I squeeze my thighs together, then take a deep breath. It’s hardly been a few hours since I had sex for the first time, but I want more. So much more. I want to hear his ragged breathing in my ear as he thrusts in and out of me. I want to feel him come inside me again. I want to have his baby.
Holy. Shit.
Did I really just think that? What the hell is wrong with me? I mean, I know I’m obsessed with the man, but thinking about kids after knowing him for hardly more than a week is a whole new level of insanity.
It feels right, though. The thought of starting a new life with Logan, having a family with him, and finally finding a place where I can be both safe and free...it’s so real, so raw, so overwhelming my chest aches. I rub the heel of my hand over my heart, trying to keep my emotions in check.
I don't want to be the cliché woman who becomes clingy after losing her virginity. It would kill me if Logan grew tired of my presence. So far, he seems as enamored with me as I am with him, but will he still be interested after a month? Six months? A year?
I try squashing down that thought, but it’s a stubborn bastard. Years of watching my dad take off on business trips across the country and the world has left me with some insecurities. If my own father tries to leave every chance he gets, why would anyone else stick around for too long?
A crunching sound draws my attention back into the present. I freeze and hold my breath, trying to be completely silent as I listen for more.
It’s just Logan, I tell myself. He’s outside chopping wood and doing wilderness, mountain man things, whatever that entails. Plus, the cabin is in the middle of a dense forest, so there are lots of wild animals scampering about.
After a few moments of silence, I let out my breath and take a few more, willing the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach to go away.
I focus my attention back on my current art project. It’s going to be a mixed-media piece with a blend of traditional painting, magazine cutouts, found objects, and probably some glitter. I haven’t decided yet, but I like to leave my options open when it comes to flair.
Right now, I’m just in the blocking out phase. I was struggling to find inspiration for so long in my art, but then Logan showed up and gave me lots of...inspiration.
I giggle to myself at my dirty thoughts, the smile lingering on my lips as I remember the heated moments we’ve shared as well as the tender ones. Logan is so sweet, though I think he reserves that just for me. I like that I can bring out his softer side.
Opening up my pencil case, I grab three different gradients of sketch pencils, then get busy laying the framework out on the canvas. The more I think about what I want to make, the more my mind wanders to Logan’s sculpted body, the way he moved inside me, consumed me, broke me, and made me whole.
I want to capture what we shared.
Not just the passion and pleasure, but the very core feeling of being together like that. I want to somehow show him how much he means to me and how perfect we are together.
For someone who can talk a mile a minute whenever anyone is around to listen, I’m not always the most graceful with my words. My art, however, can convey emotions I didn’t even know I had. I hope it can do the same for Logan.
Flipping through some of the magazines I packed, I find a few racy ads for women’s perfume and men’s underwear. I almost pass them up, but then my eye catches on the curve of the woman’s shoulder and the cut jaw of the man in the underwear ad. The isolated lines and curves are almost more seductive and teasing than the whole picture. I cut both ads out, smiling to myself as I get lost in the creative process.
Over and over, I’m drawn to pictures of light and dark, sunshine and shadows, raging fire and pure white snow. The contrast speaks to me, something about the yin and yang of it all, the balance of the universe that I feel like I’ve only just begun to understand.
Logan may be jagged edges and darkness, and I may embody light, airy innocence, but we’ve been shaped by our pain. I still don’t know Logan’s whole story, but I don’t need to. I’ve seen his heart, the way he treats me like I’m precious, and how he can’t seem to believe I want to treat him the same way.
I don’t know if my silly art project will mean as much to him as it does to me, but I have to try to communicate my feelings somehow. Logan’s never made me feel silly about my art, though. In fact, he’s only ever made me feel confident in myself and my passions, whether it’s birds, art, or talking endlessly about nothing at all.
Something scrapes against the side of the cabin, causing me to jump and drop my scissors. They make a loud clattering sound on the table, but I hardly hear it over my pounding heart.
I don’t think that was a wild animal. It sounded too…
The front porch creaks as someone walks up the steps. A whimper gets caught in my throat as tears burn the back of my eyes. I don't think Logan would use the front door if the woodshed is out back, but what do I know?
My wishful thinking dies the instant the front door splinters open.
I don't even think about what I'm doing until the scissors are flying through the air. It takes me a second to realize I threw them at the intruder. A wave of pride surges through me, but quickly dissipates when the scissors merely bounce off the man's chest and fall to the floor.
Shit.
Panic grips my heart, sinking its claws into old wounds while leaving fresh ones behind. My bravado slips as the man takes another step closer to me.
“Feisty, are we, ma cherie?”
My eyes snap up to meet the intruder’s. I’m surprised that he has a heavy French accent, but I don’t focus on that for long. Instead, I take in his tall, lean frame, dark eyes, and prominent nose. He looks familiar, but I don’t know why. I don’t recognize him, exactly, but he’s not a complete stranger, either.
I’m sweating, shaking, and barely able to drag in a breath, but I tap into some hidden reserve of strength I didn’t know I had. The scissors were the only thing within reaching distance that closely resembled a weapon, but I don’t let that deter me.
I grab the first thing my hand touches, not risking taking my eyes off the man I’m safely assuming is my stalker. The magazine goes flying in the air, the corner of it hitting the side of the man’s cheek.
I smirk as a thrill shoots up my spine. I grab another and another, hurtling them in his direction. Each one hits its target, but the man keeps advancing, his lips twisting up into a sinister smile.
“Your fight only makes me want you more, cherie,” he says, his voice deep and dark. “I’m glad you didn’t die alongside your mother.”
“W-what?” I stammer out. “Who are you?” My fingers grope around the tabletop in search of my next weapon. Before he gets a chance to answer, I launch an open bottle of craft glue at him, hitting him in his ugly mug.
He makes a startled noise, then growls low in his throat. “Careful, Spencer. Turnabout is fair play.”
The man starts wiping away the glue dripping down his face, but I don't back down. Paintbrushes go flying through the air, followed by an open container of pink glitter, a tube of navy blue oil paint, and more magazines.
“Encule toi salaud," he mutters. I don't speak French, but I assume he called me some not-so-nice words.
My stalker is now covered in glue, paint, glitter, paper, and who knows what else. I should run while he’s distracted, but it appears I used up the last bit of my bravery. Now the panic comes back in full force.