Page 27 of Ruined

“Hey,” I say softly. I hate seeing him like this. I hate rejecting him, even though it’s for the best. “It’s okay, Ollie. You don’t need to be sorry.”

I want to pull him into a hug; I want to comfort him with more than words, but if I did, I don’t know what would happen. I can’t trust myself around him anymore. Not when he looks at me like this… Not when I know he wants me. Not when he’s right there, offering himself, and all I’d have to do is reach out and take him.

Desperate to get my mind out of forbidden territory, I go to my bedroom and pick out clean sheets, a spare duvet, and a pillow cover. Oliver is in the bathroom while I make the couch ready for him, and when he steps out, he’s dressed in just a T-shirt and boxer briefs. Forcing my gaze away from his pale legs and the dusting of hair on his thighs, I go to fill him a glass of water and put it on the coffee table in case he gets thirsty in the night.

“I have work tomorrow, but if you want to sleep in, I’ll leave you the key.”

“It’s okay,” Oliver says, shrugging. “Just wake me up when it’s time.”

He looks so small, so disappointed—in me or in himself, I’m not sure. Maybe the situation at large. The desire to comfort and reassure him physically hurts. I want to hug him, but if I do, I’m sure my body will react the same way as his. Instead of hugging him—instead of kissing his cheek or doing any of the things I want to do—I pat his shoulder as I pass him and tell him “good night.”

Later on, when I’ve put my head on my pillow, a new voice speaks through my thoughts, tugging at my heart.

He needs you. He’s all alone. You’ve already rejected him once, and now you’ve rejected him again. Your boy needs you.

I can’t. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn onto my side, waiting for the voice of reason to take over—the one that reminds me of who Oliver is and that stresses that I can’t ever let any lines be crossed between us—but that side of me feels quieter than before. Instead, the voice I hear when I drift to sleep is the other one. The daddy in me.

He needs you. He wants you. How long can you keep denying that you want him back?

10. NEXT TIME

Crap, I’m doing everything wrong. I’m fucking things up and making them weirder than they have to be, and Logan… Logan is just trying to do what he thinks is right. He’s trying to keep the boundaries clear between us, but they’re already blurred, damn it.

I felt his cock. I felt it twitch under my cheek—felt it thicken when I took his thumb into my mouth. He liked it, being close to me like that. There’s no way he didn’t. The rejection stings, though, and I keep thinking about how I should have done things differently, how I shouldn’t have put my head in his lap in the first place. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have made things awkward between us.

I sigh into the pillow. The couch is comfortable enough, and the sheets smell like his clothes, so by extension, they smell like him. That’s my only comfort as I drift off to sleep.

Too soon, the morning comes, and I hear Logan’s alarm ring in his room. I groan and turn around, hoping to catch a few more minutes of sleep. The bedroom door opens, and I hear him rummaging around in the kitchen, but the lights are dim, so I snooze some more. Eventually, I wake up again from the sound of his voice.

“Sweetheart.” His hand strokes my back. “It’s time to wake up.”

I make a noise of protest, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

“You can keep sleeping,” he says gently. “I’ll leave you the key.”

“No,” I mumble and sit up, wrapped in blankets. I need to get back home. I texted the twins last night that I was staying over with a friend.

“Do you want breakfast?” Logan is dressed smartly in a polo shirt and khakis, and he carries with him a scent of masculine shower gel.

“It’s fine,” I say with a yawn.

Logan opens the fridge. “I don’t have much. Is cereal okay?”

I get dressed, and we end up sitting next to each other on the bar stools by the kitchen island, sharing a breakfast of cereal, coffee, and orange juice. He’s being so quiet. It gets me nervous, considering what happened last night.

“Are you, uh…” I bite my lip.

“Hmm?” Logan reaches over and strokes the back of my head. It’s a fatherly gesture, but my breath quickens regardless.

I want to know if he’s mad at me for last night, but I don’t know how to bring it up without making things weirder than they already are. Besides, my brain’s not working right this early in the morning.

“Did you sleep okay?” His hand drifts to the side of my neck, holding me gently while he drinks coffee.

The touch is distracting. All I can think about is his fingers on my skin.

“Um, yeah.”

“You look more rested.” His touch turns a bit firmer. “Your neck’s stiff, though.”