Stranded With a Billionaire (23 page)

Gretchen didn’t look up from the screen. “See you.”

Brontë went to bed, and just like she’d promised, her thoughts were entirely of Logan.

***

The next night, Logan took her out to a popular Broadway show, and she had an amazing time. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow when he produced box seats instead of ones in the nosebleed section. Afterward, they went out for drinks and spent the evening talking and laughing together. She told him about her childhood in the Midwest, and he told her about his adventures at boarding school as a boy. When they parted that night, he simply given her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

The next night, he took her ice skating at Rockefeller, determined to show her a good time even if it meant hitting every tourist hot spot that New York had to offer. She didn’t care, though. She loved the sheer fun of being out with him, seeing all the famous places around town. Holding hands with him as they careened around the ice. She laughed the entire time, and even Logan’s serious face had a smile on it.

Of course, that night, he gave her just a caress on the cheek and a quick peck before leaving her on the stoop, her pulse throbbing with unfulfilled desire.

She knew he was doing it on purpose, of course. If she wanted to have a few dates just as a normal couple, they’d take it slow. Extremely slow. That had been her plan, after all. A week or two of just dating.

Unfortunately for her, the plan was backfiring in a major way. By the time they went on a walk through Central Park two days later, his every touch sent a ripple of desire through her body. Her nipples were hard enough at his nearness that she wore several layers of clothing to cover it up. And when he leaned in to nuzzle the nape of her neck in a quietly affectionate move, her knees went weak, her sex instantly wet.

This was not exactly how she’d planned for the week to go. She said nothing, of course, though she might have rubbed up against Logan’s thigh a bit more than she should have in the carriage ride around the park, and when he held her close, she might have pushed her hips back suggestively. Her skin was heated and flushed with need, but he only gave her a light kiss on the lips.

If this is how he thinks normal people date
, she thought wryly,
he is going to be very surprised when I jump his bones in the next date or two
. She had wanted to move slow with Logan to prove that the real spark was there between them. However, he had apparently interpreted “slow” as “glacial.”

She couldn’t really complain, though. His schedule kept him busy in the daytime, though he’d send her occasional text messages throughout the day to let her know what their plans were for that evening, or simply to tell her he was thinking about her. When she’d told him she was looking forward to their date, he’d sent back a quote that made her heart flutter with delight.

“. . . and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment . . .”

She’d been giddy over that single text. She hadn’t even corrected him considering that was a quote from a satire of love. It was meant from the heart from Logan, and that was all that counted.

Meanwhile Gretchen, who was still on deadline and crankier than ever, complained that Brontë was too easily swayed. And maybe it was true.

But she knew it was love. At least, it was on her end. Love and desire and need and want all mixed into one giant bundle of nerves. And while she knew it was love, she also knew one other thing for certain.

She wasn’t going to be the one to say it first. Not this time.

Chapter Twelve

Logan told Brontë to ask Cooper for the day off on Monday. She asked, with a bemused smile on her face. Cooper was confused about the situation, of course. Since Logan was in the process of buying the coffee shop, and she was dating Logan, did she really have to ask Cooper?

Yes, Brontë informed him. She did.

She got the day off, of course.

When Logan showed up with the limo, she should have been mad at him, but he had such a I-know-I’ve-been-bad smile on his face that she couldn’t get upset. Instead, she eyed the car and then his clothing, noting that despite the expensive wheels, he was dressed down in jeans and a ribbed sweater. “What’s with the limo?”

“We need a ride out to where we’re going today.”

She crossed her arms but couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “We do, huh?”

“We do,” he agreed, and produced a blindfold. “Unless you don’t mind walking the streets blindfolded. This is for you.”

Skeptical, Brontë took the length of fabric from him. “Blindfolded?”

“For our surprise date.” He took it from her and gestured for her to turn around.

Obediently, she turned, biting back her smile. She could feel his fingers moving over the back of her head, and skitters of delight moved through her at even that simple touch. When his hand clasped her arm, she jumped in surprise, gasping.

“Did I startle you?”

“No, I-I’m okay.” Her nipples were hard, though. Embarrassingly so. “How long do I have to wear this?”

“Until we get there,” he told her, and then led her into the limo.

It was impossible to tell how far they were driving—she couldn’t see a clock or see the streets to know where they were headed. Her entire world became the interior of the car and, more precisely, Logan’s large body next to hers in the backseat, his thigh warm next to her own. Her senses were enveloped with his nearness, and just the occasional whiff of his aftershave was driving her wild with need.

When he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, she tilted her head back, hoping he would kiss her. Instead, his thumb lightly traced the contours of her lips. The tender touch sent sensations cascading through her, and Brontë could barely breathe for the ache in her breast . . . and between her legs. God, she needed him. This was torture. Her breasts yearned for his touch, and her entire body felt attuned to him. Without the ability to see, all her other senses seemed to have come alive, and she was on fire with longing.

The car stopped, and Logan shifted next to her.

“Are we there?” Her voice was breathless and husky.

“Not quite,” Logan said. He took her hand in his and led her out of the car. “This is as far as the limo goes, though.”

Brontë tilted her head, wishing she could see his expression. She listened to the sounds around her—lots of people. Outdoors. But where? She wasn’t familiar with the city. “When can I take this off?”

“Now,” he said, and his hands moved to her hair.

He untied the knot, and she caught the blindfold in her hands, tugging it down off of her face, eyes open-wide to interpret what she was seeing.

People everywhere. A park with tall trees, and a large brick wall. Signs stood by the entrance, and she quickly scanned one. One gave ferry rates . . .

“The Statue of Liberty,” she gasped, delighted. Brontë turned back to Logan, unable to contain her smile. “Is that where we’re going?”

“It is.” He looked pleased at her response. “Come on.”

It was the most ridiculously touristy thing they’d done so far, but she loved every moment of it. They rode the ferry across the water to Ellis Island and the museum. Logan held her hand in his as they walked the grounds, their headsets on as they shuffled along listening to the tour. They stopped by the gift shop, and she got a Statue of Liberty T-shirt, postcards, and several pens for her friends back home. Once she’d finished her shopping, they went on to Liberty Island. The Statue was fascinating, and she stared up at it with wide eyes, delighted.

“Do you want a photo?” He asked. “I seem to recall that you wanted your picture taken in front of the Statue of Liberty.”

She nodded, beaming at him. “Want to do one together?”

“Of course.”

They took pictures in front of the Statue, pausing to switch off so they could both have photos on their individual phones. Brontë laughed at the sight of them in one shot. “Your eyes are closed in my picture, Logan. We have to take it again.”

“Let’s change up our pose, then,” he said, and took the phone from her, holding it low so the picture would be an uptilted view.

And he leaned in and very lightly kissed her mouth.

Immediate heat flushed through her body. Brontë clung to him, her hands going to his cheeks and anchoring her mouth against his. She’d wanted this for what felt like forever, and when his lips parted, she took advantage and swept her tongue into his mouth, letting him know her need. He groaned low in his throat at her kiss, and then his tongue was rubbing up against hers. An ache settled low in Brontë’s hips, and she whimpered in response.

Logan slowly pulled away from her lips and grinned down at her. “Let’s hope that photo turned out.”

Dazed, she stared up at him, and reached out to take the phone back. The photo was tilted awkwardly, and the Statue wasn’t even in the picture. “It’s fine,” she murmured, still flushed and tingling.

“It’s not. We need to do it again,” he said, and his hand went around her waist as he took the phone back from her. He angled it up once more, adjusted it, then leaned in and began to kiss her again. The kiss this time didn’t start off delicate. His mouth immediately claimed hers, sending driving desire rocketing through her. Over and over, his mouth slanted over hers, tongue licking at hers in a way that made her knees weak. People were probably watching, and she didn’t care.

She nearly sagged when he released her again, and glanced down at the phone. “Better?” She asked in a wobbly voice, clinging to him.

“My eyes are closed again,” he said, and couldn’t hide the triumphant expression on his face. “We should do it one more time.”

“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose,” Brontë protested, but her words were cut off by the heated kiss he bestowed on her mouth again. And oh, God, desire was hammering staccato notes through her body, and all her nerve endings seemed to be demanding one thing. His body, over hers. In hers. ASAP. All this dating and yearning seemed like one big cruel tease at the moment.

Endless, endless foreplay
, she thought, lost in the feel of his mouth against hers. A low moan almost escaped her when he pulled away, but she bit it back. His gaze moved over her face with that same heated look that she was positive was plastered all over her own face. She licked her lips and nearly moaned again, because she could taste him on her skin.

Logan glanced down at her phone, and then handed it to her. “Perfect.”

Dazed, Brontë stared down at the picture. A hot flush crept over her cheeks—in the photo, she was clinging to Logan, the two of them wrapped around each other, the Statue looming in the distance.

She loved that picture.

He leaned in and her breath caught. She stared up at him, hoping for another kiss, but his mouth moved to her ear.

“I want you,” he told her. And he bit her earlobe.

She did moan then, the sound low and full of longing.

“Shall we find someplace private?” he asked her, still nibbling on her ear and making her bones turn to liquid. “Get to know each other a little better . . . all over again?”

“M-my place,” she breathed. “Not yours.”

“That’s fine. Your roommate?”

“Working today,” Brontë told him, and was suddenly wildly thankful that Gretchen had a job of some kind that got her out of the apartment. “All ours.”

“Good,” he told her, and the sound was full of so much satisfaction and promise that she went weak in the knees all over again.

Brontë clung to him on the ferry ride back to Battery Park. His arms were wrapped around her, and she had gone all too easily into his embrace. Waiting to get back to the apartment was a slow, delicious torture, but it gave her time to think . . . and stew in her own thoughts.

He’d taken her out to Liberty Island to see the Statue. Brontë thought of her comment on the plane ride to New York. She’d asked him about seeing the Statue and teased him about how clichéd it was and how she still wanted to do it. Such a small, offhand comment, but he’d remembered it. He’d remembered that she loved sightseeing and had wanted to see the city, and had taken her on a tour of New York City with every date. Even when Logan was deliberate, he was thoughtful.

And he’d completely stolen her heart.

Gretchen had warned her about falling too fast all over again, but this was Logan.
Her
Logan. Warm and delicious and handsome and thoughtful . . .

And totally loaded. And all wrong for a poor Midwestern waitress.

Well, she wouldn’t worry about that right now. They were heading back to her apartment she shared temporarily with Gretchen, and they were going to make love. Her body thrummed and ached with need for him.

He hadn’t told her he loved her, though.

She wouldn’t tell him she loved him, either. This, she told herself, was just mutual using. Both parties seeking satisfaction. No emotions had to be involved, really. It was just the natural progression of a normal relationship, after all.

It sounded totally convincing in her head.

Truth was, their relationship had never been all that normal. From the moment she’d met Logan until now, it seemed they’d done everything half backward and sideways.

He wasn’t the right guy for her in the long run, she told herself. No billionaire could see himself with a waitress long-term. Those sorts of things were generally pretty incompatible.

But she could enjoy him while she had him. And she would. She would think about the future some other time.

***

Logan rubbed Brontë’s should
er as she leaned against him in the car. The drive to Gretchen’s apartment was fucking endless, and his entire body sang with a need to pull Brontë into his lap, tear down her panties, and drive into her.

But he had to be patient. She was calling the shots for now, because she needed to feel comfortable again. That was why they were going all the way across town to Gretchen’s apartment instead of heading to his place on the Upper East Side. Brontë was in control.

At least until he got her naked and squirming under him. Then he was taking control, and he’d make sure she was screaming her pleasure before he even thought about his own.

He nearly swore with relief when the apartment building came into sight. He opened the door, got out, and then held the door for Brontë. He gave the driver a nod, signaling that he wouldn’t need his services for the rest of the evening, and then wrapped his arm around Brontë’s waist again.

She stared up at him with a soft, passion-dazed expression that made his cock hard. “What about your driver?”

“I dismissed him for the night.” He met her gaze, almost daring her to contradict him and send him home with a peck on the cheek—like he’d been doing to her—and a raging hard-on.

He forced himself to be patient as Brontë fumbled with the keys, and then they climbed the stairs of the walk-up. By the time they got to Gretchen’s floor, he was pretty sure he would kill Audrey’s sister if they opened the door and found her standing there. His cock was so hard he ached, and he’d just spent four flights of stairs gazing up at Brontë’s perfect ass as it flexed with every step.

To his relief, the apartment was dark. Brontë flipped on a light when they entered, and a wrinkly gray animal darted across the room, startling Logan. “What was that?”

Brontë seemed amused by his reaction, her laughter chasing away the soft desire in her face. “That’s Igor. He’s a hairless cat.”

He glanced at the animal, which seemed to be all ears and wrinkles. It stared back at him with wide golden eyes. “Hideous.”

“It does take some getting used to,” she agreed with a smile.

“Can you shut him away in Gretchen’s room?”

“I can,” she said, and her voice had gone all breathy again. She bent low and snapped her fingers, and the cat darted over to her. Brontë scooped it up in her arms and disappeared into a side room, returning a moment later and shutting the door behind her. Her cheeks were flushed as if she’d been running . . . or was aroused. The anticipation was getting to her.

Good. Because it was driving him mad. Had been for the past week.

Brontë was gazing up at him, her eyes shining with a look that seemed half expectant, half anxious. Her expression was so full of emotion that it was driving him wild . . . and tormenting him. There was hurt in her eyes—hurt that he’d put there. And a little bit of fear that she might get hurt again.

They needed to move past that moment. And he had an idea of how to do that.

He pulled the blindfold back out of his pocket again and offered it to her. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”

Her eyes widened as she looked down at it, then up at him, realizing what was about to happen. “I . . . Logan . . .”

“You can say no,” he told her. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

She nodded, swallowing, and then her entire face seemed to flush red as she took the blindfold from his hand with trembling fingers and lifted it to her eyes. “Would you tie me?”

An innocent question, but it fired his blood. He moved behind her, taking the ends of the blindfold from her and tying them against the back of her head. She was standing there, stiff and wooden, so he leaned in and whispered huskily in her ear. “Too tight?”

She jumped, her elbow nearly slamming into his jaw. “N-no! It’s fine.” Her hands reached for him. “Just a little unnerving is all.” She turned and grasped his jacket in her hands and then gave it a small tug. “Should we go to my room?”

“I’ll lead the way,” he told her, and swept her into his arms, enjoying the muffled sound of surprise she made and the way she clung to him. Desire surged through him, mixing with triumph. He’d won her back. She was in his arms, and he was going to make love to her and show her that he’d never wavered.