A More Deserving Blackness (32 page)

             
Logan’s eyes darken and then he’s across the room and I’m in his arms and he’s kissing me roughly, furiously, his hands cupping my head, tangled in my hair, his tongue in my mouth.  He kisses me like he’s trying to consume me, to own me, bending my head back with the force of his mouth over mine, his unshaven chin scraping my skin raw.

             
“I missed you,” he breathes between crushing kisses.  “Every fucking second.”

             
And then he’s kissing me again and I’m kissing him back and it feels so
right
, my hands gripped around the hard muscle of his biceps, grinding our mouths together, my tongue warring with his.  He groans and his hands drop down my body, a hot trail down my spine, fitting me against him.

             
Logan rips his mouth away and stares down at me in his arms, breathing hard, his eyes ruthlessly dark and seething with need.

             
He lets go of me just long enough to shake his jacket off.  It hits the floor in a heap and he walks me backward until I bump the wall behind me, dipping his head to reclaim my mouth and reaching behind me, tugging the elastic band from my hair and combing my braid out with his fingers.  I kiss him back desperately, pulling closer, and then his hands are at my shoulders, dragging the coat from my arms.  I shake free of it and he tosses it aside, crushing his mouth over mine and cupping my breasts with both hands through my clothes.

             
I arch into his touch, my head falling back against the wall, crying out.  It feels so amazing, just touching him like this again, feeling him touch me, that I’m already tight and throbbing and ready for him.

             
Logan growls into my mouth and jerks one arm behind his head, tearing his shirt off and throwing it.  Then my hands are sliding over him, his skin hot and firm under my touch, and I push the heels of my palms against his shoulders, hard.  He staggers backward, surprised, until his shoulders hit the wall behind him with a thump.  I follow, emboldened, grabbing his neck and devouring him, moaning when his hands grip my butt, grinding me against the hard bulge in his jeans.

             
He catches the edge of my shirt and rips it over my head, dropping his mouth to kiss my neck, my chest, bracing an arm around my back as he hungrily draws the cup of my bra from my breast.  His mouth is hot and wet when it closes over me and I let my head drop back, moaning and fisting my hands in his hair.  His tongue drags across my sensitive skin and I feel that answering clench deep inside me.

             
“Logan,” I gasp, and his mouth covers mine and his hands are low at my stomach, fumbling with the button of my jeans.  He tears it open and yanks down the zipper and then his hands are down the back of my pants, kneading my butt, crushing my hips against his, his long fingers almost, almost touching me where I need him to.

             
I grip his shoulders and rub against him, and I can tell from the tension in his muscles, from his frantic, panting breaths that he’s as close as I am.

             
The touch of my fingers at his stomach makes him groan into my mouth, and suddenly he’s jerking at his jeans, ripping them open for me and then stiffening and crying out when I fist a hand around him.

             
He draws back just enough to look at me while I touch him, stroke him, his eyes wild and burning.  And then they slide closed and his breath comes out in a gritted rush when I squeeze him, hard, in my hand.

             
He yanks my pants and underwear over my hips in one swift jerk, and I kick off my shoes as he impatiently pulls them off me.  And then his hand cups me and the length of his finger slides against me and my knees almost give out.  He rubs over me once, and then again, watching the need build in my eyes, my body jolting with each hot pass of his finger.

             
He jams a hand into his pocket and shoves both his jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh, ripping open the small packet and covering himself urgently.   Then he pushes his shoulders off the wall at his back, hooking his hands under my thighs and lifting me easily as he lurches forward, wrapping my legs around his hips and smashing me against the opposite wall as he thrusts himself inside me as far as he can go.

             
Logan groans into the side of my throat, driving into me, my butt bumping the wall, his strangled breath hot on my skin.  My fingertips are biting into the muscle of his shoulders, mindless with need.  I feel him going rigid in my arms, feel the desperation in his rhythm, and tighten my legs around him, arching in his hands and digging in with my heels.  His hips are pumping furiously, slamming into me faster and harder, his hands almost bruising on my butt, and I can feel it, the waves of blinding pleasure sucking at me with each thrust.

             
I wrap my arms around his neck as it builds and then breaks and I scream my orgasm into his throat, my body tightening with my release, pulsing over and over where he’s still buried inside me.

             
Logan follows me almost instantly, crying out raggedly and coming in a violent rush, his hips bucking and his body shuddering uncontrollably.

             
His arms are shaking when he drops his forehead against the wall with a thump, both of us still breathing heavily, and lifts me off of him.  He sets me on my feet but doesn’t release me, wrapping me in both arms, tangled in my long hair and clinging to me as we both tremble.

             
“Are you okay?” he whispers unsteadily, his mouth in my hair, and I nod, still catching my breath.

             
When he pulls back he falters slightly, catching himself with one hand on the wall over my shoulder.  His brow furrows.

             
“What’s wrong?”

             
He shakes his head, smiling past the grimace and hooking an arm around his battered ribs.

             
Crap.

             
“I’m sorry.”

             
He laughs, but that only makes him wince again.  “Best sex of my life?  I think it was worth it.”

             
My cheeks flame but, “I didn’t mean to -”

             
“Stop.  I’m fine.”

             
“You’re not fine.”

             
Logan shoots me a look and then hikes his jeans up over his hips, not bothering to zip them as he disappears down the hall, his movements slow and exaggerated from pain.  While he’s gone I right my bra and slip back into my clothes, worried about him.  I’m hanging both the black leather jackets on the hooks by the door when he returns.

             
“Come here.”

             
I turn and go to him where he’s standing in the living room, wearing just those jeans, now zipped and buttoned, and nothing else.  In one hand is a collection of adhesive bandages and a tube of antibiotic ointment.  He waves me to sit on the couch in front of him and when I do he crouches down in front of me.  He carefully positions my left arm on my leg, and as he does I see the blood seeping around the bandages, some of the deeper cuts freshly broken open.  I hadn’t even noticed.

             
“Why’d you do it?” Logan asks grimly, peeling the old bandages from my skin.

             
I try not to wince, watching his dark head bent over me.  “You know why.”

             
“Why not use your thumb?”

             
“I did.  It wasn’t enough.”

             
He looks up at me, the long gash on his cheek black from scabbing and his eyes heavy.  “Because of me.”

             
I falter, unsure how to answer.  “Logan . . .”

             
He closes his eyes and sighs.  “Did it help?”

             
“For a minute,” I answer honestly.  “Then, no.”

             
Logan takes his time smoothing cream over the exposed cuts and unwrapping the bandages, applying them to my skin.  I watch him for a minute, wishing he’d look back up at me, wishing he’d say something, wishing I didn’t feel like I’d ruined him all over again.

             
“What are you thinking?” I ask when I can’t stand the silence anymore.

             
He finishes, gathering all the wrappers in one fist on his thigh before looking up at me.  His eyes are devastating. 

             
“I’m thinking I hate that you did this.  I’m thinking I gave you the idea and it makes me so sick I think I might puke.  I’m thinking I was just sitting here last night, right here, just killing time while you were across the street in so much pain you were hacking at yourself to try to make it stop.  And I’m thinking I’d do almost anything to keep you from feeling like that again.”

             
“I’m sorry.”

             
“For what?”

             
“Breaking my promise to you.”

             
“Yeah, well,” he shifts, painfully pushing to his feet.  “I haven’t slept for three whole days so I think we’ve both proven we’re not worth shit without the other.”

             
He turns and walks out of the room, and I can hear him banging around in the kitchen, hear the microwave for a minute before he comes back holding a steaming mug of tea.

             
“Here.  I don’t know how you drink this stuff.”

             
I take it gratefully, wrapping my fingers around the warm ceramic and sipping deeply while he slowly, carefully lowers himself next to me.  I can taste the honey he’d stirred into the simple green tea, sweet and smooth.  Logan slouches way down on the cushion, folding his hands over his stomach. 

             
“How do you know?” I ask as I sip.  “You don’t drink tea.”

             
“I thought it might help me sleep, but . . .” he trails off and shrugs, grimacing at the movement.

             
“When’s the last time you took painkillers?”

             
“I don’t know.  This morning.”

             
I shove up from the seat, pushing the tea onto the coffee table as I go.  When I come back I hand him a pill from each of the bottles I’d found on the counter and a glass of water.  He barely sets the glass down before his eyes start to close.

             
“Sleep,” I tell him, pulling his head down to my lap.

             
He goes easily, but then grips my arms in his hands, blinking at me blearily.

             
“Stay,” he mumbles.

             
I kiss him on the forehead, my fingers in his hair.  “I will.”

              I awake later, fully clothed and atop the covers in Logan’s bed, where I’d retreated to once he’d slipped into exhaustion on the couch.  The windows are black and I glance at the clock on my phone.  Four-forty. 

             
I roll onto my side, missing him beside me.  It’s strange to be in this bed without him, to be so far from his side.  How quickly I’d slipped back into the habit of him, like all along, through everything, deep down I’d known exactly where I belonged.  Where I was home.

             
Quietly I slip off the bed, sneaking down the hall to check on him.  He’s still asleep, his motionless form shadowed in the dark of the living room, one bare arm hanging in limp abandon off the edge of the couch.  Succumbed wholly to the oblivion of sleep after so long a deprivation.  I hesitate a second, just watching him, content just to be near him. 

             
He’d heard me.  Like I’d heard him.  Somehow, on that terrible night, we’d heard each other’s voices through the horror.  Somehow we’d connected to each other, needed each other.  Two years before we’d even met.

             
I love him so much I ache with it.

             
Silently I creep back to the bedroom, closing the door and leaning against it, my arms behind me so I feel the cool slab of the door around the freshly changed bandages on my arm.  The twinge of pressure doesn’t give me any satisfaction, though.  Not like it would’ve as little as ten hours ago, when I was still, impossibly, trying to adjust to the idea of a life without Logan. 

             
He was right.  Just like Trish was right.  I’m not okay, and I’m not worth shit without him.  I need him. 

             
But maybe he’s not okay either, and maybe, just maybe, he needs me, too. 

             
By the time I go to lie down again the light on my phone is blinking on the bedside table.  I pick it up and open the message.

             
Okay?

             
I smile despite myself and type,
I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to wake you up.