Who the fuck calls a man when he's about to have sex? Glorious, restraint-wielding, new-body sex?
Damn it, I'd just gotten him in the mood after all his avoidance and hesitation. I worked hard. Hustled. Busted my new, fantabulous ass.
The universe has to be fucking with me at this point.
No.
I shouldn't blame the universe.
The blame's definitely on Logan fucking Everett and his lack of sexual priorities.
I glare daggers at his back as he stalks away from the bed—away from me.
I'm still cuffed and completely helpless. The leather restraints dig into my wrists as I strain against them, my body still thrumming with need. The mattress creaks in protest as I tug and twist.
The restraints don't even pretend to break. They're just solid and well-constructed, because of course they are. The man's rich. He's not going to buy some restraints off TEMU.
No, he had to go get fancy ones.
