Элла Франк - Try

Logan let out a long sigh. “Okay. Sunday, it is.”

Just before Tate was about to say good night, he requested one last thing. “Oh, and Logan?”

“Yes?”

“Keep your zipper closed until then, huh?”

Logan groaned. “Okay, but I won’t be held responsible for what happens to it on Sunday.”

Tate decided to end with a tease—why the hell not at this stage? “No. I will be.”

Sunday morning, Tate was at church from nine until approximately ten thirty. By noon, he was seated at his mother’s kitchen table right alongside his sister, Jill, and her husband, Sam, for lunch until two thirty. It wasn’t as though he was consciously watching the clock, but he couldn’t seem to drag his eyes away from it.

It was around that time he excused himself and rode home to sit in his crappy apartment and further contemplate everything he’d been thinking about since he woke up this morning.

Now, here it was, Sunday night, and he was standing in front of Logan’s condo door after traveling up the elevator, at exactly nine fifteen.

Tate had never been so aware of a timeline in his life, but as he stood twenty-two stories high, he tightened his fingers around his motorcycle helmet and counted back from thirty.

For the last couple of days, Tate had thought about nothing except what would happen right here, this minute—and now that the time had come, he still had no idea what that was going to be.

Tate was about to lift his hand to knock on the door when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Shuffling the helmet to his other hand, he pushed his left into his jeans and pulled out the cell. A smirk crossed his mouth at the name currently flashing on his screen. Logan—whose personal number he now had, as of a day ago.

Bringing it to his ear, Tate answered, “Impatient much?”

“I buzzed you up over ten minutes ago. I’m just making sure the elevator didn’t get stuck.”

“It didn’t.”

There was a pause that didn’t help Tate with his indecision.

Then, Logan asked, “Where are you, Tate?”

Tate bumped the helmet against his thigh. “Standing at your door.”

He could hear shuffling through the phone and presumed Logan was moving closer to open it.

“And how does it look from out there? I always thought it was pretty boring—cream paint, doorknob, standard black peephole to look at strange men lurking in front of my place.”

Tate felt the corner of his mouth tilt up. “I’m not lurking.”

“But you’ve been standing there for the last—”

“Five minutes,” Tate supplied.

“Ah. And?”

Closing his eyes, Tate tried to think of a response.

“You sure you’re ready for me to open the door, Tate?”

Biting his lip, Tate nodded silently, hearing the underlying message in Logan’s words, and he was surprised when Logan murmured, “Good thing for the peephole.”

As the phone disconnected, Tate heard a chain rattle and a deadbolt turn. When the door finally opened, he knew he was standing face-to-face with a man who was about to change his entire life.

* * *

Logan didn’t know what was different about Tate, but as he stood a few feet away, he recognized a change. Maybe it was the direct way Tate was looking him in the eye instead of making an excuse to turn from him, or maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t scowling.

Moving back, so the door was wide-open, Logan gestured for Tate to come inside. As Tate went to move by him, Logan reached out and touched the arm of his leather jacket. Tate stopped and looked down at the hand on his arm before raising his gaze to meet Logan’s. And that, right there, was the difference—the heat.

Tate’s focused on his lips, and Logan swore his mouth became dry in an instant from the scorching once-over Tate gave him.

Clearing his throat, Logan let go of his arm. “So, you found the place okay?” he asked as casually as he could.

Tate continued moving down the hall and into the living area where Logan had a large flat-screen mounted on the wall above a marble fireplace. He stopped, looked around the space, and then glanced back over his shoulder to where Logan had moved to lean up against the wall.

“Yeah, it wasn’t hard at all.”

Don’t make a joke, Logan told himself. He really wanted this to go the right way. He wasn’t sure what to expect, and he had no clue what Tate had finally decided. So, until it was obvious one way or the other, Logan was going to play it cool and try not to be the pushy asshole he’d been accused of.

Well, that was the plan until Tate bent down to place his helmet on the floor, and his jeans stretched across his ass. Logan let his gaze wander down below the black leather of Tate’s jacket, and he imagined sliding his hands into the snug pockets and cupping his—

“You looking at my ass?” Tate stood and turned around.

Logan raised a brow and freely admitted, “Yep.”

“And?”

Pushing off the wall, Logan crossed his arms over his chest, figuring now was the time to get everything out in the open. “From the first time we met, I thought it was fucking impressive. Nothing has changed.”

* * *

Tate wasn’t sure if the comment should upset or disturb him, but as he looked at the man staring him down, he decided that it was neither. In fact, it’d had the opposite effect. It made his temperature spike.

Logan looked good as he stood across the room from him with his arms crossed.

He definitely has a different build than me. Tate took a moment to really study the man without the fear of anyone catching him.

He was dressed as casually as Tate had ever seen him. Barefoot, Logan had on some loose, gray track pants and a black T-shirt that seemed molded to all his muscles, and the guy had some serious muscles under those suits.

He definitely works out to get those.

Tate acknowledged Logan’s shoulders and incredibly built biceps, and he had to admit, they were fucking awe-inspiring, not to mention sexy.

Wow, who knew that would flip my switch?

“Done looking?” Logan’s voice questioned in a way that told Tate he was enjoying being the object under scrutiny.

Tate didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took his time finishing his one-stop visual feast before finally shrugging and pushing his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Yep.”

“That’s it? No details?”

Yeah, see how that feels. Tate tilted his head to the couch. “Mind if I sit?”

He watched Logan’s eyes narrow as he shook his head. Moving around to the recliner, to the right of the loveseat, Tate sat and crossed his legs at the ankles as Logan walked toward the opposite end of the double.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Ah, the irony. You sure I shouldn’t be in the kitchen, mixing you one?”

Logan pointed to where he was seated. “No, you stay right there. I’ll serve you tonight.”

The remark was meant innocently—probably for the first time in Logan’s life. Tate, however, twisted it in his own mind as he began thinking of all the ways Logan might want to serve him. He felt the blood rushing down between his thighs, and his cock started to ache from the ideas now flashing through his head. Tate also discovered that the more he observed the muscles shifting across Logan’s back, the more turned-on he became.

Logan looked back and caught him looking, and the cautious but interested expression on his face told Tate that Logan knew he was being watched.

“You never said. Drink?”

Tate shook his head. “Just water, thanks.”

“Seriously?” Logan turned to fully face him from behind the kitchen counter.

Tate ran a hand up and through his hair, and Logan’s eyes shifted to the gesture.

“I want a clear head.” Tate appreciated the fact that Logan didn’t push the issue.

When Logan was back in the living room, he made his way between the couch and the wooden coffee table until he was directly in front of Tate, looking down with two drinks in his hands.

Slowly, Logan leaned down toward him, and Tate thought for a full overwhelming moment that he was going to hyperventilate, but at the last second, Logan’s mouth tipped up into a grin.

Tate focused in on that full bottom lip, fixating on it, as Logan placed his water on the table next to the couch. Thinking the man was about to move away, Tate reached out and snagged Logan’s free arm.

“Your eyes…”

“Yes?”

Tate tilted his head to the side. “They’re so fucking blue.”

* * *

 Logan convinced himself that the way Tate was looking at him was due to nerves and curiosity. It wasn’t because Tate was about to attack him.

The guy wants to talk, so move away from him and talk, Mitchell.

“You should let go of my arm.” He was pretty damn proud of his self-restraint, but apparently, Tate had his own agenda.

“Why?”

Logan almost groaned. That seemed to be Tate’s favorite question. Why? The big problem with that was everything Logan wanted to say back was one hundred percent inappropriate and not where they were supposed to be going—yet.

Reminding himself that he could be an adult—sometimes—Logan lifted his drink and took a sip. “Because you want to talk.”

“You can’t talk with me touching you?” Tate released his arm.

Taking a couple of steps back, Logan sat down in the far corner of the loveseat and stared Tate down. “Not about anything that requires me to actually think.”