Chapter 5: The Charity Stunt Contract

  I stood outside Logan McAllister’s penthouse door on the forty-second floor, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The entire building screamed untouchable wealth—marble lobby, private elevator, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. But the moment the private elevator doors slid open directly into the foyer, the warmth of luxury vanished.

  The place was dark, sterile, and cold. It felt like a modern museum no one actually lived in.

  Gunmetal grey walls boxed in rows of low-profile black leather furniture. Floor-to-ceiling glass made the glittering city lights below feel a million miles away. There were no photos. No personal touches. Just expensive emptiness and the heavy scent of cedar, mint, and raw, aggressive heat—his cologne.

  Logan was sitting on a massive leather sofa in the dark, the only illumination coming from the ambient glow of the city behind him. He was wearing nothing but grey cotton sweatpants. His chest was bare, a sculpted landscape of muscle marred by a jagged scar along his ribs, and his messy ink-black hair was still damp from the shower.

  Those cold grey eyes dragged slowly, deliberately down my body.

  “You’re late, mouse,” his gravelly baritone cut through the quiet. “Good. Get in.”

  "Traffic was heavy," I said, forcing my voice into a flat, clinical tone. I walked forward, stopping a few feet from the sofa, refusing to sink into his territory. "I have the contract for the youth hockey drive on Saturday. I need your signature on the league compliance forms so we can release the media advisory tomorrow morning."

  Logan didn't look at the folder. His eyes tracked the movement of my throat. I had followed his instruction; a high-collared black knit sweater covered my neck completely, hiding the marks from the locker room.

  "Set it on the counter," he muttered, gesturing toward the sprawling, minimalist kitchen island behind him.

  I walked over, placing the document neatly on the black granite. "Sign it, and I'll leave you to your evening."

  Logan stood up from the sofa. His massive six-foot-five frame uncoiled with predatory ease, and he stalked into the kitchen area. Instead of picking up the pen I had laid out, he walked right past me to the heavy double-door refrigerator. He pulled it open, the harsh white light casting long, sharp shadows across his chest.

  "I'm hungry," he baritoned, scanning the shelves. "And I don't feel like ordering in."

  "That has nothing to do with me, Logan. Sign the paper."

  He turned slowly, a dark, mocking tilt to his lips. He reached over, picked up the pen, and carelessly scribbled McAllister across the bottom of the league compliance form. Then, before I could reach for the folder, his large hand slammed down on top of it, pinning the documents to the granite.

  With his other hand, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black electronic remote, and pressed a button.

  A heavy, metallic clack echoed from the foyer. The private elevator doors locked shut. The secondary steel security deadbolt on the emergency exit door slid into place with a mechanical hiss.

  My heart stalled. "What are you doing? Let me out."

  "You want this folder, Rhea?" Logan whispered, leaning over the counter until his scent flooded my senses. "You're going to earn it. I want dinner. And you're going to make it for me."

  "I am not your maid," I said, my voice rising as panic began to claw at my throat, threatening to lock my jaw. "Y-You can't keep me here."

  "I can do whatever the hell I want in my own home," he purred, his grey eyes widening with that familiar, unhinged fixation. He opened a lower cabinet, pulling out a heavy cast-iron skillet and slamming it onto the induction stovetop with a deafening clang. "There's steak and asparagus in the fridge. Get to work. You've got exactly two hours before I decide to unlock that elevator. If the food is garbage, we do this again tomorrow."

  "This is coercion," I breathed, my hands trembling against the edge of the granite. "This is a boundary cross, Logan."

  "I don't give a fuck about your boundaries," he growled, stepping around the counter until he was crowding me against the refrigerator doors. His massive body completely blocked out the rest of the room.

  Before I could move, his hand slid down my side, his palm gripping my hip with bruising force.

  “Smell so fucking innocent,” he murmured against my ear, his voice low and rough. “You ever cook for a man before, Rhea? Or did you just spread those pretty little legs for that worthless ex of yours?”

  I froze, the humiliation striking deep. His fingers dug into my hip, then slid lower, palming my backside possessively over my skirt.

  “Logan—”

  “Shut up.” He squeezed harder, delivering a sharp, stinging slap that made me jolt against the fridge. “You’re staying two hours. You’re going to cook for me. And I’m going to watch every second of it.”

  His hand slipped under the hem of my skirt, his calloused fingers brushing the bare skin of my thigh, dangerously high.

  “Please… I just want to do the job and leave.”

  His dark chuckle vibrated against my back. “You’re not leaving until I say so. Now get in my kitchen, mouse. I want to see that tight little body moving for me.”

  For the next two hours, he tormented me.

  Logan sat on a stool at the island, his long legs spread wide, his eyes never leaving my silhouette. Every time I reached for something in the upper cabinets, his commentary broke the quiet.

  “Bend over more. Yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’ve got an ass made for breeding.”

  When I began chopping the vegetables, he rose, coming up silently behind me. He pressed his heavy, hardening length firmly against my backside, reaching his long arms around my waist to trap my hands and guide the knife. His breath was scorching hot on my neck.

  “Careful with those shaky hands. Wouldn’t want you to cut yourself. I still need this body intact when I finally decide to ruin it.”

  I tried to step away, the blade slipping. He grabbed my waist with both hands, yanking me back flush against his chest.

  “Stay right fucking here. You feel that?” He ground himself against me slowly, a heavy, torturous friction. “That’s what you do to me, little stutter mouse. Walking around like a scared prey animal. Makes me want to bend you over this counter and fill you until you can’t walk.”

  Tears stung my eyes, but I kept cooking, forcing my hands to move through the sheer weight of his presence. The penthouse felt like a gilded cage.

  When the meal was finally ready, he didn't let me go. He pulled me back between his spread thighs as he sat. This time, his hands roamed freely beneath my clothes, cupping my breasts through my blouse, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until they hardened against my will.

  “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dark with absolute satisfaction. “Cooking in my kitchen. Flushed and scared and wet for me, even if you won’t admit it. You’re starting to understand, aren’t you?”

  He squeezed my breast harder, then leaned in and bit the side of my neck, sucking the sensitive skin hard enough to leave a fresh, dark mark.

  “You belong right here now. In my space. Under my eyes. Soon it’ll be under my cock, too.”

  I stood there trembling as he ate, his hand still possessively anchored to my thigh the entire time, his thumb stroking lines into my skin.

  Two hours in his penthouse had felt like a lifetime.

  "Passable," he finally baritoned, sliding his hand off my leather folder and pushing it toward me. "You can go now, Rhea."

  He pressed the remote. The mechanical deadbolt hissed open down the hall. I grabbed the folder, my legs shaking so badly I could barely maintain my balance as I backed toward the foyer. As the elevator doors finally slid shut, separating us, I saw him tracking me through the dark apartment—entirely victorious, entirely unhinged.