make him shove me away even more, so I’d always stayed out of sight.

As we approached his secluded property, the automatic gates opened, and he slowly drove along the driveway. A flood of lights came on, illuminating the two-story mansion and casting long shadows around the well-manicured grounds. I didn’t get to see much before he drove into the garage.

“Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll come around and help you.”

He switched off the engine and rushed around the car. With a hand under my elbow, he helped me to stand. He slammed the door shut. Then I was back in his arms.

“I think I’m getting used to this.”

Logan chuckled briefly, seemed to realize it, and fell silent. “Look away.”

I rolled my eyes and pretended to keep my eyes averted while memorizing his security code when he punched it in. His house smelled faintly of apple-scented disinfectant. A short hallway led us past a kitchen, where everything sparkled from the kitchen cabinets to the expensive-looking chandelier hanging above a marble island. But without any personal effects, the place didn’t feel as if someone lived there.

Having lived with loud, foul-mouthed, messy bikers all my life, I was used to chaos and clutter. This immaculate environment, free from the grit of reality, left me feeling oddly displaced and reminded me of how different we were. Why did I think I could fit into his world? The state didn’t even have any record of my birth. To the country, I didn’t exist.

We passed an expansive living area that was as perfect as the kitchen. A TV larger than any I’d ever seen was mounted on the wall. Sleek champagne-colored leather couches were arranged around a glass coffee table.

We ascended the stairs to the second floor. A long hallway lined with closed doors on either side greeted us. We took the right, and he opened the first door, revealing a neat bedroom. The bed was piled with a comforter and throw pillows. A large mirror occupied one wall, while another led to a walk-in closet. Another door to the left was closed. The gray carpet on the floor was better than where I’d slept for the first years of my life.

But like the kitchen, this room was devoid of personal touches. No photos or mementos. My bedroom at the clubhouse was notas grand as this one, but I collected stuff to display, especially scented candles and colorful stones.

“This is the guest bedroom.”

“Guest bedroom? What are we doing here?”

“Cleaning you up. Let’s get you into the bathroom.”

The bathroom was as pristine and uncluttered as the rest of the house, with sleek black tiles adorning the floors and walls, and a bathtub big enough for three people in one corner.

Logan set me down on the toilet. “I’ll go for my medical kit. Take your clothes off.”

He was out of the bathroom before I could ask if he meant just my pants. With a grin, I stripped down. When he walked back in, he stopped short when he saw me sitting on the marble countertop wearing not a stitch of clothes on.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swept his gaze over my tattooed chest, my body piercings, my half-hard cock. He pressed his lips together and glanced away. Disappointed, I folded my hands over my lap.

“Remove your hands,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You want me to see all of you naked. Why bother to cover up now? Remove your hands.”

Slowly I pulled my hands away and clutched the edge of the sink, revealing my cock. My knuckles whitened as Logan placed a medical bag next to me. He slipped on disposable gloves with the practiced snap of latex. He took my leg in hand, examining the wound with a focused gaze.

His jaw tightened, but he remained silent. He pulled out sterile gauze, saline solution, and a suture kit. Logan soaked the gauze in the saline solution and cleaned the blood and the wound, his touch gentle yet precise. The cool liquid stung a bit, but I gritted my teeth and fixed my attention on the tiled pattern on the floor.

I’ve been through worse pain. I can handle this.

Once the area was clean, he prepared the needle and thread with a concentration I admired. I focused on his face, his thick, furrowed brows, the firm set of his jaw, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He worked quickly, his movements sure and steady.

“There, all set.” Logan peeled off his gloves. “Let’s hope it leaves minimal scarring.”

“Is that why you seem upset? Because I’ll have a scar? I don’t know how important that is, given my back’s full of scars. Sure, they’re faded and covered up by tattoos, but they’re still there.”

Logan cupped my cheek. “That’s not why I am upset.”

---