Page 29 of The Fake Affair

Our eyes lock as his tongue swirls around my fingertip, and suddenly, the kitchen feels too hot, too small.

“Logan...” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

“The contract,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.

“Right. No sex.” I pull my finger free. “Why are you half-naked here at midnight?”

His lips twitch. “It’s my kitchen, after all.”

“Our kitchen,” I correct, turning to check the cookies. Big mistake. He’s right behind me, and I back straight into his chest.

His hands settle on my hips. “Careful, love.”

I should step away. I should remind him again about the contract we signed. Instead, I relax against him, feeling the way his breathing grows heavy.

“We really shouldn’t,” he says, but his hands slide up my sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

“Definitely not.” I turn in his arms, tilting my face up to his. “This would complicate everything.”

“Everything,” he agrees, lowering his head.

The first touch of his lips is gentle. It feels worlds apart from the fierce, wild moments we’ve shared before. But when I thread my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, gentle goes out the window.

He lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my legs. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, under my tank top, gripping my breasts. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more.

“Bella,” he groans against my neck. “The cookies?—”

“Timer’s set.”

“Good, now shut up and kiss me.”

I do, thoroughly, until I’m dizzy with want and the kitchen smells like?—

“Shit!” I push him away, scrambling for the oven.

The cookies are only slightly overdone, but as I set them on the cooling rack, the reality of what we almost did hits me.

“So much for the no-sex clause,” I say, trying to laugh it off.

Logan runs a hand through his hair, looking deliciously rumpled. “We should...”

“Stick to the contract. Right.”

“Right.” But he doesn’t move away. Instead, he reaches past me for a cookie, his chest brushing my arm. “These are good.”

“They’re hot.”

“I like hot.”

The way he says it, looking directly at me, makes my knees weak.

“I should go to bed,” I say quickly. “My bed. Alone. Like we agreed.”

He nods but catches my wrist as I pass. “Bella?”

“Yes?”

“Wear longer shorts next time you decide to bake at midnight.”

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