Chapter 6

He cleared his throat, mumbling something about getting dressed and disappeared into the bathroom again.

When he closed the bathroom door, I realized our encounter had left me light-headed and dizzy. When he’d leaned in close, the warmth of his skin and the light scent of soap had invited me forward, and I couldn’t help but notice the way his sculpted abs and trim hips had barely held the towel in place.

I gave my head a quick shake. Now was not the time for fantasizing. I was not some hormonal teenager, I was a doctorate student, but I’d never been quite so taken with a man before. The experience was unnerving. I’d practically whimpered when his fingertips touched me. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have unbuttoned my pants. This was completely unlike me and totally unprofessional. I rushed from the room as a sudden wave of panic hit.

I needed to get a hold of myself. I slipped into the ladies’ room before my nerves overtook me. I looked at my pale skin and wide set blue eyes in the mirror. A frail frightened girl stared back at me. I splashed cold water onto my cheeks, hoping to add some color back to my face.

I took a few deep breaths and the color in my cheeks slowly began to return. Breathe, Ashlyn. This is crazy. Pull yourself together.

I had a decision to make. I could move past my obvious lapse in judgment of allowing myself to become attracted to him, or I could back out of the assignment and let Clancy know that I wasn’t cut out for this. Then what would I do? Move home to Detroit? Find a job in the city? Work in an office from nine to five every day in a boring job I didn’t care about? No, I had worked too hard for that. I was passionate about this research. Quitting now would be silly. I wasn’t that impulsive. I could pull myself together despite how attractive this man was. It would be fine.

I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath. I would just have to do my best to keep things professional in his presence. At home later was a different story —I couldn’t be held responsible for the Logan-induced fantasies that were likely to haunt my dreams.

After giving myself a much needed pep talk, I went back to Logan’s room and slipped into the plastic chair near his bed. When I finally looked up at him, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, I knew my mistake instantly. I hadn’t allowed myself to become attracted to him. I had no say in the matter. It was simple chemistry. A primal attraction that couldn’t be controlled or turned off simply because I willed it so.

I took a moment to clear my head and focused on our work for today. I needed to maintain utmost professionalism with him. I had to set the tone and parameters of our relationship. He was in a fragile emotional state, and the last thing I needed to be doing was fantasizing about having sex with him. But God, I knew it would be good. That he would be good. He was entirely fuckable, and brought out my inner vixen in a way no man had before.

I remembered his fingers on my skin, and mentally chastised myself for not wearing sexier underwear. A trip to the lingerie store at the mall was long overdue. I pushed the last lingering thought of his fingertips brushing across my belly from my mind and put on the most professional face I could manage.

After the fascinating discovery of our matching tattoos, we spent the afternoon listening to the various genres of music I’d checked out from the library. We discovered that he preferred rock music and blues over classical or country. He’d cursed when I put on rap and crossed the room to turn it off, which was funny and made me laugh. He made me replay a particular blues song three or four times, saying he was sure there was something familiar about it, but ultimately he couldn’t recall anything specific.

Despite the lack of progress on producing any memories, the afternoon hadn’t felt like a failure. It had actually been sort of fun. Logan had lain across the bed, his eyes closed, deep in concentration as I played the music, skipping through songs, or turning it up based on his preferences. It was actually kind of fun. Certainly more fun than studying alone in the library or reading another textbook.

When it was time for me to go, Logan asked me to leave the books behind for him to read, that way I was guaranteed to return to see him, he said, at least to pick up the books. If only he knew I was already anticipating my next visit.

The smile on my face had not faded when I ran into Dr. Andrews in the hallway.

“Have you been here all afternoon?” He frowned, looking down at his watch with a flourish.

It was amazing that several hours had passed without my noticing. “Um, yeah. We got a lot done.”

“Did he recall anything about the murder?”

Well burst my bubble. My stomach dropped. “No. I’m not working with him on remembering that.”

He scoffed at my direct admission.

“Dr. Andrews, you’re the one who diagnosed him with post-traumatic or dissociative amnesia. You and I both know that he’s distanced himself from important personal information about himself and his life. His memory can likely be restored over time, but the events leading up to the trauma will likely be the last to be remembered. Or never remembered at all.”

Dr. Andrews shuffled his feet, still frowning.

“Besides, that’s what the police-assigned psychologist is for.”

“Listen, Ashlyn, I’m only trying to look out for you. He’s dangerous. You haven’t read the police file.”

My belly danced with nerves, both wanting and not wanting to know what the police records contained. I shift and drew a slow breath.

“They’d found him in an abandoned warehouse, covered in blood, a sledgehammer nearby and the dead body of another man lying beside him. He’d beaten the hell out of him. It was some seriously gruesome stuff.”

My skin broke out in chill bumps. I just couldn’t imagine Logan being dangerous. It didn’t fit with the man I’d just spent several hours with, but Dr. Andrews was right, I didn’t know him at all—though I hoped to change that.

“He’s a young man who doesn’t even know his name, and though I appreciate your concern, I know what I’m doing.” I turned and strode towards the elevator, faking a confidence I so did not feel. I stabbed the down button several times for good measure, and when I turned around, Dr. Andrews was gone.

That night I lay in bed, looking over the curving script scrawled on my hip in the dim moonlight seeping in through the blinds. I ran my fingertips lightly along my skin, just the way Logan had. A low throbbing ache built between my legs, needing so much more. I let my fingers dance just below the waistband of my panties and imagined it was Logan’s big palm that was laid flat on my stomach. I closed my eyes and let myself imagine what kind of lover he would be. Through our visits, I was able to read his emotions almost better than my own. He felt entirely alone and craved comfort and closeness. And even if I’d wanted to provide that closeness, they were feelings I couldn’t let myself explore with him.

My fingers dipped lower, finding myself already wet. I stroked between my legs softly, as I imagined Logan would and moaned as pleasure rocketed through me. I never touched myself like this, preferring instead the efficiency of my vibrator, which quickly got the job done. But tonight as I daydreamed of Logan, I wanted to draw it out, to make the sensations last. To have his face in my mind and his name on my lips when I came.