Try (Temptation Series)(38)

Logan looked back and caught him looking, and the cautious but interested expression on his face told Tate that Logan knew he was being watched.

“You never said. Drink?”

Tate shook his head. “Just water, thanks.”

“Seriously?” Logan turned to fully face him from behind the kitchen counter.

Tate ran a hand up and through his hair, and Logan’s eyes shifted to the gesture.

“I want a clear head.” Tate appreciated the fact that Logan didn’t push the issue.

When Logan was back in the living room, he made his way between the couch and the wooden coffee table until he was directly in front of Tate, looking down with two drinks in his hands.

Slowly, Logan leaned down toward him, and Tate thought for a full overwhelming moment that he was going to hyperventilate, but at the last second, Logan’s mouth tipped up into a grin.

Tate focused in on that full bottom lip, fixating on it, as Logan placed his water on the table next to the couch. Thinking the man was about to move away, Tate reached out and snagged Logan’s free arm.

“Your eyes…”

“Yes?”

Tate tilted his head to the side. “They’re so fucking blue.”

* * *

Logan convinced himself that the way Tate was looking at him was due to nerves and curiosity. It wasn’t because Tate was about to attack him.

The guy wants to talk, so move away from him and talk, Mitchell.

“You should let go of my arm.” He was pretty damn proud of his self-restraint, but apparently, Tate had his own agenda.

“Why?”

Logan almost groaned. That seemed to be Tate’s favorite question. Why? The big problem with that was everything Logan wanted to say back was one hundred percent inappropriate and not where they were supposed to be going—yet.

Reminding himself that he could be an adult—sometimes—Logan lifted his drink and took a sip. “Because you want to talk.”

“You can’t talk with me touching you?” Tate released his arm.

Taking a couple of steps back, Logan sat down in the far corner of the loveseat and stared Tate down. “Not about anything that requires me to actually think.”

He watched Tate’s mouth open slightly as he wiped his palms on his jeans.

“That was the plan, right? To talk about what happened the other night? Or have you changed your mind?”

“I haven’t changed my mind.”

Those five words pretty much guaranteed Logan’s erection for the rest of the evening. “You haven’t?”

Logan tried for casual as he lifted his glass and sucked the alcohol back. Tate must have noticed because he heard the guy laugh.

“Nope, I haven’t,” he responded as if this was a normal conversation for him.

Logan leaned forward on the couch and slid the empty glass onto his coffee table. Remaining bent over, he rested his forearms on his knees and turned to face the calm—apparently, up until now—straight man sitting in his favorite seat.

“Why are you so relaxed all of a sudden?” Logan demanded before the obvious answer hit him. Of course, Tate is relaxed. He knows where this night is going to go. He has the advantage.

Tate knew what Logan wanted—well, maybe not exactly—but Tate knew his intentions. It was him who had no clue what was going on, and that was starting to make him act like a nervous shit, which he hated.

I’m never nervous, except with this guy.

“Trust me, I’m not relaxed. But why are you so tense?” Tate uncrossed his legs and sat forward on the couch, mirroring Logan’s position.

Okay, so maybe the guy isn’t as relaxed as I thought.

“Do you really want that answer?”

Tate lifted his face and locked purposeful eyes on him. “Yeah, I really do.”

With a pent-up sigh, Logan told him bluntly, “I’m tense because I don’t know what you want to happen.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “And I’m tense because of what I want to happen.”

He caught Tate adjusting his pose, to sit up straight.

“Do you mind if I take off my jacket?”

Logan let out a long-suffering grumble and sprawled back on his couch in frustration. “No, I don’t mind. Take off all your fucking clothes if it makes you more comfortable.”

Shutting his eyes, Logan told himself to be patient, and waited for Tate to talk. What he didn’t expect was to feel the couch beside him sink down.

He saw that Tate was now seated at the opposite end of the two-seater, facing him with his jean-clad leg bent up on the cushion, and his arm resting along the back in a short-sleeved red shirt. His fingers were only inches from Logan’s shoulder, and Logan wondered if he’d done that on purpose.