I rest back on my hands, letting my head hang back as he starts taking me once more. Oh, fuck! How can I stay silent when I’m feeling this good? My breathing is so erratic and grows even more so as I inch closer to my release. Ah, Logan! Keeping everything so pent up makes me feel like I might pass out, but I don’t, I stay with it until my legs are shaking.

“Logan, hurry up,” his mother calls from the other side of the door.

I’m sure in hindsight I’ll find this funny, I tell myself vaguely, but right now I can’t. I’m too filled with adrenalin.

“Coming,” Logan calls back, as casually as his voice allows him.

“Bad, bad, bad choice of word,” I whisper to him.

He laughs into my mouth, his hips working furiously against mine. “Ladies first, Gemima,” he whispers back.

His words undo me. Inside, I tighten spectacularly around him, causing him to buck forward, his body shaking violently as he’s coaxed into coming. Pleasure surges through every cell of my body as my orgasm claims me, and I let out a silent scream, releasing all of my pent up energy as I quiver on the vanity.

Breathing heavily, Logan leans forward to kiss me, looking supremely satisfied. He then pulls out of me and stands under the shower for all of five seconds, just to give his parents the illusion that that’s what he’s been doing. His body twitches as he washes himself clean, his penis still so sensitive.

I watch him in awe, as my breathing slowly regulates. I’m exactly where he left me, legs spread and leaning back. Logan looks through the water rushing down his face and smiles at the sight of me. I love that we have exactly the same reactions to one another, we really are just as bad as each other.

Stepping out of the shower, Logan kisses me again, smiling, “Thank you for climaxing quietly in front of my parents.”

I crack up, bursting into laughter, ridding my body of even more tension. “You’re…you’re so welcome,” I stammer.

“Take your time, baby,” he says, walking towards the door and pulling a bathrobe from the back of it.

Before stepping outside he waits for me to leave my station and step into the shower, just in case someone is lingering on the other side of the door and might see me. Fortunately, no one’s there. Logan disappears to play host, and I stand, fully sated, under a torrent of warm water.

* * *

Five minutes later I walk into the living room fully dressed. Despite Logan’s words, I’ve never showered and dressed so quickly in my life. My manners won’t let me keep his parents waiting, though it’s not just his parents who are here.

Around the dining table with a steaming cup of coffee apiece, sits Logan, his parents, and his brother. Suddenly nerves fill me. The infamous Taylor George is in the building. I hurry through the living room, comically dodging the sofas and the chimney flume, and stumbling over the length of my pantsuit, whose legs are too long for me when I don’t have my heels on, in order to reach them quickly.

All three men stand when I approach the table, taking me by surprise, though the look on Mary-Gene’s face tells me that this is normal behaviour. They’re southern gentlemen, I remind myself.

“Good morning,” I smile at his parents.

“Gemima,” Rupert nods in greeting.

“G’morning darlin’,” Mary-Gene beams at me.

Any minor suspicions lurking in the back of my head that Logan and I were overheard are eradicated as I take in her joy at seeing me. However, I immediately note that I don’t like housing this sort of suspicion, it’s embarrassing, and yet there have been three incidences in the last twenty-four hours to cause it. We should cool our fire, I think, turning to face Logan and his brother, but taking in the sight of him in that bathrobe I know instantly that that will be a lost cause. I can’t cool the flames of desire that I constantly feel for him, nor do I want to.

I instinctively take ahold of Logan’s hand as he steps to the side slightly, so that I can access Taylor. It’s remarkable how similar they look, despite their age difference. They have the same colour hair, the same shape of face, and the same tall, broad structure, but regardless of these similar features there is something quite great that sets them poles apart: their eyes. It’s not their colour — Taylor’s are a very dark, forest green — but the way they stare out of them that makes the brothers different. Just like Logan told me, Taylor looks dissatisfied, pissed off, like he’d really rather be somewhere else. He surveys me with a mixture of disdain and curiosity, as if both wondering who his brother’s new girlfriend is, while also looking like he doesn’t give a fuck. I abruptly realise that I could be royalty and Taylor would still look down on me, like he is right now, simply because I choose to be with Logan.

Buddy’s words ring through my head about he and I being allies against Taylor and his lack of respect of Logan. I haven’t even said a word to him, and yet I already feel like Buddy will be right.

“Hello, Taylor,” I force myself to say, holding out my hand, a polite smile slapped across my face.

“Gemima,” he nods like his father, smiling back, though his smile doesn’t reach his eyes; not like Logan’s does. He shakes my hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too. How’re your family? Where are your family?” I add.

“Still asleep, we got in very late,” he reminds me.

Everyone sits down, Logan pulling me naturally onto his lap. It doesn’t escape my attention that he shifts me to rest on the knee that’s furthest away from Taylor. He’s not aware of doing it; at least, not consciously.

“You look nice,” Logan mutters into my ear, his chin on my shoulder, his eyes roving my outfit, my favourite pantsuit.

“Thanks, baby,” I say, kissing his cheek. “How’re you this morning?” I ask his parents, taking a sip of Logan’s coffee.

“Ready and raring to go,” Mary-Gene tells me. “We’ve just popped in to say happy birthday. We can’t stay long,” she adds hastily, “I want to be at the Louvre when it opens.”

“For your fifth visit?” Logan teases her.

“Our ninth,” Rupert sighs, less than enthused by the idea.

“It’s only for a few hours, Rupey,” she tuts, “then we’re meeting you for lunch, right, sweetheart?” she checks with Logan.

“Yes, twelve-thirty. Are you joining us?” he asks Taylor.

“Sure,” he nods again. “They should be awake by then,” he says, throwing a look across the road at the hotel, where he’d obviously rather be.

“Gemima, you’ll be there?” Rupert assumes.

“I’d love to be, but I have to work this lunchtime,” I say regretfully. And spying the clock in the kitchen, I realise that I have to leave immediately to avoid being late.

I say a rueful goodbye to Logan and his family. This is the only flip side of our impassioned morning — running late for work is fast becoming my daily routine, though I tell myself if I’m going to get fired, there’s literally no better way to go about it.

Today more than other days, however, I have other cause for being in trouble with Amélie given that I didn’t complete the project report last night, which I’m sure she’ll be anticipating I hand in first thing.

This results in me spending the entire morning trying to blend in with the office furniture in case Amélie should walk by, and whenever I get that distinct feeling of her presence nearby I pick up the phone and pretend to be listening to a client speak. My fear of her legendary tantrums is sad, I know, but it’s also very real. At lunchtime, I rush out of the building with my laptop underarm, feeling so preoccupied that I nearly get rundown by a bevy of tourists on Segways.

I hide myself away in the back corner of a nearby cafe to finish the report. After about ten minutes of minimal progress, I spot Rosita, Amélie’s personal assistant, standing at the service counter and it’s only after I’ve ducked low in my corner booth that I realise how completely ridiculous I am being. Stop it, I chide myself, straightening back up. Nobody likes a scaredy-cat, Gemima.