Logan could hardly believe the turn of events that brought him to this point. Here he was, on his way back to some fancy hotel, two bottles of bourbon sitting in the passenger seat, the headlights in his rearview mirror a constant reminder of the woman who would soon be following him up to his room.
He couldn’t remember ever being excited like this, palms sweating, practically shaking with anticipation. He really, really wanted her. He was so attracted to this woman, even if he couldn’t understand how or why.
He tried to push aside any residual twinges of guilt; she was just some girl, some waitress. No, not even that—a homeless stripper. Not a nice girl who had people to stay with, people who missed her when she was gone and looked out for her. Not the kind who deserved better than him, like he had originally thought. He had nothing to be guilty about. He was paying for her services fair and square, and she was a consenting . . . adult.
Not that he had asked her age.
He didn’t want to ask.
He was afraid of the answer.
Logan glanced in the rearview mirror once more, just to be sure she was still there. This was going to be good, he reminded himself, pushing his worries aside, already imagining what kind of underwear she would be wearing under her jeans and blouse. Better yet, how she would look when it all came off.
He would put on some soft music, he decided, something slow and sensual. He definitely wanted to take it slow, unwilling to settle for some quickie lapdance. He wanted to enjoy her alluring scent and her delicate features and her pale, smooth skin for as long as he could.
He was paying her well enough, well enough to demand that she take it slow.
And maybe, if he drank the bourbon at just the right pace, he could hold those twinges of guilt at bay.
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