Oh, yes!

“Baby,” I whisper in encouragement. His fingers don’t stop at their usual destination, coaxing my sweet spot, but instead they continue in further…further… My mind comically wonders where he’s going, until I realise, “You read that article, didn’t you?” I smile, my eyes closed to better savour the feeling of him, my hands scrunching the duvet tightly. Ah!

“I may have skimmed it while I was sitting in the waiting room this evening,” he admits, and I can hear in his voice that he’s smiling too.

He strokes me deeply, his fingers circling inside, and I feel a familiar building sensation arise within me. I knew we’d done this before, I think gratifyingly. It evokes that delicious something more feeling, the type that results in an orgasm that is both memorable and entirely devouring. Again he speeds up, in time with my quick breathing, pushing me closer and closer to my release.

Yes, ah, yes! He feels amazing!

“I…I like…appreciation…nights,” I pant, before a loud moan escapes me. I like them a lot.

“Oh, baby, I like them too,” Logan says, his breathing nearly as rapid as mine. He’s so enjoying this, though perhaps not as much as I enjoy receiving it.

A moment later, his whole hand cups me. His fingers continue their internal windup, but his palm lays flat against my body, so that my clitoris is being provoked as well. Sensual pleasure explodes within me, and I know that I’m beyond the point of no return. I buck on the bed, riding his hand and whimpering airily, until I’m pushed higher than Logan’s ever pushed me before.

Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, yes!

“Logan!” I scream. A wave of pure sexual pleasure strikes me, and I drown in it as I come spectacularly, my body trembling through my glorious orgasm. I whimper and shake for a long time, riding every last bit of it. “Holy fucking wow,” I mutter, feeling out of breath and irrevocably seen-to. That never gets dull, I think, internally celebrating.

I finally open my eyes and lean up to gaze at Logan. Slowly, he pulls his fingers out of me, and the sight of them covered in my arousal makes me feel like I could come again. Somehow he is able to marry intimacy with eroticism in total harmony. And he does it oh, so sexily.

Abruptly, I sit bolt up right, needing to be closer to him, but in doing so I notice a wet patch of something on my hip that halts my movements. Realising what it is, I smile at the sight of Logan’s come.

“Were you multitasking?” I ask him.

“Very successfully,” he nods, making my eyes dart wide in amusement and surprise. So, that’s what his other hand was busy doing. Seeing my expression, he adds, “I’d like to dispel the myth that men are unable to do two things at once.”

“Oh, Logan,” I giggle, taking ahold of his arms and pulling him over me as I lie back down. My whole body relaxes, feeling wholly satisfied. “That was mind-blowing,” I whisper into his mouth once he’s draped over me.

He smiles and nods, before reaching over to pull the duvet double, covering us where we lie. Then he presses his lips to mine and murmurs, “And the night is only young.”

* * *

There are good moods, there are great moods, and then there’s the mood that I wake up in on Wednesday morning. Totally fucking euphoric! I stub my toe as I get out of bed, I slip in the shower, pulling a muscle in my back, I somehow manage to spray deodorant in my eye after drying off, and yet nothing can dampen my disposition. It’s like I’ve taken something herbal. In fact, the one time I did take something herbal, I didn’t feel nearly as good as I do now.

I linger in the dressing room, looking through the many dresses that I have hanging in here, before choosing something summery in keeping with my current mindset. It’s not until I step outside onto the roof terrace, where Logan is enjoying his morning coffee, that I realise how incredibly optimistic this choice is so early in the year. It’s far too cold to wear it as it is, so on returning to the dressing room, I pair it with tights and a blazer. Much better.

By the time I’m done adding to my outfit, Logan is back inside, standing at the kitchen island looking at the plate of muffins.

“I forgot about those,” I say, walking towards him.

“I found them under the sofa,” he chuckles.

I detour to the dining table, where I pick up some spare, scribbled-on paper from last night, and a pen. I then stand on the opposite side of the island from Logan and sheepishly slide the pen and paper across to him.

“I need your help,” I grin.

“Oh?”

“I’m going to replace the muffin that I stole at work, and I want to write a little note, but I can’t write it in case someone recognises my handwriting…”

“Uh-huh,” Logan chuckles, picking up the pen. “Just one standard apology this morning?” he asks and I nod.

“Anything you’re willing to give, I’ll take,” I say gratefully.

“In that case…” Logan theatrically uses his free hand to hide what he’s writing. When he’s done he looks up at me, appearing highly amused.

Sliding the paper back across to me, I look down and read:

I’m a guilty little thief. I’m the one who stole your muffin. This one’s for you to keep. No, I ain’t bluffin’.

I’m struck dumb. He’s got another hidden talent? I don’t know whether to laugh or to applaud, to call him a jester or a genius. “That’s…that’s really fucking good,” I blurt out.

It’s Logan who bursts into laughter. “It’s terrible!”

“No,” I shake my head. “Seriously, Logan, with your rhyming skills and my talent in choreography, we could be famous,” I get carried away by the (unlikely) possibilities. I walk around to his side of the kitchen island. “Can I have this?” It’ll definitely put a smile on whoever’s muffin I stole.

Standing by his side, I wrap an arm around his back, and still laughing, Logan nods. We then stand for a long moment, grinning at each, before something suddenly sparks between us and Logan rapidly leans down and kisses me as I grab the front of his shirt. Wanting to be even closer, he picks me up and backs me against the closest flat surface, the fridge, kissing me fervently, deeply, eagerly.

“Last night,” he murmurs, “Gemima, there are no words,” he breathes. We remained erotically entwined together in our duvet-cocoon for a gratifyingly long time.

I smile into his mouth. “Agreed,” I breathe, kissing him once more. I hear my tights rip as I wrap my legs around Logan’s waist, the fridge is freezing against my back, I really have to sneeze, and yet I’ve never been happier.

* * *

Pierson House’s kitchenette is my first port of call when I arrive at work. I hover over the kettle, pretending to be making myself some tea, whilst really waiting for the other women to clear out. When they have, I whip out the muffin, place it in the fridge where I found the other one, and balance Logan’s little poem-cum-apology on top of it. Then I causally walk to my desk and begin my day’s work, my conscience at peace.

* * *

When I’ve finalised all my deadline-sensitive jobs for the morning, I spend the rest of my time before lunch putting together two different design boards for Mrs. Clark. Wondering which of her personalities I’m going to get today, I hit the send button on my email with trepidation, and only have to wait for five minutes before her responding email rejects them both. No notes on what she does or doesn’t like, just flat out no. I groan and slump back in my chair. The ability to read minds would really come in useful in this job, I think. Like Mel Gibson in What Women Want, I start pondering. However even with that magical ability I doubt I’d be able to satisfy this particular client.