Page 21 of Reaper
For a moment, I’m mesmerized by his captivating attention. It’s like when the boy you’ve been crushing on for the longest, finally recognizes you. Or like the world has disappeared, leaving only the intensity of his gaze as he undresses me with his unwavering stare.
The intensity in his gaze, heavy with unspoken meaning, leaves me completely breathless. Excitement rushes through me like a raging river. Once again, I haven’t had this kind of reaction to a man in a long time. It’s exciting but also terrifying.
Do I want him? Of course, I want him, but what happens if he wants me too? Can I have him after the shit I’ve experienced, or will I freak out if he touches me? Shouldn’t his attention to my body disgust me like all other men? And if he doesn’t, why?
I look down, then realize I’m in nothing but a pair of white cotton bikini briefs and a tank top. All my questions disappear from my mind.
“Oh shit!”
My dark nipples are showing through the thin cotton fabric which explains why his eyes have zeroed in on my chest. I throw my arms across my body trying to cover up the best I can.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize. I’ve been so caught up in his attention and the way he looks, I forgot I’m basically naked. No wonder he’s looking at me the way he is.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I’m not complaining.” I can’t help but stare at him as he makes his way toward me. “You can walk around like this or naked if you want. You have an amazing body, Paris. Never be ashamed to show it around me.”
The compliment rolls off his tongue smooth as honey, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to say.
“Thank you, I think,” I say a little uncertain of what my response should be.
I’m out of my wheelhouse with this situation. It’s been a long time since a man has given me positive compliments on my body in a way that isn’t crude or made to make me feel like a whore. And if it isn’t a compliment, it’s to make me feel like I’m a whale and not doing enough to keep my body looking good enough. So, while I’m not uncomfortable with Logan’s attention, I’m confused by it.
While with Nikita, I was on a strict diet. My days consisted of a bagel with a teaspoon of cream cheese in the morning and a bottle of cold water. Lunches were a small salad and maybe a broiled chicken breast if I was lucky or he felt like I needed to be rewarded for something. And rarely did I have dinner unless he had to show me off to a client or associate of his, then we went out to some fancy restaurant. Even then, he ordered for me which mainly consisted of some type of salad.
The entire six months of hell I had no say in anything, including what food I ate or how much I had of it. I lost so much weight. Most of the time, I didn’t recognize myself. Now I’ve gained some of my weight back in the short time I’ve been here and I’m still getting used to the drastic change. My hair is healthier. So is my skin. I actually don’t look like a walking dead person anymore.
When Logan reaches the kitchen island, he picks up the bottle of wine then inspects it before sitting it back down. “Nice choice.”
Maybe he senses my unease. I exhale, relieved by the change of topic, feeling a lightness in my chest. My emotions are all over the place because of the way my body is reacting to him and why is that reaction sexual. It isn’t ordinary for me. Not since Nikita.
Nikita’s abuse turned me off to men in general. Their attention makes me cringe and makes my skin crawl. I did what I needed to do to survive. No arousal. No attraction. No nothing. But none of that’s happening when I’m around Logan. It’s the complete opposite. I want to experience and do everything with him and to him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I probably should’ve asked first.”
He waves me off. “As long as you’re my guest, what’s mine is yours.”
The glint in his eye makes me think he’s talking about more than the things in his house. He brushes by me as he walks to the cabinet and pulls down two wine glasses from the top shelf. His scent lingers in my nose. Spice, patchouli, and sweat. He smells so good.
“You mind if I join you?”
His question snaps me out of my daze as he watches me, waiting for my answer. We haven’t been this close since he woke me up from my nightmare the first night I moved in. It’s almost like he’s been avoiding me.
“Umm…sure.” I shrug. “It’s your wine.”
He pulls a wing corkscrew from a drawer, then closes it. “Can you grab the bottle of wine?” he asks then walks out of the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
“I guess I’m following,” I murmur, grabbing the bottle of wine.
Reaper
Jesus.Fucking.Christ.
The woman is going to fucking kill me where I stand. Is it possible to drop dead from a hard on?
When I left my home gym in the early morning hours, the last thing I expected to see is a half-naked Paris in my kitchen, straining on her tiptoes, looking for a wine glass while giving me a fabulous view of her ass.
Of course, my mind goes straight to my dick. I’m not a man who absolutely loves women if it didn’t. Her long legs, nice ass, decent breasts size are all on full display. All I want to do is pull down her cute cotton panties and have her ride my face.
It’s been a while since I’ve had this kind of reaction to a woman. I can get pussy or a blow job from anyone including, the girls at the clubhouse, but real physical attraction, I haven’t had since Blake. It’s fucking terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time. I love the feeling, but I’m also weary of it. What does it all mean? Why am I having it now and with Paris? What’s so special about her?
