Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 107508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Uncomfortable? I assume it’s having your pussy tight to my ass that has you—uncomfortable.” His lips quirked upward, and it catapulted me back to when he’d been eyeing a bike at the corner store where we used to stop and get ice cream. His eyes had lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. He had a bike; I’d been on it, but it was nothing like the one we saw that day.
The owner came out of the store, and they chatted for a half hour about motors while I went and got us ice cream sandwiches then ate both of them while leaning up against his truck admiring his sweet ass.
“You remember that bike we—”
“Saw at the convenience store,” I finished. “Yeah. You had a hard-on for it.”
Logan choked back a laugh, and the sound sent a thrill of desire straight through me. “Eme. I had a hard-on for you. The bike was a bonus.” He picked up a helmet then gently slid it down over my head. He tucked in strands of hair then did up the chin strap. He leaned back. “You still rock a helmet, baby.”
I don’t know what came over me, but I hit a pose, putting my finger to my mouth and cocking my hip with my other hand resting on it.
This time he laughed outright, flashing his white, perfectly aligned teeth. I turned into a splat of butter sizzling on high heat. The guy was brooding and demanding most of the time. When he laughed, it was like filling me up with a rainbow.
He turned serious. “You still don’t get how hot you are, do you?”
No. I was fine with how I looked; I mean, I accepted what I was given.
“Your mother is a piece of work. She put you down to make herself feel better. You deserve better than a piss-drunk mother.”
“She had issues. And Logan, I think your father takes the ‘piece of work’ award.”
“Fuckin’ right he does. When we’re good, you’re meeting my mom and finding out what a real one is like.”
I was taken aback by Logan’s casual mention of his mom and me meeting her. He was right, my mom was a bitch. She never gave a crap when I moved out and in with Kat and Matt. The only time I heard from her was if she broke up with a guy and needed money, which I rarely had. Since she knew nothing about the farm or where to find me, I hadn’t spoken to her in years.
“Eme?” He stroked a line down my nose. “You have that look. What’s happening in that non-stop thinking brain of yours?”
“Nothing.”
He slipped his hand into mine, and our fingers linked. The scent of his soap drifted into me, and I inhaled deep, closing my eyes. I couldn’t let go even if a train came between us. I wanted to cry for what I was slowly losing—myself. I was losing myself to him again, and no matter how much I wanted to keep him out, he was breaking his way back in. But he’d leave with the band again, and I’d leave his farm. Even though Logan had given me the ability to have my dream, it wasn’t my farm. I’d lived off Matt, now Logan. I couldn’t do it anymore. I wouldn’t. And soon, I’d have enough money to get my own place.
“Emily?” I met his eyes. “Let go of what happened for today.”
Did I have that in me? Could I let the old Logan I loved in for one day?
“Baby.”
The bike. The horses. Logan looking at me like I was the only woman in the world. All reminders. Could I trust him? No, that wasn’t the question anymore, I realized. It was could I trust myself with him?
I nodded, and the weight of the helmet slipped forward, and he grinned as he shifted it back. “Small head considering all the shit it carries around.”
I smiled. He was right.
He put on his helmet, and I slapped my hand on the top where the painted skull was. Underneath were the words Tear Asunder. “What does it mean? I mean I know it means tear apart, but what does it mean to the band? Why the band name?”
“What was done to us. The band voted. And since the band was also torn apart for a while, as well as you and I, well, it fit.”
He snapped the kickstand up then started the bike, revving the throttle. He nodded to me, and I slipped on behind him. I was in shock. It meant ... it meant Logan had seen what happened between them as being torn apart. Not him pushing me away. Or me escaping him. It was both of us—Torn apart. Forced. Ripped. Broken.
Did the band know the details of what happened? They had to know about Logan’s father and my kidnapping, but how much more?
The moment I slid up against him, my inner thighs next to his outer, my pelvis tight to his ass, I felt the scorching heat sweep through my veins. “Logan?” I barely said his name; it was a hint of a whisper.
“We were torn apart, because Eme—I’d never have stayed away from you any other way.”
I had nothing to fight with. Nothing. I felt like falling against him and sobbing for him, for us, and for what had been done to us both.
His hand rested on my thigh, and he squeezed. “Feet.” I put my feet up. “Need you closer. Arms.” I snuggled in, and then felt the rumble in his chest and what sounded like a groan. “Christ, how far is this place?”
“Logan?” I wanted to tell him ... to have him turn and look at me so I could tell him that I felt it too. We had been torn apart.
“Not now, baby.” He shook his head once. “How far?”
I relented. “An hour.” I wrapped my arms around his waist, my fingers interlocking. I felt the muscles of his abdomen against my forearms, rock hard and tense. He was breathing in and out rather quickly, and I bet if I reached down I’d feel the hardness a little lower. I bit my lip, swallowed, and then closed my eyes.