Lost in some lust-fogged hyperspace, I distantly felt Logan still. And then he shuddered on a throaty groan that made my inner muscles clench around him. He threw his head back as he came, and I watched him in awe. Finally, he finished and his head lowered.
Violet eyes pierced right through me, and he gave me this mocking, calculated smile. “I told you all you needed was to get laid.”
My eyes flew open, and I couldn’t see anything or hear anything but the rushing waves of blood in my ears.
I launched myself across my bed and fumbled for the light switch on my bedside lamp. Soft light flooded the room, and I gazed around.
I was alone.
I was also covered in sweat.
My body was lit with arousal.
I flopped back against my pillow, my cheeks inflamed and the erotic dream burned into my brain.
I’d had a sex dream about Logan MacLeod.
With a moan of absolute mortification, I covered my eyes with my arm as if somehow I could block out the memory of the dream.
But I couldn’t.
I’d had a sex dream about that grumpy, irritating, arrogant, inconsiderate ruffian of a man! How was it possible? He wasn’t even my type! No.
No.
NO!
“Oh God,” I groaned as I thought of something even worse.
How on earth was I ever going to face him again?
CHAPTER 5
His considerate streak was over.
I glowered at my reflection in the gilded silver mirror in my bedroom.
The person looking back at me was unrecognizable.
I looked like hell.
Because of him.
Only hours after I was jolted awake by the dream I needed to stop acknowledging ever happened, I was awoken by the noise coming from Logan’s bedroom. Loud – extremely loud – sex.
“THAT’S RIGHT. RIGHT THERE. OH BOY. RIGHT THERE. OH, LOGAN. OH, LOGAN. OH, LOGAN… AHHHHHHH!”
And she was American. He was obviously branching out.
Not that I cared. Nope.
I was, however, surprised and outraged when the next night I got even less sleep because the American was back, and she and Logan went three rounds of “RIGHT THERE.”
And she returned last night for more rounds of it.
Seventy-two hours of no sleep.
It did not look good on me.
If he bloody well returned with the American again, I was going to… “What, Grace?” I curled my lip at my exhausted reflection. “Shout at him? Let him have it? Scold him? Because you’ve done so well at it in the past.”
What if the American did make a fourth appearance? I lowered my gaze, unable to look at myself anymore as I stood there with my messy hair, wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt because I was too tired to iron something decent.
Was Logan MacLeod finally settling in to become a one-woman man?
I turned around and strode out of my bedroom, my mood darkening to the black-hole level. Marching through my flat, I snatched up my purse. I needed chocolate and coffee. There was no way I was getting through the day without either one of those.
Locking the door behind me, my shoulders instantly hunched up around my ears at the familiar sound of Logan’s door opening.
Oh God, was life really this unfair?
Feeling my cheeks bloom with heat at the thought of Logan seeing me so disheveled, I turned slowly around.
He was staring over at me as he locked up. “Grace.”
“Mr. MacLeod.” I glanced away, willing the memory of that bloody dream away.
“You all right? You look like shit.”
And that was it.
The straw that broke the back of that damn camel everyone was always piling straw on top of! Looking at him, seeing him standing there, well rested despite his sexual gymnastics at the crack of bloody dawn, I saw red.
“I look like shit?” I took a bristling step toward him.
Logan raised an eyebrow at my tone.
“Do you know why I look like shit?”
“No, but I suddenly have a feeling I’m to blame.” He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly not amused.
“Yes.” I nodded frantically, the lack of sleep making me frenzied in my anger. “You are to blame!” My voice echoed off the concrete walls of our stairwell, but I was past caring. “Seventy-two hours. Seventy-bleeding-two hours I have been awake.”
“That’s not my problem, and frankly, I’m not in the mood to deal with this… hysteria.” He walked toward the stairs, dismissing me.
“Don’t you walk away from me.”
He stopped. Turned. He raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to be frightened? Christ, Grace, it’s like getting bitten by a butterfly.”
I huffed, furious that he was making fun of me when my standing up to him was a momentous accomplishment. “How dare you! For the last three nights I’ve had to put up with the constant loud sex from you and your bloody American. I just want peace and quiet! I want some bloody goddamn fucking sleep!”
My words seemed to soak into the coldness of the stairwell, ringing against the walls, stunning Logan.
After a moment’s silence, during which I at once berated myself for losing my ladylike cool and mentally shook my hand for taking a stance, Logan cleared his throat.
“Have you got a glass up against the wall?”
“Excuse me?” I shook my head, confused.
“How did you know I’ve been fucking an American?”
My mouth dropped open at his obtuseness. “Because. I. Can. Hear. Every. Word. She. Says.”
“Och, no. You must be straining to listen.”
My anger reignited. “Are you mad? Why on earth would I be straining to listen?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You tell me.”