Free Wicked Ride by Sawyer Bennett Page B

quiet speculation, Logan
just stares at me, as if he can’t
quite figure out what to do with me, except maybe feed me. I’m
equally at a loss as to what to say, because talking about what
happened between us last night could be extremely dangerous.
    So I pick up the paper menu
before me and start to study it. I don’t
look up at Logan, although I can feel the weight of his stare, but
I’m also so flustered to even be in his presence that I really
can’t see anything on the menu either.
    “Why are you letting Magnus
sell you off?” Logan asks quietly, and my eyes lift until they
peer at him over the menu. His visage is troubled and stormy, and I
can’t have him incensed on my behalf. He could easily get me
angry over the injustice of it all and convince me to run, and I just
can’t do that.
    “How about we talk about
something that doesn’t have to do with The Silo?” I say
quietly.
    “So I can’t tell you
how unbelievable last night was?” he asks, his eyes turning
practically golden to match the heat of his words. “Since that
happened in The Silo?”
    I squeeze my legs together and
duck my head behind the menu again. My privacy from such an intimate
question is short lived as his fingertips peek over the top and pull
it down. I notice his fingers are rough and nicked with cuts and
scars, a hazard, I would guess, of his job as a fly fisherman.
    My eyes reluctantly go to his,
and reluctantly only because I’m
terrified of the way he makes me feel. “We really should forget
about it.”
    “I’m pretty sure
that’s an impossibility on my part,” he says dryly before
leaning across the table so he can murmur. “And I know you
can’t either by the way you’re squirming in your chair
right now.”
    Damn.
    I immediately plant my feet hard
on the floor and make myself stay still. “Logan…
maybe another time—”
    “Okay, if we can’t
talk about The Silo or the amazing orgasms we gave each other last
night, how about telling me a little about yourself? Where are you
from?”
    “Brooklyn,” I say,
blinking in surprise at the abrupt change of subject, but with a
lingering tingle in my lower spine over the mention of the orgasms.
Because last night was the singularly most amazing thing that has
ever happened to me in my life. I knew the power of what an orgasm
felt like, but it never felt like that before.
    Never.
    “Your whole life?” he
asks to clarify.
    “Yes. Born and raised. And
you?” I ask politely, not really liking this stilted, demure
conversation, but knowing we’re both better off not venturing
from this path.
    “Chicago,” he says
with a shrug. “Although I’ve lived in quite a few places
since then.”
    “Like where?”
    He’s
prevented from answering when a waitress comes to our table and
places coffee cups before us without even asking if we want some,
although she does ask, “Want anything else other than coffee?”
    Logan and I both shake our heads.
    “Know what you want to
order?” she asks.
    Logan pushes his menu aside,
clearly having eaten here before. “Three
eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon—crisp, toast—white not
wheat.”
    The waitress scribbles and then
looks to me. “And
you, honey?”
    “I’ll have the same,”
I tell her with a smile, not because that’s the easiest thing
to do but because that’s the normal breakfast I would order,
except sometimes I’d get sausage instead of bacon.
    Seems our connection transcends
to breakfast foods now.
    “So, where else have you
lived?” I ask again after the waitress leaves. I occupy my
hands by adding a little milk and sweetener to my coffee, although
Logan apparently drinks his black since he doesn’t doctor his
up, so I know there are ways in which we differ.
    “Several places really,”
he says in a flat voice. “Texas. Spent a little time in
Southern California. Then Washington and Oregon. Landed here a little
over a year ago.”
    “And before you started
traveling?” I ask, my elbows resting on the