Page 39 of Bad Love

Logan's gaze is full of understanding and something that makes my neck itch in a not entirely unpleasant way. “I’m not gonna tell you how to think about sex. You get to think whatever the hell you want to, PK. About life, about sex, about love. But I’m not gonna bob my head and agree that whatever safe, shitty sex you’ve been having is the onlykind.”

The look on his face, as if he’s lived more than I could ever hope to, seeds something deep in my stomach. Longing. But also envy—that it’s so easy for him to understand his sexuality, to own it without being afraid of theconsequences.

“How do you think about it?” I ask before I can stop myself, a littlebreathless.

His eyes flash on mine as he leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table and dragging my gaze to his thick arms. “It’s a way to experience the world. To make memories, for you and someone else. The day you die, that’s what you’ll remember. Not the bad times. The fucking brilliant ones. The flashes that are so damned exquisite they steal yourbreath.”

Could hebeany moreprovocative?

I chug the juice in a long gulp, mostly for an excuse to avoid that heated chocolate gaze. "So, I can't tell the difference between those beers. But then, I bet you can't tell the differenceeither."

A dark brow lifts. "Tryme.”

He turns around, and I ignore the way the T-shirt pulls across the muscles of his back as I shuffle the beers, pulling outone.

"Ready."

He turns back, and I hold out the IKEA cup. Hunter’s fingers brush mine as he takes it and lifts it toward me. I look between him and the cup inconfusion.

He rests the cup against my lips, and a streak of heat shoots between mythighs.

That's messedup.

But he tips it gently, and I drink a sip. When he lowers the glass, I shake my head. "Hunter, I knowwhat—"

My voice is cut off when he closes the distance between us, smooth as anything, and presses his mouth to mine. The breath I suck in is his, and it's masculine andaddictive.

His hand finds my face, cupping more lightly than I would've thought possible, his fingers threading into my hair near my scalp as he presses his tongue to mylips.

Logan Hunter is kissingme.

Except he's not. He's tastingme.

I'm confused and startled and overwhelmed by him—his closeness, his energy, his strength. But when that barbell shocks my mouth into opening and his tongue meets mine, the smoky taste of him mingling with the tang from the metal and the beer, I'm sowet.

The groan that escapes his throat is defiant, as though he's fighting a fight that has nothing to do withme.

Before I can decide what happened or what's happening next, he's gone. "Peach."

I blink my eyes open to find him millimeters away. Hunter's caramel eyes are gone, replaced by the blackest black, hungry under thick lashes that should be pretty but only add to his appeal. His mouth is firm but parted in the center as if he wants something he can'thave.

"What?"

His voice is hoarse. "You taste likepeaches.”

Before I can reply that there's no peach beer in the box he brought, his mouth claims mineagain.

He feels like danger. And temptation. A kind of rawness I never thought wasreal.

How can something be too much and not nearly enough atonce?

Logan Hunter’s the kind of beautiful you can’t know with one sense. Looking at him steals my breath, but it’s his touch thatseduces.

His kiss thatdestroys.

Frustration blends with longing as my fingers thread into his hair. A moan I didn’t know I was capable of escapes from somewhere deep inme.

I can stop him. Grab his wrists, push him away. Tell him this isn’t what Iwant.

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