Lying on his back, he picked up his cell phone from his bare chest and stared at the screen. Still nothing. No calls of outrage from the family and not one call or text from that asshole telling me how sorry he is.
Well, fuck him, Tate thought, dropping the phone back to where it had been, as he lifted the bottle of Cuervo to his lips. Actually, don’t fuck him. He’d like it too much, Tate told himself just as his phone vibrated.
Picking it up, he made out the name and text he’d been waiting for. Swiping open the message, he stared at the two words on his screen and felt his mouth fall open. Twisting around and sitting up way too fast for his head, Tate continued to stare at the screen.
That arrogant fuck. Instead of the two words he’d expected—I’m sorry—there, staring back at him, was, I’m coming.
Tate glared at the phone as if the man who had typed it would be able to see. Placing the bottle down on the floor beside him, he typed back.
You’re not coming here.
Logan was in for a rude surprise if he thought Tate was going to let him in, and an even ruder one if he thought he was going to come in any way, shape, or form near him until he apologized.
Logan: Be ready.
“Unbelievable,” Tate sputtered, reaching down for the tequila.
Fuck you.
Not ten seconds later, there was a loud pounding on the door that startled him as his phone lit up. Looking down at it, Tate read a reply that made his buzzed brain take notice and his traitorous cock stiffen.
Logan: No, Tate. I’m gonna fuck you.
“Open the door!” Logan called out.
Tate stood, making his way—one foot in front of the other—to the door. “Go away, Logan. I don’t wanna talk to you,” Tate called out, leaning against the wood as he raised the bottle back to his lips.
“That’s too damn bad because I have a lot to say to you.”
Bringing the bottle down by his leg, Tate closed his eyes. “Then, say it.”
There was a long pause, and then Logan’s voice, softer this time, vibrated through the door. “This morning at my office—”
“Yes, Lo-gan—” Tate half-sang through the door.
“Are you drinking?”
Again, Tate repeated, “Yes, Lo-gan.”
“Open the door, and say that to me,” Logan demanded, calmer this time around.
Tate rolled his shoulders along the door until he was resting his left side up against it. “And why would I do that?”
He heard a thump and wondered if Logan had used his fist or his head to hit the door. “Open the fucking door, Tate.”
“Apologize,” Tate countered, determined to hear the words.
“Open the door, and I will,” Logan argued back.
Sighing, Tate knew they were at an impasse. He unlatched the dead bolt, turned the lock, and opened the door. Logan was standing there, with his arms stretched out, bracing him against the door frame, with his jacket parted and his tie falling forward.
Guy’s all fucking sex, Tate thought as he stared at the eyes behind the glasses.
Being this close to Logan with only his jeans—oh shit, they’re Logan’s jeans—between them, was not going to help him resist the man in front of him. So, as soon as Logan dropped his hands off the frame, Tate raised the bottle to his lips and downed more of the smooth, warm alcohol, trying to keep some distance between them.
“You going to let me in?” Logan asked.
Tate had a feeling that statement meant a lot more than permission into his apartment.
“You going to apologize?”
Logan ran a hand along his jaw. “You want me to do this here?”
Taking another drink as he thought about it, Tate scratched a hand over his naked chest, and then he moved it down to the button on his jeans. “Yeah, I think I do,” he agreed, and then blamed the alcohol when he added, “Down on your knees. That’s where most people grovel.”
* * *
Logan managed to keep his mouth from falling open—barely—as the words Tate had just spoken made it to his brain.
Glancing at the bottle of tequila in Tate’s hand, Logan questioned much more calmly than he felt, “How full was that?”
Tate lifted the quarter-empty bottle and shrugged. “Unopened. Why?”
“I’m just thinking about how brave you’re being,” Logan drawled out suggestively.
“Maybe I should always be drinking around you then.”
Logan reached up to loosen his tie. “No doubt. Now, what exactly is the criteria for me to get into your place? Me on my knees, apologizing, right?”
Tate dipped his head forward and gave Logan a confident leer. “That’s right.”
Looking up and down the narrow hall he was standing in, Logan lowered down to his knees in the doorway and had to admit that the game, which was most definitely on, was making him horny as hell.
Tate took a step back from the door and then another before he stopped, widened his legs, and unbuttoned the top of his jeans. Logan’s mouth practically watered as he remembered exactly what Tate did not have on under the denim he’d borrowed this morning.
“Tate…”
Tate focused his eyes on him and unzipped his jeans. The cocky shit is going to tease me to death. When I finally get my hands on him, he is in so much trouble.
“Yes, Logan?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For?” Tate urged as he slowly pushed his hand into his jeans.
Logan was finding it difficult to concentrate, as he remained kneeling in place. “For being an ass.”
Tate moved his hand around behind the material, and then he pulled his erection up straight with a relieved groan. It was visible through the open zipper, and Logan wanted it. He wanted it so bad that he was close to crawling across the floor and begging for it, but why crawl when—
“And…”
And? There’s supposed to be more? Logan thought and then decided, Enough is enough. Moving to his feet, he took a step inside, and he was satisfied when Tate did nothing to stop him.
Shutting the door with a loud slam, Logan loosened his tie further and pulled it over his head before throwing it to the floor. Game on. It was his turn to hunt.
This time, it was he who was stalking Tate, and if Tate knows what is good for him, he’ll run and hide. Or at least, he would run if he didn’t want to be caught and attacked because that was exactly what was about to happen.
Something must have triggered Tate’s flight response because he started to slowly back up, and that only made this all the more fun in Logan’s opinion.
“Where are you going? I thought you wanted me to elaborate.” Logan shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the ground.
“Not going anywhere,” Tate told him stubbornly, the alcohol making him slightly less aware of the calculation in Logan’s eyes.
“You sure look like you’re going somewhere,” he pointed out as he pulled his shirt from his pants and started to undo the buttons one by one.
Tate stopped by his kitchen table and placed the bottle on it. “I’m still angry at you. It’s going to take more than that half-assed apology before you’re forgiven.”
Logan yanked his shirt open after becoming impatient with the small buttons, and removed it as he stopped in front of Tate and threw it on the table, next to the bottle of tequila. Swiftly, he took Tate’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Yeah, I figured as much since you’re pretty much buzzing and still drinking.”