Saint (A Dark Mafia Romance)(132)

His lips tastes like sweet rum and there’s something even more intoxicating about that than even the drink in my own hand.

“So is that a ‘Hey thanks for bringing me to Cuba, Logan, and letting me get my hands dirty doing what I love to do’ kiss?” He’s grinning at me, and for a moment I’m terrified that the humor and cavalier attitude that he uses as his armor will come up, and I quickly kiss him again.

It’s deeper this time, moving from tender to something bolder. Something more passionate. I’m kissing him with everything I have, because I need him to stay right here with me in this moment. I need to be in his arms. The real Logan.

“Mmm, now that was a thank-you kiss.” He murmurs into my mouth, his tongue darting out to run against my lips.

“Shh, hang on.” I whisper back, kissing him again.

“What?”

“Just- “ I hesitate, pulling back to look deeply into his green-gold eyes with my wide-eyed blues. “Just keep those walls down. I just want you, as is, without the armor.” His eyes flash at me, and yet he holds my gaze. “Just stay here, right here with me.” I whisper.

“Darlin,” he says thickly, leaning into me as his lips brush mine. “There’s nowhere else in the whole world I’d rather be than right here, right now, with you.”

I kiss him again before pulling back once more. “You know what I mean though, right?” This is the moment of truth. This is the moment where he either lets me in or those walls come up again, and if it’s the latter, I’m not sure I’ll ever get in. The thought has me suddenly terrified of him even answering.

He takes my chin in his hand and kisses me deep and slowly, like something out of a Hollywood movie; “This is just me, Quinn.” He says deeply and quietly. “No more walls, no more games. You have all of me.” And when our lips meet again, I know without a doubt he’s right.

“So, Logan Dempsey,” I pull back from the kiss and peer at him mischievously. “Is that a family name?”

He chuckles. “Anyone ever tell you that subtlety isn’t really your bag, Quinn?”

I giggle into his neck as he pulls me against his chest and tickles me. “Oh comon! You’re always so guarded. Cut a girl some slack when she sees a little chink in that armor of yours and wants to get to know the guy she’s running around with a little bit more!”

His eyes flash for just a second as he looks into mine. “Quinn, it’s-”

“Complicated. Right, yeah I think we’ve covered that.” I say, rolling my eyes at him before cupping his chin and pecking him on the lips. “I mean it’s not like I don’t already have you totally figured out anyways. I did date a Psychiatry student in med school, you know.”

“Sounds immensely unfulfilling.” Logan’s body tenses and bristles under me at the mention of the ex-boyfriend in this possessively reactive way that I have to admit is kind of hot.

I grin at him again, seeing the flash in his eyes again. “It’s not like you have to tell me everything, I just want to know where a guy like you comes fro-”

“Texas.”

I blink, actually shocked that I didn’t hit another deflection or another wall of humor or sarcasm. “Oh.”

He laughs at the look on my face. “What were you expecting, Mars?” He chuckles. “And Logan was my dog’s name.”

“Your parents named you after the dog?” I raise my eyebrows at him.

Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I took Logan later, because I loved that dog. My mom named me after the guy that got her pregnant, even though he took off faster than she could say ‘I’m late.’”

“You mean your Dad?”

His jaw tightens. “Wherever that prick is, he’s not my father.”

I nod, biting my lip and just taking this all in. There’s something that’s just so intimate about sitting here with him letting him tell me these things, and it’s not because I’m basically straddling his lap, or that his hand is stroking the skin of my back under my shirt. It’s that this is finally an open, unguarded, and armor-less Logan that I’m seeing for the very first time.

“What about your Mom?”

“Dead.” He says without emotion. His eyes quickly lock with mine as he feels me tense at the coarseness in his words. “OK, I don’t actually know. Probably dead. And that only sounds harsh if you don’t know her. My mom was a crazy, manipulative, parasitic drunk who liked violent, angry men. And she blamed me for that asshole running off on her.”

His face clouds darkly, and I find myself snuggling against him even more, as if the contact of our bodies can erase and heal whatever pain he’s obviously still feeling. He looks out over the bay, his eyes searching deep. “That where I first learned to put my fist up, actually.”