“Fuck,” he sighed as Logan raised his head and wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“Well at least let me drive us home first.”

“Jesus. I can’t even think,” Tate admitted as Logan straightened, sat back in his seat, and grabbed his own erection.

Tate sat up and adjusted his seat before his eyes fell to Logan’s hand, watching him wrap it around his hard-on and stroke.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Watch me.”

Tate’s eyes flew up to meet his, and Logan gave him a shameless fucking smile.

“It’ll only take a minute, with you sitting there all sexed out.”

Tate felt a smirk of his own cross his mouth as his eyes trailed back down to Logan’s hips, which were pumping and thrusting his thick cock through his fingers.

“Sexed out?”

“Yeah. All satisfied from being worked over. From having my mouth and fingers all over you…in you. You look so damn hot as hell and it makes me want to fuck you so bad.”

How in the hell is it possible that my cock is twitching? Tate thought as Logan continued talking and fucking his own hand.

“Your tight ass gripping my finger, the sounds you make as your delicious cock explodes down my throat. Yeah, Tate. You’re all kinds of sexed out. By me.”

Tate turned toward the bag he knew the oil was in. Not even a cop knocking on the window would’ve stopped him as he grabbed it, stuck his hand inside, and yep, found the plastic container with warm fucking oil.

He dipped his fingers inside and then placed the bag down on the floor before he leaned, ass bare, across the car to wrap his fingers around Logan’s. He let their mouths connect, figuring that he must be as dirty as Logan, because he wanted to taste himself on Logan’s lips.

He shoved his tongue into Logan’s mouth and felt the fingers under his leave to grab his face.

As Tate tightened his slippery fingers, Logan began to devour his mouth.

He barely did a thing as Logan fucked his cock through his fist, his hips finding a rapid pace before he ripped his mouth away, and rested his head back against the seat. The profanity coming from Logan’s mouth aroused Tate to a point where he wanted to hear his name shouted when Logan came—and he was close. Tate could tell by the way his breathing had quickened.

He watched, as Logan’s hips snapped up and his head strained back against the seat. When their eyes connected and one of Logan’s hands reached down to enclose his fingers tightly around him, Tate heard his name fall from those crude lips as thick jets of come shot from Logan and coated their hands.

Everything about the exchange had been raw and emotional, and as he stared across at Logan, all he could think was how fucking sexy it’d been.

Am I gay? He wasn’t sure.

It was Logan he was attracted to, not other men, but what did that mean? Maybe he was bi. Who the hell cares in the end? Do we have to label it?

He wanted Logan, and that was good enough for him.

9.

It just turned eight on Friday night when Logan made his way down to the lobby of his building. He buttoned up the black leather jacket he’d invested in when Tate and his motorcycle had ridden into his life.

He really didn’t like the idea of getting on that deathtrap again, but he’d grudgingly agreed since Tate had made it a nonnegotiable clause in tonight’s activities. It was cool this evening, and the thought of zooming through the busy streets of Chicago with the wind whipping around him did nothing to excite Logan. It just made him wish that Cole lived in the same damn building he did.

Tate had called yesterday to let him know that Amelia had taken his shift and he’d be able to make it to—yep, game night. When the elevator stopped, Logan stepped out and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as he walked toward the front entrance. He pushed open the glass doors to the main street, where they’d agreed to meet, and then moved aside to lean against the brick wall of his building and wait.

It had been a couple of days since he’d gone to dinner with Tate. Each of them seemed to understand that they needed a bit of distance after that explosive evening in his car, which was another reason Tate had suggested his bike. His explanation: He didn’t want to cause an accident by reminding Logan of the last time they’d been together in his vehicle—as if he’d ever fucking forget.

That was okay with Logan though. He understood that Tate might need some time. He’d even accepted that he might be thinking over the choices he was about to make.

He didn’t like it, but he’d accepted it.

His train of thought was soon interrupted by the purr of Tate’s supercharged Suzuki as he watched Tate zip through several cars and pull to a stop at the pick-up location of his building.

Logan remained where he was and waited as Tate removed the red helmet from his head. He then shook those sexy-as-fuck curls from his face, and Logan momentarily forgot his aversion to motorcycles.

Christ. He might die on the back of that thing, but Logan had to believe it would be worth it to get close to that man. He was pure sex when straddling that machine—kind of like when he was naked and straddling him.

Logan pushed away from the building and strolled toward the edge of the road. When Tate spotted him, he placed the helmet between his spread thighs and smiled in a way that made Logan’s heart race.

He wanted to see that smile every day, and that scared the shit out of him.

“Hey.”

Logan let his eyes travel the length of the bike and then raised a skeptical brow.

“If you want me on the back of that again, you better have something more than, ‘Hey.’”

Tate kicked down the bike stand and swung his leg—Are you fucking serious? He’s wearing leather pants too—over the back of the bike. He then stepped up onto the pavement so they were eye to eye before running a hand down the front of Logan’s jacket.

“You look hot in leather.”

“Me? Look at your fucking pants.”

Tate glanced down his body and then brought his eyes back to meet his. “I wear them for protection. You like?”

“So much I’m barely decent.”

Tate’s rumbling laughter mocked him as he invited in a husky voice, “Want to peel me out of them later?”

“Fuck you.”

“Hmm,” Tate mused and then leaned in, disagreeing in his ear. “I don’t think so. Tonight it’s my turn, and I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

Logan couldn’t help the frustrated sound that left him as he twisted his head so he could smell the cologne clinging to Tate’s skin. “Oh? So we’re taking turns now?”

Tate brushed a kiss across his mouth, and Logan felt it all the way to his toes.

“It’s only fair, wouldn’t you say? Now get on the bike, or we’ll be late.”

Well, how’d you like that? A whole fucking lot, according to his dick.

Without another word, Logan took the helmet Tate handed him and climbed on the back. The sooner they got done with game night, the sooner they could play.

* * *

Around twenty minutes later, they stepped into an elevator and Tate waited as Logan pressed Cole’s floor. As it began its ascent, Tate leaned against the sidewall and really took in the man standing across from him now that they were under the lights.

Logan had unbuttoned his jacket, so a strip of blue showed when he pushed his hands into his pockets. He had his glasses on, and his eyes were piercing as they watched him silently in their close confines.

His jeans looked expensive, probably brand-name since even his sweatpants were Armani, but that was something Tate admired about Logan. He never flaunted his wealth, and he certainly never made him feel as if he were beneath him…except when he really was.

“What’s that smile for?”