She grunted and rolled over, plumping up her pillows and tossing her long hair back over them. She had to stop thinking about Logan Carter. There was no reason to. He just worked in her house sometimes, they were acquaintances, that was all.
There was no reason for her to be intrigued by him, dammit.
Even if he was ridiculously gorgeous, in a no-holds-barred, manly man kind of way that made her hormones race like they hadn’t in some time.
The last time she’d had sex was Labor Day weekend; a casual interlude with an old acquaintance that had been merely satisfactory . . . which, in turn, left her feeling empty afterwards. It had been the last push that convinced her that having her own life, alone, was definitely how it was going to be.
She’d felt so lonely that following week that it shocked her. Yet, at the same time, she knew how it had to be now. She’d always believed in love, even after her parents’ disastrous uncoupling. She’d had boyfriends and looked for love her whole life . . . but it hadn’t happened for her. Only once had she fallen in deep as an adult, and Brady had been a bad choice. At least she’d found out who he really was before she’d married him.
On her own was how she’d do it. She’d tried love, been slapped by it, looked again, come up empty . . . it just wasn’t in the cards for her. Not everyone was going to find their soul mate like all three of her brothers had. She was the unlucky sibling, apparently. Not that she’d ever say that to them, or let herself drown in self-pity over it . . . it just was what it was.
She’d tried to date, do the casual thing . . . it wasn’t for her. Meaningless sex had proven to be just that. She could give herself an orgasm just fine and not have to deal with the hollow, awkward feelings afterwards, lying in a bed with someone she didn’t care about and knowing he felt the same. She hadn’t had rock-my-world sex since Brady, though, and that was years ago now. She’d loved him, so it took the sex to a higher level, more satisfying both physically and emotionally . . . she’d always been that way. She knew other people could separate good sex from love, their body from their mind—hell, two of her brothers had been like that before they’d met their wives. But she’d never been able to do that. After this last attempt at a casual fling, Tess had decided that sex was just going to be another casualty of her lackluster love life. She’d be on her own, have her baby, and concentrate on the new path she’d forge for herself.
But she bet Logan Carter was good in bed. That gorgeous mountain of a man . . . oh, would she love to climb him. Something in her belly warmed at the thought, shooting tingles straight between her legs. She imagined him hovering over her in bed . . . his muscled, broad shoulders, those shrewd green eyes gazing down at her . . . and shook the image out of her mind. She had to stop thinking about him. Yet as she lay there for the next few minutes, she found that was easier thought than done.
Maybe that was it, why she was suddenly thinking about Logan? Something simple like she still had needs, and it had been long enough now that her itch needed some scratching? And Logan was a drop-dead gorgeous, six-foot-four, virile Viking of a man who practically emanated testosterone, so she was a little hot for him?
Who was she kidding? More than a little hot. He was sexy as hell, both for his looks and just who he was. He was smart and strong, and that drew her to him. Spending Labor Day weekend in bed with Anton had only proved, once and for all, that a pretty face and body on their own just didn’t cut it for her; she needed a man of real substance to hold her interest. And Logan had it in spades. Talk to the man for two minutes, and you could see his still waters ran deep. He enticed her, no doubt about it.
She squeezed her eyes shut. It was clear that despite their easier vibe that morning, for the most part, Logan barely tolerated her. They weren’t friends. He thought she was some stuck-up princess. If he knew she was having dirty thoughts about him . . . about what his sensual mouth would feel like to kiss, or what his strong, calloused hands would feel like against her skin, or what his beard would feel like against her thighs . . . he’d probably grimace so hard at her that his ruggedly handsome face would crack.