This time his grin was genuine. He finished polishing off the absconded onion ring and licked the grease from his fingers before replying, “Nope, I’m good. Besides, if I discover you ladies don’t really have lingerie pillow fights, it’d break my heart.”
Willa muttered something beneath her breath that sounded suspiciously like “delusional werewolf”. In that moment, she reminded him of a smaller version of Clarissa, minus the red hair.
“We were talking about Jenny Cavanaugh,” Marabella said softly, breaking though his musings. “I feel so awful for her poor family. After everything they went through with the gambling scandal, now this.” Apparently reading his confusion, she frowned. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear what happened? I would have thought it’d be prime gossip at the bar.”
“Not that I recall.” Besides, he’d been too preoccupied with thoughts of Clarissa every damn waking and sleeping second to pay much attention to anything lately.
“She’s the fifth mysterious coma case that’s hit in the past couple of days. The doctors can’t figure out what’s going on.”
Willa shivered suddenly, drawing both his and Marabella’s attention. She glanced at them, a shadowy specter of fear creeping into her eyes. “There’s something…wrong…in the air. I can feel it.”
Dropping her fork, Marabella reached across the table and squeezed Willa’s hand. “What do you think it could be?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s not good, whatever it is.”
Tully chose that moment to arrive with Logan’s beer and two refills on Willa and Marabella’s glasses of sweet tea. “Surprised to see your ugly mug around. Thought for sure you’d be getting that new bike broke in for the poker run.”
The reminder of the charity event he’d bowed out of because of his stupid, misguided notion of loyalty rubbed like salt in a festering wound. “Not goin’ this year.”
“You’re shitting me.”
He offered Tully a stiff shrug. “Somethin’ else came up. Maybe next time.”
“Oh, that’s right. It’s your and Clarissa’s anniversary.” Marabella dunked the wedge of lemon into her tea. “I was planning to stop by the coven house and get her opinion on the web store I’ve been thinking of setting up, but tomorrow night’s probably not good, is it?”
Renewed bitterness anchored in his chest. “Accordin’ to her, she’s busy.”
Marabella blinked. “Um…I know. With you.”
“Nope. Not me.” Unable to endure another second of Marabella, Willa and Tully’s bemused stares, Logan hefted to his feet and dug his wallet from his rear pocket. He flipped a wrinkled ten dollar bill onto the table and swiveled.
“Whoa, you didn’t even drink your beer.”
Ignoring Tully’s astounded observation, Logan strode for the exit. Outside, the glare of the sun threatened to blind him, and he tugged his shades down over his eyes before crossing to his bike. Straddling the seat, he stared off into space. He’d known from the very first second he’d set eyes on Clarissa seven years ago that she would likely change his life forever. Possibly in a way that he wasn’t prepared for, much less would welcome. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from signing the familiar contract with her. No force on earth would have prevented him from putting his Hancock on that paper. Because he’d felt it, even then. An electrical charge of chemistry that was off the charts. Every day since then, his need for her had imbedded itself deeper and deeper into his skin.
Almost as if it were taunting him, the barbed-wire tattoo ringing his upper arm started itching. He dug his fingers into the sleeve of his T-shirt, but the stinging didn’t stop. Course not. The damn tat was a fucking symbol of his downfall. It wasn’t about to let him forget it.
Cursing his apparent propensity for self-flagellation, he gunned the throttle and shot out of the parking lot. Less than twenty minutes later, he was cruising toward Tybee Island’s north beach.
The earthy brine of fresh salt air filled his nostrils. Usually the familiar sensation acted as an instant stress reliever. Not today. He coasted into the driveway of the tiny oceanfront cottage that he still considered a work in progress. The vacationers occupying the two rentals on either side of his property were noticeably absent. Either they were visiting the more touristy section of the south beach, or they’d already packed up and headed home. Either way, he planned to take advantage of his unexpected solitude and go for a skinny dip.
What he really longed to do was shift into his wolf and run along the shore, just the salty breeze and the rustling of sea oats for company. But that would have to wait for later, after the good citizens of Tybee were tucked into their beds.
Stepping into the cottage’s small entry, he plunked his helmet onto the front end table and tugged his T-shirt over his head. Bending, he shucked his boots and dropped his shirt near his bare feet. Half a second later, his jeans and boxer briefs joined the pile. He padded across the room, the tile cool beneath his toes, and unlocked the sliding doors. Beyond the low rise of the dunes he could make out the white-capped waves of the Atlantic. The surf was strong today, alive with an energy that called to him. Mother sea would no doubt enjoy battering the hell out of his hide.
He’d welcome it, compared to the battering his heart was taking.
Releasing a howl that came from the very depths of his soul, he bounded across the gray, weathered planks of the back deck and easily cleared the railing. He landed on the sugary sand with the barest thud and continued sprinting toward the waves cresting in the distance, unmindful of the gathering of purple sandpipers that scurried out of his path. The brisk, foaming tide lapped over his feet and calves. He plowed deeper into the wave until water crashed into his shoulders. The tide reversed, hauling him away from shore, and he effortlessly rode the current. No wimpy dogpaddling for him. Six years ago, when he’d purchased the cottage and begun his extensive remodel on it, he’d learned the best way to burn off excess energy was to pummel his body in a nightly swim.
Course, there were other enjoyable ways for burning off excess energy. Sexy ways that coincidentally enough also entailed sweating his ass off and getting his cock wet. Whether that last part came about from a woman’s mouth or her pussy, it was all better than fine by him.
As always happened whenever his thoughts turned toward sex—and face it, when the fuck didn’t he think about sex?—Clarissa popped into his mind’s eye. The vision of her seemed so real, he could practically feel the wet glide of her soft curves beneath his palms. Without thinking, he moaned, and his mouth filled with seawater. He surfaced, sputtering. The relentless waves dragged him under again, and for several minutes he fought to escape the sucking grasp of the deep swells. Finally he pulled free and began the long swim to shore.
The tide spat him onto the sand as if he were a toy it’d grown bored with, and he flopped onto his back with a weak groan. He took a few seconds to regain his breath before staggering to the concealment of his palm-shaded deck. Exhausted or not, the last thing he needed was a beachcomber tripping over his buck-naked body.
His muscles screaming over their rough treatment, he sprawled onto the lounger, ignoring the dusting of sand that instantly scattered into every nook and cranny of the padded cushion. The sun beat against him, its persistent heat easing his aches, even while it fed the flames of an entirely different ache that burned at a constant simmer. He closed his eyes, the residual white glare from the sun leaving spots behind his lids.
Once again, Clarissa’s image superimposed itself on his mental big screen like a taunting mirage. Only this time she was as naked as he, straddling his bike. And his cock. The fantasy was familiar—one he’d replayed and jacked off to at least ten thousand times since that day her arousal teased his senses while his Harley rumbled beneath them. Judging from the rising state of his erection, the grand tally for masturbatory titillation was about to hit ten thousand and one.