Page 70 of Tortured Eyes
“Like I said. I like having something I’m not allowed. Maybe…” Maybe what? I take another mouthful of wine and wonder what Samuel wanted by sending me here with her. I sure as fuck don’t love her. Maybe I do like her more than just fucking her, but it’s not love. Mind you, what the hell would I know about the word? “You’ve become interesting enough for me to tolerate.”
“Tolerate? Be still my beating heart. Logan Cane, the gentleman and romantic.”
“Fuck off, Red. It’s only because I’m imagining some insidious position that involves you and some screaming going on. How am I doing? You wet yet?”
She bursts into a fit of laughter. It’s the nicest damn sound I think I’ve ever heard. My whole body stiffens at the impact of it, brow creasing under the assault. That’s what it feels like—a damned assault of attitude and guile. I can feel it vibrating all around me, tunnelling under my skin and bedding in.
“Are you like this with him?”
“I wouldn’t know what you’re suggesting,” I murmur, still listening to her giggles. I take a bite of my food and chew until it’s gone. “But if we’re discussing Samuel Cleary, then I’ll admit that I’m probably at my best when I’m with him. Must be the thought of God looking me over. Even sinners need praise sometimes. That's what he says, anyway.”
Silence falls while we eat, no other words to push against me or questions to delve into apparently. Fine by me. I’m enjoying being with her, out, in a restaurant. I look around when I’ve finished my food, trying to remember the last time I did this with someone. Never with Samuel. Maybe occasionally with a woman here or there. Didn’t enjoy it, though. Did it because I was hungry. Nothing more than that.
Alone.
“He has an air about him. Clever, too,” she says after a while, pushing her finished plate away.
I nod. “He’s a good man and a better priest, for what that job’s worth. He’s also something I won’t have you fucking with, Red. Don’t make me warn you off him. You won’t like the way I do it.” For once, she doesn’t bite at me. She sips her wine instead and gazes at me, blatantly taking her time to check out my face, neck, shoulders. “You want me to strip for you? We never did get completely naked. Well, I didn’t.”
Her eyes dilate, a response that pleases me even if she won’t fucking admit what she’s feeling. She clearly likes what she sees and continues to peruse me as if I’m a piece of meat. I smirk at her, enjoying the sensation of her gaze. It’s the way she doesn’t take her eyes off me, refusing to back down at my stare like most do. Gutsy.
“He told me about the money you’ve given the parish.”I finish my wine and look at her over the top of the glass. “The soup house restaurant? Quite a set up you've made happen there." Her finger rubs the rim of her glass slowly as if she's biding her time about something. "Why would someone like you do something like that? Helping the poor? Hardly something I’d associate you with.”
I put my glass down, check my watch and stand. How the hell he knew it was me who gave him the money, I don’t know, but I’m not going into the details. That's an emotional stretch too far for me. "I didn't help the poor, Bryce. He did. As I said, he's a good man. I'm not."
My hand waves her up. The jet is waiting, my sharpest team are already heading to Chicago, and no fucking way am I having her hauling ass around my city trying for more information.
“We're leaving?” she asks.
“Busy man. You've got more conversation than most would. Be grateful. The jet’s on standby waiting for me.”
“Why?”
“I told you, I’m going home to sort the city out. Carter needs my help. And your ass is going back with me.”
“Now? I thought you didn’t have anything to do with Cane anymore.”
“I didn’t. Don’t. But…” I hold her coat out for her, watching her frown at the offer and then slip into it. She flicks her hair out from the collar, dousing me in the scent of her perfume. The smell has my head spinning and hands quivering. I breathe in again and close my eyes, remembering the smell when I first fucked her. It’s a memory I don’t want to lose for some reason, something deep in my guts maybe.
I snort at myself and shrug into my own coat, amused at the reaction I can’t process.
“Logan?”
“What?”
“Chicago? Your family? I still want to know why Logan Cane would give so much money to a parish church. What was it, half a million?” Double it.
I toss a bundle of notes on the table and start walking out, unsure why I’m even contemplating discussing anything with her. “My relationship with my family isn't up for discussion. The city needs what I do. I’m good at doing it.” And Nate deserves the best I can offer. My head drops, shame suddenly riding over me regardless of my company and her fault in this. “Guess I’ve got a debt to pay, too.”
Her body passes mine as I hold the door open, shoving more fucking perfume into my nose.
“And why the hell do you smell so good?”
“What?”
“The perfume. Or your skin. I don’t know what it is, but it’s distracting. You are. Why are you doing that?”
"Doing what? I'm not doing anything."
