Page 14 of Target Me
“Hungry?” he offered.
“Starving,” I whispered before catching myself. Shit.
The growl that rumbled out of his throat sent shivers down my spine, even as I was possessed with the need to run. Fast.
“Umm… Luciana left us plenty of meals to heat up at home.”
He nodded, accepting the change of topic, and steered me out of the house with a hand on my lower back.
The car ride passed in a charged silence. My skin tingled, hyperaware of the man beside me. The way he gripped the steering wheel, how his shoulders seemed to fill so much of the cab. When I worked up the courage to send the quickest of glances at his crotch, I wondered if the peak in his pants weren’t an erection just begging for my mouth.
“You need to stop looking at me like that, hen. You won’t like the consequences.”
I hummed noncommittally, begging to differ. I was quite sure I’d be very happy with any consequences he wanted to give me.
When we arrived at home, I was too worked up to eat, but Logan refused to hear otherwise. I sat, picking at my plate under his watchful eye until he decided I’d waited long enough.
“What was it you wanted to show me?” he asked, clearing our plates from the table and placing them carefully in the sink.
A wicked fantasy flashed in my mind. Me on my knees for him, worshipping his cock while he praised me. Maybe choked me, just a little.
It took an enormous amount of will to let the vision go. That wasn’t who we were to each other. It didn’t mean I couldn’t pretend later in the night when I was alone in my room.
Not trusting my voice, I beckoned for him to follow me upstairs and began to climb.
My favorite space in the entire house was the attic. A room I had converted, by myself, into an oasis.
“This is…” Logan’s voice trailed off as his eyes swept around the space. I wondered how he saw it.
Across the space, a floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the back lawn. Positioned to make the best use of the light were my easel and paint supplies. A huge worktable stretched a third of the way across the left wall and was cluttered with everything from my mini pottery wheel and ceramic tools to pencils, charcoal, and old paint pallets. A kiln sat on the right-hand side of the window, currently unlit, but in winter it worked better than a heater to keep the space warm.
Closer to the door was a stretch of open floor covered in padding that made you feel like you were walking on springs. I’d never needed it, really, though when I laid it, I’d had a vague idea of using the area for sparring one day. To my right was my prized possession. To the uneducated, it could have been mistaken for a hat rack, but it had nothing to do with clothing.
I fidgeted, feeling oddly exposed as I showed Logan who I truly was. Not the façade everyone else got to see. God, I was going to puke.
“You know what? How about we just forget this and go downstairs,” I said, pushing at him to go back downstairs. I was about as successful as I would have been trying to lift his truck.
He moved into the room, ignoring my huff of frustration, and gravitated toward my worktable.
“I expected a lot more clothes, or… something…” he said, poking his finger into the cloth-covered block of clay I left out the night before after making a fruit bowl. I slapped his hand away, and he moved farther down toward some half-completed watercolor paintings.
“These are good.”
I flushed at the compliment, unsure how to take it. When I was younger, before Mom left, Dad thought my art was a passing fancy. He probably thought, much like Logan, that I’d converted the attic into a giant wardrobe for the clothing he assumed I bought in excess. I might have encouraged the belief, but it was mostly because it was the easiest way to get him to leave me alone.
Logan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his ass against the table, watching me too closely for comfort. Beneath the bill of his hat, his eyes looked almost black, and I wondered what the hell I’d been thinking bringing him up here.
He shifted, and I couldn’t help but notice the way his arms bulged with the movement. I swallowed hard, my anxiety over showing this private space to him, combined with my very real attraction for him, overwhelming me to the point of near panic.
“Do I scare you, hen?” he asked.
“No.”
The edge of his mouth quirked, and he crooked a finger at me. The pull was irresistible. With my heart pounding in my chest, I crossed the room until we were standing toe to toe. He dropped his hands to the table behind him and shifted so that his knees framed my hips. My foot twitched with the need to move, but I wasn’t certain whether I wanted to be closer or if I wanted to run.
His eyes dropped to my mouth as I licked my lips.
“Are you sure?”
