Summary: Changes. Blank slates. Business meetings, appointments and emails.
Today:
Her face was resolute, forced into a smile that was barely approachable and work-safe whenever a pair of familiar eyes made contact with hers. Her homecoming was stilted and slapdash. She chased away a bout of morning sickness with a third of a sleeve of Premium saltines and ginger tea. Her AMT’s effort at a welcome-back coffee hour fell flat when the scent of the cardboard carrier of Starbucks made her queasy; she offered polite replies to the predictable “How was your trip? How was it in Boston? Did you miss us?” before just as politely tripping off to the ladies’ room. She resumed the meeting, flat-voiced and green around the gills.
Her heels scraped over the same slate blue, low-nap carpeting. She navigated the same cubicle maze, groove seemingly worn into the floor, but she felt… lost. Off. Her attache felt heavier than usual; she tired of carrying it on her shoulder, blaming the crick in her neck for her discomfort. Sleep was her callous, absent friend.
The rest of the move went well enough. Cain and his friend, Tom, finished the heavy lifting and stowed all of her larger furniture in her unit. She unpacked a meager amount of clothing into her dresser, settled temporarily into what used to be her spare bedroom. The apartment didn’t smell like hers anymore. Her plants still graced the kitchen and living room.
“Eunice has missed ya,” Anna remarked as Ororo murmured over the spider fern and watered it delicately.
“Just as sensitive as pets, but easier to clean up after.”
The highlights of her day included an unexpected haggling match with her prospective landlord about the cost of the deposit, doing her level best not to pitch a hissy fit into her smartphone. Every time someone walked past her office door, she quickly lowered her voice to a hiss. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to suck it if he expected her to pay an extra two hundred dollars when he’d originally told her he would prorate her rent because she was moving in mid-month. She’d spent the want ads perusing apartment listings, hating herself when she confessed to Anna that she’d need to camp out a few more days. Anna hedged, sweet as syrup when she agreed, but her new “friend,” an auburn-haired, tall drink of water named Remy, made frequent house calls and liked to camp out with Anna, too. Ororo and Sleep weren’t on speaking terms, but Awkwardness arrived at the party and wouldn’t take hints that it was time to leave…
She dove into her team’s new business, writing rates like a fiend. It felt good to crunch numbers and research member lives and demographics, and her new account manager, Emma, was a bit of a shrew, granted, but she was more independent than Selene and didn’t seem to need any help wiping her ass.
Lunch consisted of more saltines, bottled water, and three no-thank-you bites of a Subway sandwich that tasted like cardboard before she had to chuck it into her wastebasket. Relief to be back where she belonged fueled her day up until about three, but she was flagging, fading, and her feet seemed to swell up, cramming her toes painfully into her patent leather pumps.
And she thought of him. She measured every male voice she heard in the halls and cubicles and board rooms, discarding each one for tone, pitch, mannerism, patina and accent. Each one was wrong. Dark heads and broad backs briefly caught her attention, then left her mired in disappointment when she didn’t see his swarthy skin and rugged features. Ororo shrugged to herself. They were better off.
Weren’t they?
The pain throbbed, then ebbed, worse whenever she finished a task and came up for air. She rose and stretched, trying to work out the crick, and she drifted over to her window, grateful her office was one of the few on her floor that had one. The traffic built itself up to a dull roar, preparing itself for rush hour. Luxury cars’ impeccably waxed paint reflected the silhouettes of multi-story buildings and neon “Open” signs, contrasting with the borrowed supermarket carts of homeless denizens tragically overdressed in every piece of clothing they owned, their lives stuffed into threadbare backpacks. A gaggle of girls garbed in black school sweaters and plaid uniform skirts mobbed a hot dog cart and dropped loose coins into a street guitarist’s case; Ororo wondered what song he played.
Her stand-up break ended prematurely. She startled at the sound of her office intercom. “Tory, call on line two. It’s Donald Pierce.” She sighed heavily as she returned to her swivel chair and punched the speaker button.
“Hullo, Don.”
“How was your trip?” he boomed cheerfully. “All settled in?”
“More or less.”
“Has Emma brought you up to speed?”
“Still jogging along.” She gave his voice an insincere smile as she fiddled with her pen, rolling it through her knuckles one at a time. “She knows her stuff.”
“That she does. I know you’ll be a good fit. We’ll miss you in our market, Ororo.”
“Miss you guys, too.” Scott came to mind, and Yukio, her only two real friends at their sister site. The memory of a smoky voice and brown eyes she could drown in saddened her.
“I know it’s after the fact, Ororo, but we sent you out there with a souvenir.”
“Oh? What kind?”
“A broker,” he told her smugly. “We sent our cracker jack sales guy out there to the Big Apple with you. He should be arriving about now.”
Her heart tripped, and she broke out in prickles. “What?”
“Check your email. It was just announced to distribution, but I thought Selene had mentioned it to you by now.”
“Um… she didn’t get around to it. Sure she was busy… excuse me, Donald, but I’m… I’m being pulled away. Sorry.” OhGodOhGodOhGod. Ororo breathed out through her nose, trying to master her panic and shock.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not bad, just… at a tricky one. I’d better skedaddle,” she babbled. “Don, it was great to hear from you, sorry I’ve gottamakethisshortbutI’dbettergo-“ Her heel tapped a mad tattoo on the floor, and she was shaking and fidgeting all over. Logan’s coming out here???
“All right, Ororo. It’s been great working with you, a real treat. We’ll keep in touch, and don’t be a stranger to the Boston office. We consider you family. ‘Bye, now.”
“Bye,” she yelped, punching the speaker button and propelling herself from her chair. She paced, wiping away the sheen of sweat that broke out across her cheeks from nowhere. “Shit,” she hissed, “shitshitshitshit…”
What did that mean? What the hell could it possibly mean? Sent him to the Big Apple? With her? She regretted not pressing Donald for more answers while she had him on the line, but she was to rattled and needed time to herself to process it all. Logan was coming to New York.
“And he’s arriving- just about now???” Her eyes flitted to the clock, and she collapsed back into her chair. Feverishly she clicked back into her Outlook inbox and scanned the red flagged items. Five messages down was an AMT distribution with “IMPORTANT” in the subject line. Weren’t they all? She opened it, holding her breath, then read it aloud.
“It’s both to my pleasure and regret that I announce that our northern market broker of select and flexible products for medium to large groups, James Howlett, will be transferring to our sister site in New York City. Please join me in extending congratulations and best wishes to him. He will work out of that market in his new role, effective today.” She paused on that last word, voice dying. “Wow.” She leaned back in her chair, fanning air on her hot cheeks with her small notepad.
Her intercom chirped at her again. “Yes?” she asked with some effort.
“You have a visitor coming up, just got on the elevator down here.” Ororo’s office was on the third floor. Her stomach flipped.
“Oh, God.” She got up and paced again, scraping back her long bangs. These things didn’t happen to her. Ever. Her life was organized. Her day planned was her Bible, her smartphone alerts held her Ten Commandments. Ororo didn’t like being caught off-guard or at a loss. She’d known too much loss, and ignorance wasn’t blissful.
A quick glance at her reflection in her glass pane of her door told her that she was a wreck. She straightened her bangs and retouched her lipstick, retucked her blouse and put her blazer back on, even though her office was stifling, and the air conditioning lagged, taking its sweet time to kick on when she adjusted the thermostat. She paced. She fretted. She sat down, then stood up again, running scenarios through her head, trying to shake off the cold fear…
…mingling with sheer exhilaration that burned in her veins.
She schooled her expression and sat back down, resuming the colossal task of cleaning out her inbox. She deleted five server-generated messages that she was using up too much space on the network first.
*
Last week:
His face was a grim mask, even after his first cup of caffeine. The other riders in the elevator gave him several inches’ berth, feeling the low, palpable thrum of hostility and determination radiating from him, a walking, breathing, ass-kicking wrapped in an Armani suit.
The weather was eighty and humid, Boston tiptoeing its way toward summer days, and the tie and jacket were stifling him. His fingers tired of the feel of the leather briefcase handle; his nod to the receptionist was obligatory and brief, one more obstacle on his way to his office. He strode into it reluctantly, logging into his PC while he was still standing up.
His inbox, unsurprisingly, was full. He enjoyed each savage slice of the letter opener through his mail, needing to destroy something, somehow, to take the edge off the weekend’s failures. His head wasn’t in work this morning; his heart was lying in smithereens on her freshly swiffered linoleum. He felt hollow and thrown aside. Logan chucked the empty envelopes dispassionately into the trash and checked his messages.
Scott entered his office as he knocked, not waiting for a welcome. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You look like hell.”
“Yeah. Funny story.” Scott sighed and sat across from him, idly swirling the contents of his coffee mug.
“What are you going to do?”
“What I haven’t done,” Logan shrugged. “Be more direct.” Scott’s expression was worried as he eyed him over the edge of his cup.
“Do I need to post bail?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Seriously. How much bail are we talking, here? I just paid off my car and had new linoleum installed in my condo. I might have to move a few things around if you need a big bond, Jim.”
“Back when Tory and I got into this mess, we weren’t playin’ it safe, Summers. Playin’ it safe now isn’t gonna get us out.” Logan dug his smartphone out of his briefcase and punched in his passcode. Scott felt his agitation and fidgeted in his seat.
“Meaning?”
“I can’t let her leave things like this.”
“She left you, though. That said plenty.”
“Bullshit. She left a lot unsaid. She ran off again. That kinda thing’s a habit of hers we’re gonna hafta work on.”
“What are you going to do?” Scott repeated, his tone cautious this time. He didn’t like Logan’s blank look and unsettling calm.
“I’ve got a meeting with Donald and Selene. I’m conferencing in the Westchester office, too.” Logan imported his calendar entries from his Outlook into his phone and set reminders. “Boston’s feeling too quiet, lately.” Scott choked on a sip of his coffee. “Easy. Don’t hork it out yer nose, Summers.”
“*…uuurrggh* Geez… Logan. Tell me I’m not hearing what I think I am. You’re leaving this site?”
“New York isn’t a white space state. We’ve got a thriving market out there. I just renewed my license, so I’m rearing to go.”
“You’re serious.”
“When ain’t I?” Scott sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“Logan… you watched her leave. You helped her move, fer cryin’ out loud. Shouldn’t the two of you talked it out more before she hired a truck?”
“I did what I was supposed to do. I didn’t make any demands. I gave her space. I didn’t breathe down her neck. I was a gentleman, and I got a so-long for my troubles. She’s leaving me high and dry.”
“Did you tell her you love her?” Scott asked quietly. Logan paused in his email, rapidly clicking fingers stilling over the keys, and he exhaled loudly. “Is that a no?”
“Did I tell her… fuck. Didn’t get much of a word in edgewise over her whole ‘things won’t work between us because we’re too different’ spiel, or her overall hangup that two people can’t make a relationship based on a night of knock-down, drag-out sex.”
“Seems like you’ve been making one. You’re not exactly Ward and June, but it’ll do. My thoughts, which I know you don’t wanna hear, boil down to this: Go. Crawling. Back. Give her the ‘L’ word.”
“’L’ for ‘left my ass out in the cold again?’”
“Stop,” Scott snapped, waving him off. “Logan. C’mon. I’ve seen you happy. I’ve seen you in love before. This is you in love, and in a world of hurt if you don’t fix this. This isn’t as cut and dried as just chasing her down to a different state. How are you two going to work through this?”
“It’s not just about her and me anymore. Baby’s gonna make three, Summers.” Scott choked on his coffee again.
“Come… again?” he rasped. His dark eyes were watering, and he banged on his chest, gathering his wits and breath.
“She took a little surprise with her back to New York. There’s no way I’m not getting involved. I lost out once. I lost everything.” His voice was rough and faltered slightly. “I haven’t slept. I can’t focus on work. I can’t think about anything but her, Summers, and everything that she’s taking away from me right now, if I don’t get off my ass and do something about it.”
“Don’t make it all about what she’s taking away.”
“It is!” Logan retorted, drawing together his heavy brows. His stance was tight and hard.
“If she left, she thought there was something you aren’t willing to give her.”
“What about what she won’t give me? I know how ta commit, but the last I checked, that doesn’t involve running away when things get a little heated.”
“Her job was in jeopardy. You knew that, right? Selene was riding her. She didn’t just sit there and take it; give her credit for not just whining about the problem. She did something about it.”
“Life ain’t just about careers. Tory thinks she’s gotta be uptight to get the job done, and then she takes on too much, and takes too much bullshit from everyone involved.”
“Ever thought supporting her might have helped things between you two?”
“She didn’t want my support. She wanted me to tell her she was always right.”
“She’s the underwriter, and a damn good one. She usually is right.” Scott acted like it was the second thing Logan should have learned in kindergarten after saying please and thank you. “It’s her job to keep you on track and compliant.”
“I know how to be compliant!”
“Why do your select plans always end up modified and going to Regulatory for review?”
“Fuck off.”
“I rest my case.”
“She didn’t want me to rush in like some knight in shining armor and fight her battles.”
“No. But maybe she would’ve liked knowing you were in her corner.”
“If she doesn’t know that by now, Scotty, then I’ve been doing it all wrong.” Logan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yer the only client service rep I don’t wanna punch in the face. Ya know that, right?”
“I’m honored.”
“Keep in touch. And, Logan? Take it easy on her.”
“Scout’s honor. I’ll be sweet as pie.”
“Give her a hug for me.” Scott’s eyes twinkled.
“Fuck off.”
*
Right now:
The elevator takes its time, too much for his taste. His stomach reminds him that the overpriced pack of Pringles and dry-tasting sandwich he had on the plane wasn’t enough, and the cookie cart in the subway tunnel food court sold him a piss-poor excuse for a cup of coffee. He’s overdressed for New York’s humidity, more accustomed to Massachusetts’ weather that seemed to change every ten minutes. He chafes and tugs at his tie, loosening it slightly as he enters the crowded corridor. Staff milled around like they had nothing stacked on their desk, even though it was shaping up to be a busy renewal season. No one pays him much attention, just another suit and shiny pair of shoes, walking with a purpose.
He catches his reflection in the pane of a snack machine in a nearby break room as he asks which way to the underwriter’s office. He rakes his fingers through his hair, noticing it’s slightly flat where he nodded off against the subway car window. Logan and Sleep aren’t on speaking terms, and its beginning to show.
He’s stiff as a board, loaded for bear… yet so anxious for one look at her, needing to hear those lips say his name. His pulse is racing and he feels too hot and hemmed in by the building’s slate gray interiors and upholstered cubicle walls and marble-look Formica countertops. There are too many steps between Logan and his goal, too many bodies to weave between, too many voices clamoring over his thoughts for dominance.
His throat is dry as his eyes land on her door pane, reading the tiny, nondescript lettering of her name, “Ororo V. Munroe” emblazoned on the sedate plaque. He pauses, masters himself, then knocks briskly on her door. He doesn’t wait for her to tell him to come in.
She looks up calmly, composed and decked out in too many damn clothes for his liking, hair pulled back mercilessly into a chignon. “James.” Those perfectly painted lips move, but the voice isn’t the one from his dreams. There’s little emotion in it. She rises smoothly from her seat and meets him at the door. His pulse is hammering in his throat, but she reaches for his carryall, stunning him by taking it from him. She hangs it up on her coatrack by the strap and beckons to him to enter so that she can gently close the door.
He can’t know, doesn’t have so much as an inkling that she’s drinking in his scent, needing his presence more than oxygen.
“It’s Logan. It’s always gonna be Logan.”
“Welcome to New York, Logan,” she tells him dryly. Her smile is brittle. She rocks her weight to one hip and folds her arms. “How was your trip?”
“Do ya really wanna know how my trip was?” Annoyance blossoms and pries at his skull, clawing its way in.
“I’m all ears.”
“How was my trip. I’ll lay it on ya. Hope it’s entertaining. I got up at the ass-crack of dawn and was told that my flight was delayed by an equipment failure. I got stuck in commuter class behind two screaming babies and stuck sitting next to a guy who no doubt ate a truckload of scrambled eggs for breakfast, if the way he kept lighting up that seat with his farts was any clue.” Her lips twitch at this. “I get stuck in a teleconference with Charlie about my schedule for the month and two more groups he wants me to add on.” Charles Xavier was the eastern regional director and not a man whose appointments you skipped out on. “Your red line sucks, by the way.”
“No different from riding the T,” she shrugs, but she almost pities him. “Pull up a chair.” She sits back in her own seat and crosses her long legs, which tempt him.
“Don’t worry, darlin’. I ain’t staying long. I’ve got another appointment.”
“Who with?” She hides her disappointment behind a small swig from her water bottle.
“Property manager over on Westchester Avenue. I’m touring a couple of apartments and turning in my paperwork.”
“Apartments? Paperwork?” The blood drains from her face, and her heart pounds, but his only indication of her distress is her slow change in posture. She leans forward in her seat and folds her hands on her desk, but her knuckles are white. “You’re…staying?”
“Moving,” he corrects her. “Been doing a lot of that lately. Thought I couldn’t look another cardboard box in the eye, but it didn’t take me too long to pack up my pod. They’re moving my stuff in two days.”
“Oh.”
“Pretty warm welcome, there, darlin’. I’m feeling overwhelmed, here.” Her blue eyes flit away for a moment, then return to his face, drinking in every detail and measuring the intent of his words.
“You’re here in New York. To stay.”
“Gotta read those emails.”
“Oh, I did. I’m still getting settled in, but I’ve gotten that far.” She gnaws the corner of her lip. “Won’t it be hard to live so far away from your family?”
“Not all of my family lives in Boston.” His tone is bland, but he exhales roughly, silently asking her Why did you even go there?
“Right. Not all.”
“Are ya happy to be back?” he inquires, baiting her.
“Oh, yes.”
“Ya sure?”
“So glad.” Her smile is cool, and he longs to shake her.
“Missed it that much?”
“Terribly.” She won’t tell him that she feels off-balance, or that she took some of Boston home with her, and that the memory of him still sings in her blood.
“Anyway. I’ve got another meeting. Wanted to check in on you for a minute.”
“You didn’t have to go out of your way.”
“I’m a handful of states out of my way. We need to talk, when you have time. About those arrangements you said we’d make.”
“Logan…”
“It’s gotta be done. That talk’s gotta be had. This is it. I’m meeting you where you live. No more running away.”
“I have a doctor already,” she blurted out. “She’s… the same one I had last time.” His face softens slightly.
“Is she good?”
“Yes. I have an appointment next week.”
“What day?” He instantly reaches for his phone, but she is up in a flash, covering the small screen with her hand.
“Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to go to the trouble.”
“This ain’t trouble. Don’t you dare. Don’t. You. Dare.” His voice is quiet steel, and he gently snatches his hand out from beneath hers, depriving himself of her brief, cool touch. “You want arrangements. You want things organized. You’ve got a neat and tidy little plan, and yer gonna share that plan with me. What day and time, Ororo?”
“Logan…”
“What time?” he repeats, giving her another opportunity to process what he’s asking for. She sighs, worn down and lacking arguments, something out of character for her.
“Nine. Tuesday the fifth.”
“I can move some things around. I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Fine.” The word is a bullet aimed from carefully glossed lips.
“Of course it’s fine.” Ororo hates how Logan mimicks her tone and shakes his head sadly. “Ororo… I don’t wanna do this. Not this way.”
“What way? Didn’t you mean to barge your way back in to my life?” she asks with a shrug. He feels resentment for him rising within her, sparking from her blue eyes.
“It ain’t just your life. But if ya want me to be honest, lady, then yeah. Bargin’ in’s what I do best.” Her nostrils flare slightly with her loud breath. “We’re gonna talk about those plans. We’re gonna make ‘em together.” Something hopeful flickers inside her, and he feels it resonating between them. “We’ll figure this out.”
“Famous last words,” she murmurs doubtfully.
“C’mon, Tory…”
“Let’s stick with Ororo, for right now.” He huffs, chuckling at her. Stubborn as ever.
“We’ll be in touch, Ororo.” He turned from her and headed for the coat rack, taking his carryall. She rose and followed him sedately toward the door. “Still have the same cell?”
“Uh-huh. You?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, then.” Her hands itch to touch him, and some needy voice inside her screams at her not to let him leave, not to leave things this way.
“Okay, then.” He feels her heat at his back, even though no physical contact is made between them, and he smells her perfume. That old urge is driving him crazy, and his fingers twitch as she leans around him to open the door. He sighs. “Shit…”
“What…mmmmmmmmpphh…” It’s too much for him, and it’s been too damned long since he’s touched her, even though she’s infuriating him, testing him, but he reaches for the door and slams it shut, drops the carryall, turns around and reaches for her in one motion. He consumes the strangled little whimper from her lush, soft mouth, fingers working their way into her hair. She startles at the feel of him, realizing that yes, this is happening, and this is how he tastes, and his arm locked around her waist is strong, supple and hard. “Mmmmmmm…” She doesn’t want to talk anymore. He doesn’t want anymore excuses or another turn in the pissing contest between them. Her palms slide up the solid planes of his chest, arms coiling around his shoulders, and it feels like coming home.
The sound of the lock clicking on the door knob distracts her from the passion boiling in her veins. “What are you-“
“Go with it,” he mutters over her lips, devouring them, and she moans in agreement.
“That’s fine.”
“Fine, then.”
She remembers where they are between kisses, despite the sweet insanity his teeth and tongue are wreaking at her throat, and Ororo grabs the rod hanging from the vertical blinds covering the door pane and gives it a couple of savage twists. He spins her around and backs her up against it, making blinds rattle, and his fingers are busy prying open the buttons of her blazer. She kicks off one of the torturous shoes and slides her heel up the back of his calf, an open invitation. He heeds her call and deepens their kiss, cranking up the heat ten notches. She doesn’t fight it when her hairpins hit the floor with tiny pings, or when his fingers thread through the thick mass; the bun was giving her a headache, anyway, and his caress feels so good. Logan’s hands slide her skirt north, heedless of how nicely it was ironed at the dry cleaners. She feels the draft against her rump as he bunches it up at her waist, then reaches down to wrap her legs around his waist. He carries her to the desk. It’s too cluttered. One sweep of his arm clears the way, sending her inbox, pencil cup, magnetized paper clip holder and stapler flying in all directions.
“Want you.”
“Missed you,” he hisses back as she relieves him of the stifling Windsor knot of his silk tie. They grapple for his belt buckle. Ororo takes his hand and covers her breast with it, and he concedes, letting her have her way with his pants. Gravity and need tip her back against the desk top, taking him with her. He tugs down the waistband of her pantyhose with his teeth, and she’s glad to be well rid of those, too, aroused by the cool air bathing her skin and the wicked look in his eyes. They’ve always stopped at this point or been interrupted. Logan turned off his cell the moment he entered the building, and Ororo’s calendar isn’t cluttered with meetings yet, having been back too briefly.
Her blazer is growing hopelessly crushed and wrinkled beneath them. His shirt is hanging open, offering her the view of his chest; its crisp hairs tickle her flesh as he covers her, briefly, to drown in her softness afforded by her gaping blouse and unhooked bra. They linger there wordlessly, hungrily, their kisses making up for lost time and the indignity of his flight. She cries out in protest as he draws back, but his fingertips skim over her lips, and she suckles them, drawing them down into her mouth. Logan groans, removing them reluctantly after a few pulls, already rock-hard and aching with need. He loops her legs over his shoulders, strokes the velvety, slick crease of her sex, and sheathes himself fully; he nearly collapses from her snug grip and how she milks him, squeezing him, welcoming him properly at last.
“Logan,” she husks roughly, “take me.”
“Ain’t gotta ask, Tory,” he rasps. And his hips drive home the point again. And again. She bites her lip against crying out, disciplined as he’s accustomed to hearing her, but low whimpers and gasps fill his ears, evoking a smirk from him, the first smile she’s seen from him since his arrival at her door. His fingers press into her long, supple thighs as he finds purchase within her depths and his own rhythm, and he rubs his cheek along her knee, kissing it before he returns to thrusting, taking them both where they need to go.
Her eyes drift shut in pleasure, but he keeps her present with occasional sharp, hard thrusts that make them snap open and focus on him and the desire in his face, for her. Only her. His face is strained, but the tenderness in his eyes is her undoing. Explosive sensations in her core build at an overwhelming pace and she sees spots dancing behind her eyes. “Logan,” she breathes. “Oh, Logan. Please.”
“Damn it,” he grates through his teeth. She is so beautiful, writhing beneath him, clenching him so tight, her fingers clutching the weave of his pants legs, her feet bouncing off his back, and he knows he’s nearly done, teetering over the edge. Skilled fingers stroke her, searching for and finding the sweet, hidden little pearl, and he caresses it, creating the tiniest hint of friction. Her breath catches in her throat, chest rising and falling more rapidly as he drives her toward her peak, and she feels him stiffen further within her, signaling his completion. They fall over the edge together, and he lowers her legs as his pelvis spasms, wringing out a few more thrills between them, transferring her legs around his waist instead, where she cradles him, supporting him as he rides it out.
Replete, limp, boneless, they sag against each other and listen to each other’s breathing. His is sawing out of his chest, steaming her throat and stirring her hair; he jerks slightly at her light caress, hands skimming over the expanse of his back.
“You have my cell,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“Tuesday the fifth.”
“At nine. Right.”
“Okay.” Sweat’s cooling on their bodies, and their rapport evaporates with it as they slowly detach and right themselves, fingers finding fastenings and adjusting briefs. She turns from him as she hops less than gracefully back into her stockings and lets her skirt hem drop back into place, hopelessly crumpled.
Logan isn’t faring any better. He takes it out on his necktie, forcing it back into some semblance of the knot he left the airport with, but it feels like a waste of time. She wants to say something, but the words won’t come. He isn’t looking at her when she glances at him, and she finds herself turning away, retrieving her shoes and bobby pins from the floor. As she is halfway through re-coiling her bun, he lets the door swing shut behind him.
She stares after him, confused and bereft.
“Damn you, Logan.”
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