4
Giada
Logan had the self-control of a saint. I knew what Marisa’s jeans did to my a*s. I also knew what my spiked heels did to a man’s brain and balls. The look in his eyes when I’d glanced back to find him watching me creamed my panties—conservative ones I also had to borrow from Marisa.
I caught the low tone of his voice from the living room, and realized he must have made the call he’d said he needed to place. While tossing a week’s worth of clothes into a bag, I couldn’t get my mind off Logan and the connection we had—beyond s****l, sharing a bond of abusive pain.
Father hadn’t spared the rod when I’d been a wild child, but he’d ceased with the physical punishments after that event with the ex-boyfriend and the window, thank God. At that point, I’d lost privileges for my misbehav
