Have we already done this, I wonder wildly. I look up and grin lustfully at Logan. A deep, emotional connection. Check. Total trust in one another. Check. Powerful, all-consuming orgasms. Double check. Heat begins to rise up in me as I recall our own memorable moments, which are a match for the writer’s detailed description of this. I’ve never thought to give it a name, though. To me it’s just great sex, it’s just Logan.
“Uh, how long do you think we’ll be at Mercy’s tonight?” I ask, feeling abruptly flushed.
He starts chuckling, seeing straight through my reason for asking. “Reading something compelling, are you?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I admit, basking in those delicious memories.
“You’ll have plenty of time to have your way with me once we’re home,” he smiles, resting back on his hands and looking more gorgeous than anyone should be allowed to.
“You might want to brace yourself,” I giggle, closing the internet app and handing Logan’s phone back to him. “And you should message Buddy back and tell him that we’re way ahead of the trend.”
Logan smirks, gazing across at me looking completely besotted. I know that he doesn’t care about provocative messages from his best friend, nor magazine articles, nor the latest sexual trends. He cares only about connecting with me, about making love to me. The explosive reactions we evoke in one another are, as Logan has pointed out before, by-products of something much more profound — a true, open, brave love. One which also just so happens to be the most sensual, erotic, and pleasurable thing that I’ve ever encountered.
Seconds pass in silence as we look at each other.
“Do you have a subscription to that Men’s Health magazine?” I quip, breaking the sexual tension that’s skyrocketed between us in the last sixty seconds.
Logan starts laughing at me and my antics. “No, but I can get one if you want?” he teases.
Smiling at him, I shake my head. Instructions really won’t be necessary.
“I have an idea for the remainder of our lunch break,” Logan says, leading my mind astray. Bringing me back to reality, he continues, “Seeing as we’re so close,” he glances at the entrance of his office, “would you like a personal tour?”
“From the bossman himself?” I nod vehemently.
* * *
His office is everything that I expected it to be — modern, stylish, and as open-planned as it ought to be for a professional environment. At high-speed, Logan walks me around the ground floor, through the different departments within the company, all of which flow in a circular path around a large central atrium, in which several staff members are currently eating their lunch. This place is easy to navigate, and the differing colour themes for each department are a nice touch too, I think.
Logan’s large office is on the first floor, and the entire back wall of it is made of glass, overlooking the atrium. He must have a thing for walls of glass, I think coyly.
Grinning to myself, I ask Logan, “Is this also oneway glass?” I knock once on the glass, and every face below on the atrium floor looks directly up at me. Shit!
“No,” Logan laughs, standing next to me, “it’s not.”
Spotting Michel and Grace having lunch together, I give them an awkward little wave, which they reciprocate, and then I step away from the window.
“The only time I’m willing to play against this window…is after hours,” Logan tells me, his words igniting my vivid imagination. I am temporarily lost in the delicious thought of it. “I take it from the way your eyes just glazed-over that that sounds as appealing to you as it does to me,” he says as he walks over to his desk.
“It does,” I confirm. It really does.
“Then I’ll make it happen,” he assures me. He sinks into his office chair and I join him, perching myself on his lap.
“I have to go,” I tell him with a sigh, and he nods reluctantly. “Thank you for my tour,” I say.
“You’re welcome. You’re the queen of this empire now, you should know your way around it.”
I smile at his words. I like being queen, I think smugly.
* * *
My modesty returns to me in droves as I wade through another painful afternoon of grumpy clients. What is it about Tuesdays afternoons, I wonder. I lament the slow-moving hours, wishing instead that they could pass as easily as this morning did. My final client, the nightmare-turned-daydream from last week, today teeters somewhere between the two, neither as terrible as she could be, nor as enthusiastic, which results in very little development in her design plans. At the end of our hour, she puts on her coat muttering under her breath about how little work we accomplished. I’m tempted to tell her that I’m not a fucking miracle worker and that there’s only so much I can do when she’s so damn unhelpful. However, despite my indignant thoughts, I remain professional, assuring her that things will come together soon, and promising her that I’ll email her through some design boards.
“Passez une bonne soirée, Mme Clark,” I stand next to Layla’s desk as I wave her out. Have a good evening.
The second the front door shuts behind her, I let out a long sigh, and delve my hand into my pocket, finally allowed to look at the message that I felt vibrating half an hour ago. Logan writes:
*About to leave for my check-up. I’ll be with you in an hour. Will try to swindle a lollypop for you too. x*
That gives me half an hour to kill. I could continue working on Mrs. Clark’s project. I could scurry down the road to the cafe to pick up a muffin, which I still have to replace. I could do a multitude of useful things, but I don’t. Instead, as most people are leaving for the day, I wheel my office chair into reception, and Layla and I fill the time engaging in a tête-à-tête.
She tells me about how Saturday night went in her eyes, and it’s comically different from Amber’s account — Layla loved it, she had a brilliant time, and can’t wait to do it again. She effuses the happiness that Amber thinks is fake, and I remember that when I first started working here I also thought that Layla’s (seemingly) over-the-top positivity was disingenuous. But now? I’ve seen so much of it in her over the last few weeks that she’s beginning to convert me into believing that she really means it. Hmm, time will reveal all, I think.
Logan arrives right on time, a lollypop stuck between his lips and another one sticking out the top of his suit breast pocket. Score! He lingers just outside the entrance while I hurry back to my desk to gather my things together.
“C’était vraiment agréable de discuter avec vous, Layla,” I say, really meaning it, as I come back into the reception area. It’s been really nice chatting with you.
“J’ai apprécié aussi,” she smiles. I enjoyed it also.
“Avez-vous besoin que nous attendions tandis que vous fermez?” I ask, as Logan walks over to join us, slipping an arm around my waist. Do you need us to wait while you lock up?
“Non,” she shakes her head. “But thank you for offering. Patrick will be here any minute,” she tells us, trying but failing to downplay her excitement.
I smile back at her. “Have a good night, Layla.”
“You too,” she says again.
I give Logan a mischievous look as we leave. Oh, we will, I think.
* * *
We’re in a jovial mood when we arrive at Mercy’s apartment forty-five minutes later. I practically run to the front door, beyond excited to see Samuel. Samuel and Mercy, I think, reminding myself to be a courteous guest and not to steamroll her on my way to the puppy.
Unsurprisingly, Mercy is a perfect host to us, welcoming us into her home in her usual, gracious manner. She leads us into the kitchen, pulls out chairs for both of us, and once we’re seated she places two piping mugs of coffee and a large plate of freshly baked biscuits in front of us. I can’t keep the smile from my face; it feels just like coming to visit a grandmother. Despite the fact that she’s younger than both of Logan’s parents, she somehow doesn’t seem it, effusing that grandmother quality and concern on almost every meeting so far. Supporting this thought of mine, when she joins us at the table, she starts bombarding Logan with questions about his check up, checking (and then double checking) that everything is alright.