Walk Through Fire (Page 48)

But it wasn’t annoying.

It was hot.

God, I was crazy.

No, I was fucked up.

And I was fucking myself up, letting this go on when I was supposed to be sorting myself out.

I sighed as I moved to the end of my kitchen counter that delineated the living room from the kitchen.

It was then I felt it.

No, I felt him.

I stopped dead, my head came up, and I stared at Logan leaning against the counter by the sink, mug of coffee in his hand, his Chaos cut thrown on the marble beside him, wearing his uniform of jeans, motorcycle boots, and black thermal Henley, looking gorgeous.

“Mornin’,” he greeted casually, then lifted the mug and took a sip.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked.

“Nope,” he answered after lowering the mug.

I looked to the back door, then to him. “You broke in?”

“Yup.”

He broke in.

To my house!

I didn’t have time for this.

Further, it was time to end this.

Now.

Intent on doing just that, I tossed my hair, feeling the loose bunch of it wrapped around a ponytail holder at the top back of my head wobble around and Logan’s eyes went to it.

I felt my thighs start tingling.

Damn it!

“You need to leave,” I informed him.

He looked from my hair down my body, then back up to my eyes.

His were grinning when he noted, “Nice jammies,” before he took another sip of coffee, his gaze never leaving mine.

Rough, edgy, biker, bad boy, hot guy Logan “High” Judd saying the word jammies was both hilarious and a total turn-on.

Though he was right. They were nice jammies. Petal pink with ivory lace, another cami and pants that were so awesome, they should be illegal. This pair had lace edging the hem and sides of the pants—sides that were cut in overlapping slits all the way to my upper hips.

Sometimes I got tangled in them when I was sleeping, but they looked crazy-awesome on, especially when I was walking around, so I put up with the tangling.

I’d never had anyone to appreciate them.

Until now.

And Logan’s appreciation worked, as it always did.

However, I told myself firmly, I would be happy with just my own appreciation.

And maybe the detached, feline approval of a Burmese cat.

Perhaps a Persian.

Yes, a Persian. A Persian would go better with my house.

I tore my thoughts off Persian cats and focused again on Logan, repeating, “You need to leave.”

He didn’t leave.

He stayed right where he was, lounging against my kitchen counter like he did it every morning, and asked, “What’s the gig with your house?”

Even though I didn’t quite understand his question, I did know he wasn’t going to catch me in this again.

“Please leave,” I requested politely.

He ignored me and threw out his hand holding the coffee mug toward my kitchen/living room.

“Babe, this place looks nice, but it’s not you.”

“It’s one hundred percent me,” I retorted, doing it wanting to kick myself because I should not engage. I should instead ask him to leave (again).

I knew this to be even more true when he took in the length of me again before catching my eyes.

“New you, that getup, this house,” he muttered. “Old you, I got my dick inside you.”

That did it, the dirty talk that was not all about dirty talk, the good kind that was sweet and fun and had one objective that was also sweet but mostly it was fun. Instead, it was dirty talk that was only partly the good kind but not intentionally so. Mostly it was meant to wound by taking more than it was giving and leaving bruises with the blows.

Therefore I stomped to the island, put my hands on it, and didn’t share I had a busy day and I needed to prepare for it because he’d proved yesterday he didn’t care about that, which was another indication he didn’t care, at all, about me.

Instead I stated, “I’m not doing this again. This is over, this game we’re playing. You need to leave. And I’m being serious, High.”

Humor lit his brown eyes when he returned, “You’re bein’ serious?”

I tried to tamp down my annoyance, something else that didn’t work, in fact, the effort only fanned the flames, and I replied, “Very.”

He lost none of his humor and actually looked more amused when he rejoined, “You’re cute when you’re very serious. ’Specially bein’ very serious in those jammies.”

I stared at him as panic hit me.

He was changing the game and the way he was changing it this time, teasing me like that, I knew I was going to lose.

And if I lost to that, I’d lose it all.

Again.

Oh yes.

Panic.

And staring into his playful eyes, that panic went extreme.

“Please leave,” I whispered.

He heard my tone, maybe read my panic, the amusement fled and he got serious and I knew it was deadly serious even though he didn’t move a muscle.

“What’s the gig with your pad, Millie?” he whispered back.

“It’s my home,” I answered, hoping an answer might get him moving on. “It’s how I like it. I worked hard on it. It’s perfect. Now, I answered you. Will you please go?”

“It’s not you,” he told me.

“It’s all me,” I told him.

“It’s not the you I know.”

“You knew me twenty years ago, Logan,” I reminded him. “Things have changed.”

“Yeah they have,” he readily agreed.

I leaned into my hands on the counter, my body tipping his way, my hope that he’d read that body language and see my sincerity.