Page 31 of That Last Secret

This really is a terrible idea. Horrible. Worst idea ever.

His hands stop moving under my chin, but he doesn’t step away as he looks me directly in the eyes again. He’s burning every fucking inch of me, and I swear I’m going to explode any second now.

I want to ask him whathe’sthinking. The same way he asked me before.

Is he feeling the same way I am right now?

Something’s swirling around his head right now, and while I’d love to know, I’m also terrified of knowing the truth. I can’t allow my heart to fall for him.

Logan suddenly clears his throat as if he’s caught himself. “Done,” he says before patting the top of my helmet and turning toward his bike.

Terror for mounting his death trap takes over the feelings I just had. Before I know what’s happening, Logan reaches as far as his hands allow while sitting on the bike and hooks a finger in the belt loop of my jeans, pulling me toward him with a single finger.

Well… that was kind of hot.

His large hand grips the left side of my waist, and he urges me to look at him again, away from the bike. “You’re safe with me,” he repeats. “Hop on. Let’s get you home.”

His demeanor toward me has changed so much. It’s softer than it was on the phone and exponentially different from the last few months of interactions with him.

But this feels different.

Hewantsto do this for me.

I slide down the visor on my helmet before throwing a leg over the seat and sitting as far back as possible. My hands rest on his broad shoulders before I grip them tight and hope like hell that I don’t fall.

I watch Logan intently over his shoulder as he slides his riding gloves on one at a time before her turns the key and the engine roars to life.

Holy. Shit.

I grip Logan’s shoulders to hold on for dear life. Just when I think we’re about to take off, he jerks the bike forward and the apex of my thighs crash into his back as my hands instinctively move to grip the sides of his waist.

I thank the lords above that he’s facing forward and we’re both hiding behind the visor of our helmets. Because the wayI knowmy cheeks are fire engine red right now is embarrassing.

To make matters worse, he reaches for my wrist to bring my hands around his torso and rest against his stomach. I saw the curves of his muscles through his fitted shirt. I felt them on his shoulders, but every ridge across his stomach under my hand makes me feel butterflies in my gut. Feelings I’ve worked really hard to stuff down deep.

“I need you to hold on,” Logan orders over his shoulder before reaching for my hands again to give them the same three-pulse squeeze. “And don’t fucking let go.”

I tighten my arms, and at the same time, he revs the engine.

He doesn’t even give any notice when he pulls into the street. I squeeze him and hold on like he’s my lifeline. Like if I let go for even a second, I’ll fall to my death.

After a series of turns, Logan lands on the one street that’s our longest stretch before my apartment. He sits up on the bike just the slightest bit, with one hand on the throttle and bringing the other to my thigh as he cruises at a safe speed.

I can feel the brush of his fingers against my inner thigh that’s nestled against his thick legs.

I know this means nothing.

I know that this is his way of ensuring I’m safe.

But it feels like more. Logan pulls his hand away as if he feels it too and doesn’t realize what he’s doing. He returns his hands to the handlebars, but not before giving my own resting on his stomach, another three-pulse squeeze before we pull into my parking garage.

I wish I knew what he meant by that small gesture.

Also, why is he pulling in here when he can drop me off at the front door?

After he pulls into a spot, he cuts the engine and I jump off as if the bike is in flames.

It might as well be after that.