Logan is left standing with his hands still in position but no longer holding the girl writhing with pleasure. His face follows me as I crouch, his eyebrows pressed together in confusion.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

Then, I hear the one sound I do not want to hear. The doorbell chimes as my parents’ voices fill the room with their bland, leveled discussion, complaining about something to each other and taking a full ten seconds before they even acknowledge Logan, who is still standing dumbstruck with my pleasure on his hands.

“Can I help you?” he asks, looking cautiously up to the strange couple who just entered the shop.

I’m dying, curled up in an uncomfortable position behind the counter, leaning on Logan’s leg for support. Did they find out that I'm here? Who would tell them? Or—oh God—are they here for tattoos? I’d literally die.

“Yes,” my father says after clearing his throat. “We were told that Mr. Douglas works here.

“Murph is out to lunch,” Logan answers without flinching.

I’m clinging to his tight jeans and when I glance up to see his face, I can’t help but notice that the effects of our very recent contact is still there, proud and obvious.

Oh my.

I see him swallow as I stare up at him, a mischievous smile playing on my lips. The quickest of glances downward proves that he sees my face. And I swear, I literally can’t help what I do next.

My hand silently and very languidly begins to travel up his leg, murderously slow.

His leg jerks, like he’s trying to shake off a pest.

But he keeps his eyes trained on the couple in the lobby.

“Well, we made a formal complaint to the housing authority about a loud party last night that we believe came from Mr. Douglas’s house.” My father’s voice is rigid and drab, like he’s so disappointed in Logan and he wants him to hear it. It’s so annoying, and honestly, it eggs me on to keep having a little fun with Logan—at his expense.

“It was so late,” my mother whines. “Must have been past 2:00 a.m.”

Logan clears his throat as my hand moves from the inside of his thigh to the solid mass straining the front of his jeans. He tremors under my skin, and I have to suppress a laugh when I see the effect. It’s just getting worse for him, which only makes me hungrier with power.

“Yeah, well—” Logan clears his throat. “I’ll let Murph know you stopped by.” Logan shakes his leg, trying to shake me off. I squeeze in response, rubbing my palm a little harder. He pins my hand between the backside of the counter and his body and grinds against it. I catch his eyes rolling in his head so subtly that even if my parents caught it, they’d probably just assume Logan’s on drugs.

“Yes, please do,” my mother says. Then, I hear the shuffling of her feet as she walks around the small lobby of the quaint tattoo parlor. I keep my breathing silent as I hear her loose bracelets hit the glass of the counter and know she must be peering down at the jewelry on display.