Page 64 of Best Kept Secret
Millie doesn’t stop. She grips me tighter, kisses me harder, hips lifting and seeking more.
“Millie!” I say more firmly, hand back against her hip, holding her steady as I pull away and out of her lips’ reach.
Staring down at her, I take her in. Heaving chest, peaked nipples, kiss-swollen lips, flushed cheeks, eyes wide and filled with lust which swiftly shifts to betrayal the longer we pause.
“You don’t want me?”
“What?” I almost laugh, incredulous. I swallow thickly. “Baby, I want you more than I want fucking air.”
Her brows knit together, evidently confused.
“But not like this,” I say, softly tucking her hair behind her ear.
Her lips purse together, and she’s suddenly pissed. I can see it in the way her eyes narrow just a touch. “Get out.”
“Millie, I?—”
She pushes me off her and I go willingly, heaving myself up and smoothing my hair back from my face. Legs like jelly, dick like fucking steel, I steady myself as best as I can, looking down at her as she yanks the blanket back up to cover herself before rolling onto her side and turning away from me.
“You can leave now,” she huffs over shoulder.
And, on a heavy sigh that racks through me, I throw my head back, glaring up at the ceiling and cursing myself. If I were an asshole, I’d be deep inside her right now, without a second fucking thought. But I’m not an asshole. Far from it.
I bend over, collecting my shoes from the carpet and, with a quick glance at her, I release another sigh. “Goodnight, Millie.”
“Goodnight, Millie,” she mocks in a low tone that sounds nothing like me, by the way.
I know she’s pissed at me, and probably a little offended at being turned down, and I feel real fucking bad right now, but soon enough she’ll see. This means more to me. With Millie, I want more; I want it all. And, frankly, I’m not willing to settle for anything less.
CHAPTER 30
MILLIE
Ihaven’t seen Logan since the night in my bedroom where I made a complete and utter fool of myself. The night in my bedroom where I practically begged him to fuck me. The night in my bedroom where he unequivocally turned me down. Mortifying.
He tried to talk to me about it the following morning. Like an adult. But my ego was bruised. And even now, two days later, the wounds of mortification remain unhealed, and the longer I go intentionally avoiding him, the more the wounds fester. I even went on Zillow today to see if there were any studio apartments I might be able to afford on my pathetic excuse for a salary, but the best I could find was a shoebox studio with some sketchy shared bathroom situation, somewhere in the depths of Queens.
For now, instead of moving out to Queens, I’ve been accepting any and all bullshit work Caroline has been throwing at me. Even working today, Saturday, all day spent locked in a special safe room in the office, doing a manual reconciliation for a super high-net-worth client. I even had to sign an NDA, take off my shoes, and empty my pockets before entering the room. But anything to avoid being at the apartment where I mightaccidentally run into the one man I can’t bear the thought of seeing right now.
It's dark by the time I leave work. Dark and cold. And as the city comes to life through the night, I would love nothing more than to go home, whip up a batch of spicy margs, and rot on the sofa watching trash TV. But tonight is Hannah’s dad’s surprise birthday thing at some sports bar in the East Village. And, I mean, I don’t know the man, but Hannah texted me earlier to check I was still coming, and I’d feel bad if I didn’t show. I actually really like her.
I also came to the conclusion today that if I want Logan like I think I want him—and judging by the way my body reacts to him, I reallyreallywant him—then I’m going to need to fight. And by fight, I mean tonight I’m going to wear the sluttiest little dress I own and make it really fucking hard for him to even think of turning to me down again. I’ve always been a little dirty when it comes to fighting for what I want.
I stop outside the address Hannah sent me, looking up at the sign that reads in big neon lettersStanding Room Only. With a cautious smile, I approach the man outside wearing a jacket that sayssecurity.
“It’s a private function tonight,” he explains. “Guest list only.”
“Yeah, I should be on there,” I say. “Millie Shaw.”
He scans the list on his tablet, looking at me with a smile before opening the door, and I thank him, stepping inside.
Inside, the place is, as assumed, a generic sports bar. Low lit with high top tables dotted about, framed sporting memorabilia lining the walls, and televisions everywhere playing all types ofdifferent sports: baseball, basketball, football, soccer, hockey, boxing.
“Mils!”
I turn, searching the crowded space full of mostly unfamiliar faces, finding Fran and Emily waving at me from a table toward the back. With a relieved smile, I wave at them, my eyes instinctively clocking Logan standing by the bar next to none other than my brother, his gaze on me in that way that feels like it sears my skin.
“Can I take your coat, hon?” A beautiful woman wearing aStanding Room Onlyt-shirt smiles at me from the attendant stand.
