Page 3 of The Fake Affair

Later, I’ll blame the whiskey or the emotions of the wedding, maybe even the way the night wrapped around us like it was always going to end here—but right now, watching Logan’s strong hands loosen his tie as his driver winds us through the quiet streets toward his penthouse, all I can think about is how some mistakes are worth making, no matter how beautiful they burn.

His driver doesn’t blink when I step out with Logan, doesn’t so much as lift an eyebrow as my Scottish sex god places a hand on the small of my back and guides me through the gleaming lobby of one of Manhattan’s most exclusive buildings, like I belong there, like he’s done this with me a hundred times.

The elevator ride takes forever, or maybe it only feels that way because Logan keeps stealing glances at me, slow and smoldering, his blue-gray eyes holding mine with a promise I feel everywhere. My heart stumbles against my ribs, not from nerves or alcohol, but from the way he looks at me like he already knows how I taste and wants to be reminded.

His penthouse is everything I imagined it would be—sleek lines, cold elegance, a skyline so sharp it could cut—but none of it really lands because Logan is already reaching for me, tugging me toward a leather couch with that rare kind of urgency that still manages to be careful, like he’s starving but still wants to savor every inch.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs.

The low timbre of his voice sends a ripple of heat between my legs, and I know—God, I know—I should be smarter than this. But as I look up at him, all I see are his storm-colored eyes, his parted lips, and the raw, simmering need he’s barely holding back.

I answer by pulling him down to me.

His lips crash against mine with the hunger of a man who’s waited far too long, and I melt into the kiss, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as I drag him down with me onto the couch. His body covers mine, all heat and hardness, and I let out a moan when our chests press together, when I feel his erection grinding lightly against my thigh through layers of clothing.

I pull him closer, greedy for more—for the press of him, the taste of his mouth, the heat that’s been curling low in my belly since he first touched my hand outside. I sink into it, into him, letting the kiss consume me. Every inch of my skin is hypersensitive. My nipples harden under the thin lace of my bra just from the brush of his breath, and when he pulls back to look at me, his eyes searching, I already know what he’s asking.

"Don't stop," I whisper, breathless.

The moment I say it, I feel the shift. His hands move with new urgency. He slides my dress from my shoulders, tugging it down and off until it’s a forgotten puddle on the floor. I’m left in sheer lace—barely decent, utterly exposed—and the way his eyes drag over me makes my breath catch.

“You’re more stunning than I imagined,” he says, voice reverent, like I’m something sacred.

I raise an eyebrow, teasing even as arousal throbs between my legs. “Way to reveal that you’ve been fantasizing about me.”

His smile is slow and wicked. “You’re a beautiful woman, Bella. It’s nearly impossible not to.”

“And you,” I say, fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt, “are a tease.”

“You don’t seem to mind.”

I don’t. Not at all. Not when he looks at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.

I tug at the buttons, popping each one with deliberate slowness, revealing inch after inch of tanned skin and lean muscle. I rake my nails lightly down his chest and feel the way his body tenses, responding to my touch.

“Less talking,” I say, my voice a little breathier now, “more touching.”

His grin deepens—carnal, confident—and his shirt joins my dress on the floor, followed by the rest of our clothes in a blur of impatient hands and soft curses. When he stands above me, fully naked, my mouth goes dry. He’sgorgeous. All taut muscle and long, sculpted lines, with a cock that makes my pussy flutter in anticipation.

He leans over me, and I fall back against the couch cushions, letting him cover me again. His lips find my neck, warm and searching, and I let out a soft gasp when his mouth closes over one of my nipples, teasing and sucking until my back arches off the cushions.

“Dammit, you’re soft all over,” Logan groans against my skin, his hands sliding over my waist, down my hips, his touch reverent and possessive.

“Then touch me,” I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair, already trembling with want. “Everywhere.”

He does. His fingers trail lower, finding the slick heat between my thighs, and the first stroke is enough to steal my breath. My body jerks, hips lifting off the couch as he circles my clit in slow, maddening spirals.

I can’t stop the moan that escapes me. “Logan,” I gasp, biting my lip.

“You just hold still, love.” His lips graze my collarbone as his fingers continue their torturous rhythm, teasing and coaxing and sliding just deep enough to keep me on the edge without giving me what I need.

My thighs tremble as he holds them open, his grip strong and commanding, and the pressure keeps building, winding tighter with every stroke.

“You’re not playing fair,” I manage, voice ragged.

He doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, he shifts lower, and the first stroke of his tongue against my clit is so devastating, I cry out. I grip the back of the couch, the cushions, his hair—anything to keep from flying apart. His mouth is hot, relentless, andso damn skilledI can barely think.

He alternates slow, sinful licks with deeper, firmer strokes that leave me a wreck. My body is on fire. My skin tingles. I’m panting his name like a prayer, my hips trying to move against him, to get more.

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