Page 12 of Pucking Fake

I lay there for a long moment, just reveling in the heat of his body against mine. The world's hottest goalie is snuggled up against me, mumbling in my ear, his dick prodding me in the side.

For once, the judgmental little voice that never shuts up has absolutely nothing to say. I think she's still riding an orgasm high.

Is it too soon to want to do this again?

Judging by the way my whole body aches faintly…probably so. Who knew sex was a full body workout? Maybe I can convince Logan to be my personal trainer. Who needs a gym when you can just have cock?

I giggle to myself and then grimace and carefully slide out from beneath him. I need to pee and then call Serena to let her know I'm still alive. She's probably worried that I didn't come home.

As soon as my feet touch the floor, Logan grumbles, rolling onto his stomach. I unabashedly stare at his firm ass for a long moment. His body is incredible. Every inch of him is hewn from thick, corded muscle. He has a tattoo across his shoulder blade and another across his ribcage.

I want to trace them with my tongue.

"Lord have mercy," I mumble, stumbling away from the couch in search of the bathroom.

The first door I open is a home gym, full of equipment I'm convinced was designed in the dungeons of castles centuries ago. I close that one so fast my hair actually flutters in the breeze left behind. No way am I going in there.

Riding Logan was my cardio for the week, thank you very much.

The second door opens onto a home office. I smile when I realize Logan is a neat freak. Everything is perfectly arranged, right down to the pens in the cup beside the keyboard. They're even grouped by color.

The massive display case behind his desk houses more trophies than I can wrap my mind around. The only medals I've ever won have been the ones they hand out so kids don't feel bad about sucking at their activity of choice. I've never been athletic or creative. I didn't win science fairs or spelling bees. I was just…mediocre. I got a lot of medals for sucking. Honestly, the only thing I ever really excelled at was organization. I'm a planner, not a doer.

Logan is a whole different level of doer. There are dozens of trophies in that case, dating back to his childhood. They aren't all hockey related, either. Figuring skating, taekwondo, archery…is there anything the man can't do? I have a feeling the answer is a resounding no.

I quietly close the door, feeling like I'm intruding onto parts of his world he hasn't invited me into yet.

Yet?Maybe he doesn't plan to invite me into them at all. This was one night…right?

It doesn't feel like it. The way he looked at me last night felt more substantial and real than just one night. But what do I know? Maybe he looks at every girl he brings home the same way. Maybe he's attentive and perfect to everyone.

And maybe you're full of crap, Peyton Luanne Cloud.

Great. My demented angel is back, rendering judgment from her perch on my shoulder. A literal demon possession would be preferable to dealing with my subconscious. Thank you, Catholic school.

I bet Logan didn't go to Catholic school. Am I allowed to ask him that?

"Ugh," I groan, grinding my palms against my eyes. "Stop thinking." Right. That's what I need to do. Just stop thinking. Whatever this is, we'll figure it out. If it's just one night, I can handle that…right?

Crap.

I pull open the next door.

My heart slams against my ribcage, a sick sense of dread twisting through me as I gape around me.

Logan has a kid. No, Logan has ababy.

Kids don't sleep in cribs. They don't have changing tables and mobiles and baby toys and a year's supply of diapers, either.

He has a baby.

"Oh my god," I whisper, stumbling into the room. My eyes fall on a framed photo on the dresser. I snatch it from the top with shaking hands, and tears immediately spring to my eyes.

Logan Moreno has more than a baby. He has a freaking wife.

They're in the photo together, sitting beside each other under a Christmas tree. He has his arm over her shoulder. His wife is holding the baby. They're smiling, shiny, happy people.

I drop the photo, my stomach churning.

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