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I get his reply. Loud and clear. But I’m the only one making noises between mouthfuls once he gets his way.
He’s better than any fantasy I could have come up with. Eating me out while I eat my breakfast?
It does take a little getting used to, but I don't think I need to warn him it could be a dangerous habit to get into.
I think I make it as far as my second slice of French toast before I know this will only ever end one way.
“Logan… Logan!” I pant. He knows exactly what I need right this second.
He’s not one to tease me too much. I taste myself on his mouth soon enough. That perfect dick of his filling me slow and deep. The perfect itch I need to be scratched just right. Right there…
It’s more ammunition for Logan, I know he's memorizing every little detail of what makes Stephanie squeal. And it’s only been one night but I swear, the man is a wizard at making things work.
Breakfast might be a little cold, but I have to agree with Logan that it really is the most important meal of the day.
It’s my current favorite too… at least until lunchtime. I’m sure Logan has plenty more up his sleeve when it comes to making me feel like I never want to leave.
I’m rethinking everything I said last night, about wanting to go to the authorities and comparing it to how I feel now, up here with Logan and his breakfasts instead.
“I-I don't want to go back. How long can we stay here, just like this?” I ask, sounding more like a lost little girl than I mean to. I really couldn’t. I can't go back. I won't.
Logan hooks his arm around me, and I can feel him smiling too. My news is like music to his ears. “We could stay up here comfortably for months. I keep it pretty well stocked.”
“I’ll be twenty-one in less than a month,” I chime in before clearing my throat and finding my adult voice. I am so not trying to sound grown up.
Once I’m old enough, in just a few weeks, the ‘Foster’ estate as Daddy’s been calling it, is rightfully mine.
“Thanks for reminding me,” Logan groans, feigning hurt when I ask how old he is.
“Old enough to know better,” he quips but he knows it’s a fair question. Never one to play too many games, he doesn’t challenge me to guess.
“I’m forty-two.”
I don't know what forty-two is supposed to look like, but I don’t see it or think of a number when I see Logan. Although, my mind does do some quick math.
Hypothetically speaking, if I had a baby with Logan every year, how old would he be when our eldest turns twenty?
Sixty-two or thereabouts, and I’d be about the same age he is now.
I turn to look at Logan, knowing from his own expression that he's already done the same math. “Could you still care about an older guy when he was actually an old guy?” he asks, giving me a side glance.
I don't pretend to be hurt when he says it. I feel it.
“Don’t even think like that, Logan.” But I can tell he's already had plenty of time to think about it—the age gap, my soon-to-be inheritance.
He’s worried I’ll change, turn into my father, or worse. It won't happen that way, I won't let it.
The sun’s high in the sky by the time Logan mentions lunch, making me smile against my better judgment.
“Then maybe it’s my turn to cook,” I tell him, letting my hand find his already throbbing member under the sheets before disappearing under them myself.
Call it a favor for a favor, but this is something I've been itching to do since last night.
“Holy fuck!” Logan exclaims as I take as much as I dare of him into my mouth, humming to myself with delight because Logan tastes every bit as good as he feels. Once he can feel just how fast a learner I am, he strokes my hair like a wild animal finally tamed.
He gets the idea soon enough. He does breakfast, I can do lunch. And dinner?
Maybe we can work on that together? I’m guessing there’s no cell coverage out here, so we’re gonna have plenty of time. For a few weeks, at least.
