Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
He steps toward me, stripping his suit jacket without breaking eye contact. I take an involuntary step back, a blush rising to my cheeks instantly. “What?” he asks, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “You won’t change in front of me?”
I try to calm my breathing. I feel silly trying to explain it. Even in my head, it sounds dumb. All I can do is shake my head and look down, searching for the right words.
“Hey,” he says, moving in close. He hooks his index finger under my chin and forces my face up so I’m looking at him. “What’s going on in here?” he taps the side of my head softly, letting his finger linger and push a lock of hair behind my ear.
I flinch away from his touch, hating the hurt look that springs up on his face. “It’s just.” I groan in frustration, searching the ceiling for the words I’m trying to find. “I’m still getting used to the thing we have going on at Club Crave. I never knew how much I wanted or needed something like what we’ve… started. At the club,” I add meaningfully.
He frowns. “I see. And you may not need something like that outside the club?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but I can’t. I shake my head, looking down again. “I’m sorry. Here, I’ll just leave these things and call for an Uber or something.”
He steps close again and I’m painfully aware that his dress shirt is completely open, revealing smooth slabs of muscle. “Whatever you want,” he says softly. “If you want to keep it in the club, we can do that. I need it, too. What we have there. And if it has to stay there, then so be it.”
His eyes search mine. I close my eyes for a long moment, trying to organize my thoughts, but failing. “Thank you. I think… I still want to kick your ass on the court though. Maybe after tonight we can try to simplify things. Keep it at the club.”
He bites his lip. “My sister owns a tennis academy and you think you’ll beat me?”
I test the strings on the racquet he let me pick out from the store demos. They are a little tighter than I prefer, but a stiffer string bed is always helpful when hitting against men. It makes blocking heavy serves easier, but somehow I can’t picture a man like Logan actually being a challenging match. Tennis is a game of finesse that takes years and years of practice. Athleticism can only take you so far. He will probably hit every other ball as hard as he can and send it sailing.
Logan manages to make the simple black shirt and shorts he wears look ridiculously good. His broad chest presses against the thin fabric and the raised points of his nipples are just barely visible. If I was less competitive, I would be tempted to throw aside my reservations about our relationship outside the club and jump over the net right now to get my hands on him. Stepping on the court has all my old instincts firing. It’s for the best, because I’m still sorting through the mess that has become my life.
Why couldn’t I just go along with it for tonight? What’s so hard about changing in front of him? I know the answer though, even if I don’t want to admit it. I was afraid he would want to have sex. Regular, vanilla sex. And I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get off for him. What would he think of me then?
I suck in a frustrated breath and refocus on the game. Hitting some tennis balls as hard as I can may be exactly the thing I need to clear my mind.
The academy is divided into four sub-buildings, each made up of four indoor courts separated by tall nets. There are viewing booths jutting from the high walls. It’s an amazing facility, and must be worth a lot of money, but it doesn’t really surprise me that Logan’s sister would be successful too.
“Want to warm up?” asks Logan.
“I’m good now,” I say.
He laughs. “Have it your way. You want to serve?”
“You can start,” I say. The fastest way to judge his level of play is to see his serve. It’s the stroke that takes longest to master, and nine times out of ten, I could always tell how tough my opponent was going to be overall from their serve alone.
He pockets a ball and bounces another, shifting his feet into the proper stance. I take an aggressive position two steps inside the baseline on the assumption that his serve won’t be too impressive. He taps the ball against the court twice with his racquet and starts his motion. Arms down together, up together, perfect trophy pose, and…