Trust (Temptation #3)(74)
“Fuck you.”
“Mhmm. I was just thinking how much I’d like that. I miss having you inside me.”
Logan sat back in the seat with one arm resting on the table and used his other hand to discreetly push against his growing erection. “You have a sadistic streak. You know that?”
“Me?” Tate chuckled. “It’s not my fault you look…” As Tate checked him out, Logan clenched his fist and waited for whatever sexy come-on he was about to throw his way. Instead, he got, “So, how was your morning?”
What? No way is he changing topics now. “Excuse me?”
“Your morning? How was it?”
Logan leaned forward. “Do you really want to get into that right now?”
“No. But you seem uncomfortable. So I’m trying to help you out.”
“That’s the point. You’re not allowed to help me out. Not for another week. So keep your legs and sex face to yourself.”
Tate shrugged and grabbed the brown paper bag in front of him, pulling one of the sandwiches out. Once he’d handed it over, he sat back, got the second out for himself, and then said something that made Logan thankful he was seated.
“I’ve never known my lack of participation to stop you before.”
Does he mean what I think he—
“And I’d be more than happy to provide you with visual aids while you work solo.”
Yes, he fucking does.
“You know, to help you out, of course.”
Logan methodically unwrapped his lunch and then pinned Tate with a look he hoped spoke volumes. If the way Tate swallowed and licked his lips was any indication, his intentions were coming across loud and fucking clear.
“And what kind of visual aids are we talking about here?”
“Any kind you like.”
Logan shook his head. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that if you want to convince me.”
“You need convincing?”
“Hey, you’re the one pitching the proposal. Give it to me.”
Tate’s expression told him exactly how he’d like to “give it” to him, but as he unwrapped his food, Logan could see the wheels spinning.
Yeah, come on. Tell me exactly what you want.
“Obviously, it would be somewhat limited,” Tate started as Logan took a bite of his sandwich. He wouldn’t have been able to say what was on it though, because he was too busy staring at the hungry expression that just flashed across Tate’s face. “But my doctor did tell me I need to do exercises that maintain forearm and grip strength with my hand.”
The answer was so unexpected, and so fucking spot-on, that Logan couldn’t help his laugh. “That is a very persuasive argument.”
Tate gave him his most serious expression and then, yeah, rubbed his leg again. “I think so. You wouldn’t want to stand in the way of my healing process, would you?”
“No. I certainly would not.”
“And you want to help me, right? They say if someone has a goal to work toward, they’ll improve much faster than one who doesn’t.”
Logan took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Is that right?”
“Yep.”
The arrogant way Tate answered, as if he already knew he’d won, guaranteed Logan’s hard-on for the rest of their meal.
“Just so there’s no confusion. You want me to ‘help’ myself in front of you to give you a reason to exercise the grip strength of your hand? Do I have that right?”
Tate finished chewing the bite he’d just taken and nodded. “That’s right.”
“And the visuals? You never did tell me.”
The way Tate shifted in his seat made Logan think he was imagining it already—then he shared his vision. “Me naked, on our bed. And you naked, kneeling over me.”
“Fuck, Tate,” he said, his breath now coming a little faster at all the depraved thoughts racing through his head. “Damn.”
Tate raised an eyebrow. “You in or out?”
Logan grabbed his jacket and scarf and slid out of the booth. “Fuck going to cancel the lease. You can call them.”
“Oh? Did something come up?” Tate asked, a victorious look crossing his face.
Logan kissed those provoking lips and whispered, “Yeah. I did. Let’s go home. I believe you have a therapy session to go to.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The entire way home, Logan couldn’t take his eyes off Tate. In the cab, walking through the lobby, and now, as they were standing in the elevator, he couldn’t stop staring at him.
He was in his black boots and jeans today, and ever since he’d left the hospital, he’d started wearing button-up shirts, which were easier for him to get on—and made Logan want to rip them off. His good arm was in the sleeve of a warm bomber jacket, and the other side was draped over his braced arm.