Her hand slid between them, and she rubbed against his cock. “I don’t want to wait until we get home, Logan. I want you now.” Maybe it was the wine talking, or Danica’s bitter words that had dug into her skin . . . or her own desperate need for this man, but she needed him like a drowning woman needed air. “I don’t want to wait.”

Logan thrust up against her hand, his mouth sliding over hers desperately. “I don’t have a condom, Brontë.”

“I’m on the pill,” she said between frantic kisses, and then rubbed her hand over his cock again, stroking his length. “Please, Logan. Take me now.”

His hand slid between them, and she stilled, expecting him to unbutton his pants. Instead, she felt his hand slide over her sex, already wet with need. “Ah, Brontë,” he murmured. “Your skin feels like silk. Wet and ready for me already?”

She bit her lip and nodded, pressing her forehead to his, lost in sensation as his fingers danced over her needy flesh.

When his fingers grazed her clit, she cried out, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth. He kissed her, his tongue thrusting slow and deep into her mouth in a steady, maddening motion. Her hips rose and fell, echoing the stroke of his tongue, and his fingers continued to work her clit. She spiraled higher, reaching for her orgasm, only to whimper when he slid his hand away and began to undo his pants. Her fingers moved to help, frantically working to free him from his clothing and get him inside her.

Then he was lifting her hips, just a little, and she felt his cock against the hot well of her sex. He sank deep inside her, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widening at how fully he fill her. Another whimper escaped, and she began to rock furiously over him, her movements just as jerky as his. Hard, fast, and frantic, he pumped into her, wild with need. Her moans were swallowed by his mouth as she rode him with abandon, her hips slamming down over his.

The orgasm that ripped through her was almost violent in its intensity, and she cried out at the feeling of it, her entire body shuddering. He slammed into her again, and his mouth took hers roughly, and then she felt him coming inside her, too.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she clung to him, still astride his lap, her breathing rough. He was hers. Danica was wrong. Bitter, envious, and wrong. “I love you,” she blurted out, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Logan’s arms wrapped around her waist and held her tight in his lap.

But he didn’t say anything back.

And a little part of Brontë died.

Chapter Nine

“This meeting of the brotherhood is called to order,” Logan said around the cigar in his mouth. He handed the deck of cards to Hunter at his right. “Deal.”

The scarred man took the cards and gave Logan a wary look, but said nothing. That suited Logan just fine. If his mood was a bit black at the moment, he didn’t give a shit if his friends knew it or not. They could all be in pissy moods for all he cared. A table full of cranky assholes suited him at the moment, since he was one.

Brontë had been sad and listless for the past two days, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Fucking Danica. He still suspected that she’d gotten her claws into Brontë despite the talk he’d had with her. Something had changed between them that night. The lovemaking was just as intense as ever, but her smile seemed somewhat faded, and he could have sworn that when he came in the room sometimes, her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. She always said nothing was wrong, but he could tell.

She’d told him she loved him, and he’d given her a hug. He wasn’t the kind to declare his love, though. Not before a prenup was signed and he could be sure of her feelings. He’d traveled down that road once before, and he wasn’t going to be taken again. His father had been a tough buzzard, too. Just before he’d died, he’d mocked Logan for being so upset about Danica’s reluctance to sign the prenup. What had Logan expected after spouting off about feelings to her? Of course she wasn’t going to sign, his father had sneered. Logan had declared his love for her. She had him by the balls. Hawkings men didn’t declare their feelings, because it gave power to someone else.

Logan wouldn’t make that mistake again. So he had said nothing when Brontë had confessed her feelings to him, even though he’d felt a surge of satisfaction at her admission. She loved him. His beautiful, sweet Brontë loved him.

Brontë had common sense—it was one of the charming things about her—but he didn’t know what to do with her sadness. Common sense told him to ignore it. But her melancholy bothered him. It bothered him even more that she was trying to hide it. Hence, his foul mood.

The door opened, and Cade walked in, the last to arrive. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Hold up at the office. Someone deal me in?”

“’Bout fucking time,” Logan said, tossing the cigar in his mouth into the ashtray on the table. “We can start now.”

Drinks were passed in his direction, as well as chips. Cade was giving him a scrutinizing look but said nothing as Hunter dealt the cards. After a moment, he looked over at Logan again, and said, “I enjoyed meeting Brontë the other day.”

Logan grunted a response.

“Charming girl,” Griffin said, tossing a chip into the pot to start the bidding. “Very interesting education. She’s a step up from your normal airheads, Logan.”

“She’s a waitress,” he growled. “Don’t get too attached to her.”

This time, it was Reese who frowned as he tossed his chips into the pot. “What does her job have to do with anything?”

Logan said nothing.

But Cade’s gaze was sharp, knowing. “She’s not another Danica. You don’t know that she’s after your money.”

“He doesn’t not know it,” Hunter said in a grave tone, folding his hand.

“Do we have to talk about this right now?” Logan asked.

“Well, clearly it’s affecting your mood,” Reese pointed out. “Is the problem that she’s a waitress or that you like her enough that you’re worried you’re being taken for a ride?”

Logan’s temper flared. He forced himself to be calm, pick up his cigar, and stare at his cards. “She’s not like Danica.”

“No? She’s female, isn’t she? That means she’s interested in your wallet. Face facts, Logan.”

He ignored Reese and clenched his cigar. He would not get angry. These were his friends, after all.

“Well, if she’s just a fly-by-night, let me know when you’re done with her,” Reese began. “Because I saw her ass in that little red dress and—”

His words cut off with a yelp as Logan jumped across the table to grab him.

Chaos erupted. The men jumped to their feet, and hands pried him off of Reese’s collar. The other man smirked knowingly, pleased that he’d gotten a rise out of Logan. Cade stepped between them, staring at the two with narrowed eyes. “No fighting during a meeting, remember? Do we need to take this outside?”

“I’m fine,” Logan said, flexing his hands and taking a step back. The red was receding from his vision, but he was now more furious with himself. Furious that he’d come so close to punching Reese, and furious that he’d shown his thoughts as clear as day by jumping on him.

Hunter’s hand went to Logan’s shoulder. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go walk for a bit.” He looked back at the others. “Play on. Logan and I will be back shortly.”

Logan had half a mind to tell Hunter to fuck off, but he needed to get away from the table. Casting another furious look at Reese, he stormed away, heading up the cellar stairs.

He didn’t speak until he and Hunter were up on the roof of the bar. Hunter pulled out a fresh cigar and offered it to Logan, who declined. The scarred man pulled out a lighter, clipped the end of his cigar, and lit it as casually as if two of his friends hadn’t just gotten in a fight. “So. You do realize that Reese was just busting your balls?”

“I realize that now,” Logan said with a snarl. Fucking egomaniac.

“I’ve never seen you this stressed over a woman. Even Danica, and we both know she left her mark.”

Logan said nothing. Hunter knew him better than the others. The quiet, scarred billionaire had been Logan’s closest friend in college. Logan had led, and Hunter had followed. They shared a tight bond. And it was that friendship that kept Logan from storming off of the roof and heading home to see Brontë’s sad eyes.

“I agree with Cade, for what it’s worth,” Hunter said quietly. “She doesn’t sound like Danica. Griffin likes her. Griffin doesn’t like anyone. He says that Brontë’s very intelligent and can hold a conversation. How many of your supermodels has Griffin ever said that about?”

“I bought her a necklace. She didn’t want it.”

“But she accepted it, didn’t she?” Hunter’s gaze was cynical.

Damn. Logan stared out at the night sky. He thought of Brontë’s sweet smile. The curve of her lips when she leaned in to kiss him. Her fury when she’d found out that he owned the resort.

But how did he know it wasn’t simply a masterful act by a consummate actress? Danica had had him fooled, after all, and she wasn’t half as clever as Brontë. “I need to know for sure,” he told Hunter.

“Then test her,” his friend said. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

***

The next evening, Logan tucked a manila envelope under his arm and strode down the hall to his apartment. An odd sense of anticipation curled through him, much like the adrenaline rush he got from a lucrative business deal. This was it.

This was how he’d see if Brontë was after him or his money. Hunter had suggested a test, and Logan thought it was a brilliant plan. He’d give her something valuable out of the blue, something that would be important to her, and watch her reaction.

If she was pleased with his gift, or demanded more, he’d know that she wanted it more than him. If she refused his gift, he could feel more confident in how she felt about him. She’d been upset when she’d found out he was rich . . . but she’d also been quick to cave in to his demands to go to New York. And every time he told himself that Brontë wasn’t like that, he saw Danica’s face again. Danica, who’d had him totally fooled.

And maybe, just maybe, if Brontë passed this test, he’d feel comfortable telling her how he felt about her, too.

Logan entered the apartment, pleased to find Brontë curled up on one of the couches, an open book spread across her breasts as she napped.

She was beautiful. Her long, chestnut hair was tousled around her face, her small nose pointed up in the air, her lips slightly parted in sleep. She wore her favorite T-shirt and jeans: Audrey had complained to him that she couldn’t persuade Brontë to part with them, no matter what lovely clothes she was bought. He liked seeing Brontë in jeans, he had to admit. Her ass filled them out nicely, and the T-shirt showed off the rounded swells of her small breasts to perfection. He pulled the book off her chest, and her eyes opened slowly.

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