AN: You're welcome for the quick update. Also, we're bumping things up to an M rating on this one so you're welcome for that too, lol.

"Everybody's so creative…" the words played through his Airpods as the elevator approached the penthouse apartment. A steak was dunked, bare handed, into an egg wash. They tore open a packet of powdered cheese and sprinkled it on top followed by—oh dear god, was that chocolate Nesquick? On steak? Even Rory wouldn't eat that, and he'd seen her eat some truly terrifying concoctions. And…oh…did they just put that disgusting raw chocolate steak oozing with egg yolk right onto a tortilla? This had to be the most disturbing thing Logan had ever witnessed with his own two eyes.

The elevator slid open and he exited into the apartment, rolling his suitcase behind him as he continued to watch tanaradoublechocolate roast this insane recipe. He chuckled to himself as she declared, "It ain't gonna slide down easy if it ain't cheesy…" He'd just walked through the door of the vestibule into the great room, his face still buried in his phone, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Was that…? He let go of his suitcase, sliding his phone in his pocket, and bent down to pick up the intricate, and rather sheer, black, lace bra.

"Mmmm…" His body froze, still in the crouched position as the moan pierced through the audio still coming from his Airpods.

"Now get yourselves some taco shells."

"Fuck, yes, Brendon. There. Touch me there."

"Like that?" A male voice he didn't recognize—Brendon, presumably.

"I guess we're doing street tacos. I'm not sure."

"Yes! Yes!"

Logan's fingers curled around the fabric of the bra, clenching reflexively, crushing the delicate material in his grasp as he slowly stood back up.

"Oh fuck. That feels so good."

Acting on pure reflex, he took a few steps towards the living room section of the great room until he was standing at the back of the custom, grey sectional. A head of shaggy, brown hair was visible over the top of the couch. A head which, from his vantage point, appeared to be attached at the mouth to his wife's breast while her head was thrown back in pleasure.

"Put that in the grease and roll it around."

Logan plucked the Airpods from his ears, and shoved them in his pocket, his movements stilted and mechanical. He couldn't listen to that goddam insipid TikTok any longer. He was going to be sick. And not from the thought of cheesy, chocolatey steak tacos.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat but they must not have heard him in the throes of their…activities.

"Ahem," he repeated, louder this time. Rory's eyes popped open, meeting his over the top of Brendon's shoulder. They were a shade of blue Logan had never seen them before—electric.

"Logan," Rory squeaked, shooting away from her boy toy like shrapnel from a bomb. She stumbled backwards a few steps, just standing there, arms hanging limply at her side, her face frozen in shock.

"Logan?" the guy gulped. But Logan wasn't paying attention to him. His eyes were glued to Rory as she stood there in all her topless glory, her full, rounded breasts exposed for his uninterrupted viewing pleasure. Her nipples were puckered and the porcelain skin of her entire chest was flush with desire…and perhaps a touch of embarrassment. He knew he should be a gentleman and look away, but he couldn't make himself move.

Logan and Rory both stood, stock still, staring at each other. For a second? A minute? An hour? Time was a construct. But Rory's bare breasts, they were real. And if they hadn't just been being tongued by a stranger in his very own living room, the sight would be glorious. As it was, he didn't know if he should be aroused or horrified. He was a little bit of both.

"Umm, Ror…" Rory startled at the sound of the man's voice. She broke eye contact, glancing at her paramour before a look of realization crossed her face. She flung one arm over her chest and reached for a throw blanket on the sofa with the other, quickly wrapping it around herself.

"You're home early," she squeaked out.

"We wrapped up the deal over breakfast. Figured I'd rather be here tonight. I didn't realize you'd have…" his eyes flicked to the man who had been defiling his wife just moments before, then flicked back, "company."

"Look, umm…Mr. Huntzberger? Logan? Can I call you Logan…no, that's weird. Mr. Huntzberger…" Brendon stood up off the couch, his movements as harried as his rambling monologue, plucking his shirt up off the floor and putting it on. At least he was still wearing pants. And Rory still had her skirt on…though skirts didn't need to come off for…he didn't want to think about it; he knew full well the many naughty things he had done to women without removing their skirts. He didn't see a matching set of panties to the bra he was still holding in his hands anywhere at least. "I'm really, very sorry about this. Rory told me, well, she said…I mean, I thought…"

"It's fine." It was fine. Rory wasn't his. Not in any way that mattered. They were married in name only. In reality, they were nothing more than glorified roommates. And friends. And friends were happy for their other friends when they had…what exactly was this? A one-night stand? A relationship? A situationship? Whatever it was, Rory had clearly been enjoying herself. And that was fine. It was better than fine. It was good. So why they hell was he feeling so murderous? "Rory and I have an agreement. She's free to do whatever and…" his eyes finally unglued themselves from Rory and shot a cutting look Brendon's way, "whomever, she wants. Though I might prefer it if she didn't do it on our thirty-thousand-dollar custom couch."

"Oh, it's um…" Brendon looked at the sofa, "…nice."

"Yes, and I'd like it to stay that way. So maybe you can move this to Rory's room." He nodded his head in the direction of the hallway.

Brendon glanced at Rory questioningly. "You have separate rooms?"

"Well, she needs somewhere to entertain her lovers…Brent…was it? You know, somewhere her husband doesn't like to sit and enjoy his morning coffee."

Rory glared at him. She looked surprisingly intimidating despite the fact that she was wearing nothing on top but a throw blanket with a tantalizingly open weave. That dig about the lovers probably hadn't been the smartest thing to say. "It's Brendon," she informed him with a growl.

"Brendon, yes, sorry. You'll have to excuse me if I couldn't quite make it out properly between my wife's moans."

"I…umm…" Brendon was eying the door. He looked like he was ready to compete in the fifty-meter dash. Logan felt a sense of smug satisfaction at the distress in his face, and he hated himself a little for it.

"Well, I've got some unpacking to do so I'll just leave you two to it." Logan's face contorted into what was supposed to be a carefree smile, but he was pretty sure was more of a sneer. Logan turned to walk away from this nightmare he'd somehow managed to find himself in.

"Umm, Logan?" Rory stopped him. He turned back to her. She met his eye for a second before shifting her gaze to his hand. "My, umm…"

He followed her line of sight to see that he was still grasping her bra. He examined it a minute; the black filigree netting out into a weblike pattern to create an elaborate design with a black statin framework and dainty black, satin straps. Despite the miniscule amount of fabric used to make the garment, it was clearly expensive. La Perla, if he'd learned anything from a lifetime of gifting the women in his life sexy lingerie. Logan had seen Rory's bras before…the first day they'd met when it had spilled out of her overflowing bag. He hadn't exactly memorized the item, but he was pretty certain that it was a fairly standard solid, beige, cotton number. And when they'd moved in here and Finn had, much to Rory's dismay, strutted down the hall in a blue lace item he'd filched from one of her boxes; nicer than the first, for sure, but still a Victoria's Secret purchase at best. But this, this was a bra that cost a pretty penny; far more than her salary would allow for. And while the money she got from their arrangement was hers to do with as she liked, Logan couldn't help the swell of irrational rage he got from knowing that she had bought designer lingerie to seduce her boyfriend using his money.

"Right…I wouldn't want to leave you without this." He took a few steps her way, leaning over the back of the sofa to hand it to her. He let his narrowed eyes skim from her to Brendon. "Though it doesn't look like you'll be needing it much tonight."

He stared into a brown eddy as he swirled his tumbler in his hands. He was in his office. He should have gone to his bedroom; unpacked, showered, climbed into that bed he'd been so eager to sleep in all day. But he didn't keep any liquor in his room—a fact he was seriously going to have to consider changing after this night. Of course, once he'd sat down at his desk and poured himself a glass of Scotch, he'd glanced to his left and remembered that this room shared a wall with Rory's bedroom. He hadn't dared venture out into the hallway tough, lest he capture anymore of the floor show. He should probably just put on his noise cancelling headphones, turn on some music, and do some work.

That's what he should do, so why, instead, did he find his ears straining for any sound coming from next door? As though he hadn't heard enough of those sounds already. They were going to haunt him for the next two years; the echo of her moans, the way she chanted 'yes' like it was a prayer, the low, husky waiver to her voice. And that was just the audio.

He took another swig of his drink, letting it burn its way down his throat as he closed his eyes and brought up the image that was now seared into his retinas; Rory—her hair tousled, lips swollen, blue eyes phosphorescent from the residual lust. And her breasts; her perfect, plump, perky tits flush with arousal.

God, how he needed to get that image out of his head. He took another swill of alcohol, letting it wash away…well, not the image, but maybe a little bit of the guilt that came with having it. Of course, the more the guilt subsided, the more the anger surged. Logan wasn't a violent man; he was a lover, not a fighter. And yet, he felt his fist clench with fury just thinking about the man in his living room touching his wife. It was insane, he knew. He had no reason to feel this way. He and Rory weren't together romantically or sexually. She had every right to seek out fulfillment in the physical arena from whomever she so chose. And Brendon had every right to touch her wherever Rory granted him permission to do so. And she'd seemed pretty clear that she wanted him to touch her 'there.' Wherever there was—he hadn't seen the man's hands, but Logan had a regrettably vivid imagination.

There was a knock at the door and his head shot up to look at it. He assumed it was Rory…by herself most likely if she was coming to him. Did that mean the guy was gone? It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes since he'd come in here. Well, good riddance to the pretentious professor. Logan swallowed down the rest of his drink before telling Rory to come in. The door opened and she entered. She was fully dressed now—the same peacock blue, chiffon skirt she'd been wearing in the living room along with a black, silk, v-neck camisole. The thin spaghetti straps of the top did nothing to hide the straps of the LaPerla bra underneath. That goddamn fucking bra that Brendon had pealed off of her goddamn perfect tits not that long ago in this very house. He should have refilled his glass before he invited her in.

"Hey," she said, her voice meek in stark contrast to the confident and commanding tone in which she'd been directing…God, he needed to stop thinking about that.

"What's up?" he replied, leaning back in his desk chair and looking right at her, arms crossed over his chest. "Where's your date? He didn't leave, did he? Not on my account, I hope?"

"Logan," she scolded.

"What? He was perfectly welcome to stay and finish what he started. I mean, did you even have sex on the kitchen island yet?"

Rory glared at him, the blue of her eyes deepening but not quite reaching the color they had been in the living room. If he got her angry enough would they ever reach that color, or was that reserved only for a different kind if passion. "Fuck you, Logan. You don't get to be an asshole about this. I don't even know why you're so pissed off anyway."

"Really? You don't have any ideas? Not even an inkling?"

"I'm allowed to date," she stood firm in her defense. "We both are. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Yeah, sure, date. Have sex. Open a fucking brothel for all I care. That doesn't mean you have to do it in our living room."

"I'm sorry, are you talking to me?" she clasped her chest dramatically. "Because if anyone here is close to starting a brothel, it's you," she stabbed a finger in his direction. "You've screwed more women than Hugh Heffner. And don't pretend you've never brought any of them back here."

"Not when you were around." He'd never let her walk in on something like that. And he used his own bedroom—well, and the hot tub on the rooftop patio that one time.

"You weren't supposed to be around," she reminded him. "You weren't supposed to be back until tomorrow."

"So what? I need to run my itinerary past you now?"

"When it involves our shared space, yeah, I think you should keep me apprised."

"And I think I should be able to enjoy the comfort of my own home without walking into a fucking porno."

She scoffed, her eyes blinking, then opening back up with a shake of her head. "You're really something, you know that? You think what happened back there was any less awkward and uncomfortable for me? I was the one who was half naked, if you recall."

Oh, he recalled. He definitely recalled.

"And whose fault was that? Oh right, Brent's."

"You know that's not his name."

"I don't know anything other than the fact that he apparently enjoys fucking married women. A real quality trait there, Ace. And what do you even know about this guy you're bringing back to our apartment? He could be anybody. He could be after anything. Do you know how much valuable crap we have here? Plus, I have tons of proprietary HPG documents in this office. He could be a corporate spy."

"Oh my god," she threw up her hands, "he's not a corporate spy."

"Are you sure about that?"

"He's a history professor. We dated for six months last year. I've told you about him—we broke up because he went to Madrid on sabbatical."

"Ahh yes." Logan nodded, recalling the conversation from their wedding night. "'Not-As-Good-As-Pizza' guy. You know, Ace, I thought we'd established that you needed to find yourself a man who knows what he's doing in the…" he cleared his throat, throwing a suggestive glance downward, "kitchen." Like him. No, not him. That was never going to happen. He couldn't let his dick make him do something he'd regret here. They still had over a year and a half of this arrangement left and sex never made things less complicated. Fucking his wife was a sure-fire way to make his marriage miserable—even if it would be fantastic while it lasted.

"Wow, you're really campaigning for jackass of the year tonight, aren't you? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were jealous."

"Jealous?" Logan scoffed. "Of Professor John Keating out there? Not very likely."

"Then you want to explain why you've suddenly developed a raging case of small dick energy?"

"I don't have 'small dick energy,'" he finger quoted with a snarl. "My dick and its energy are just fine, thank you very much." He'd certainly never had any complaints in that area before, that was for sure. She'd be lucky to get just a tiny taste of all that energy—just the tip of all that energy. "In fact, if you'd like some proof…" he growled, standing up and leaning forward with his hands on his desk. "I'm happy to offer up the evidence." An image flashed through his mind of him sweeping everything off his desk, laying her on it and proving just how very fine his not-small-dick energy was. God, he was in so much fucking trouble.

"You know," Rory replied slowly, her lips pursing with intrigue, "Now that you mention it, that's not such a bad idea. I mean…I showed you mine. It's only fair."

He blinked, completely thrown off guard. He wasn't expecting her to call his bluff like that. He wasn't really sure what to do. Especially after what he'd been imagining just a second ago. If this argument continued any further down it's particular trajectory he was libel to do something with some very problematic consequences. "I…uh…" he stuttered.

"Come on, big man, what's the matter? You feeling suddenly shy?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and inhaling deeply, trying to get control of this crazy whirligig of emotions he was feeling. It's not like he didn't know he was being an arrogant, sexist, double standard holding asshole. He was the problem here. He just couldn't seem to help himself. But he had to. If he wanted any hope of salvaging this relationship with Rory, of surviving the next year and a half of this partnership, he needed to get a grip on himself. And he needed to do it now. He needed to turn down his ego a notch and be the big man he said he was.

"Look, I'm sorry, it's just…"

"No!" she interrupted him. "You know what? I don't want to hear your 'just'ifications," she finger quoted the first half of the word. "You think you're pissed? Well join the club. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've had sex, Logan? Ten months. Ten. Fucking. Months. And then I'm finally on my way to that sweet, goddamn release and you just waltz right in, clam jam me, and then have the audacity to repeatedly imply I'm a slut and sexually harass me? Fuck you."

Logan blinked numbly at her accusations. Her completely warranted accusations. 'Arrogant, sexist, double standard holding asshole' suddenly felt wholly inadequate. He had no clue what to even say in his own defense. So, instead, he said quite possibly the stupidest response he could have uttered from his lips. "Clam jam?"

She huffed, rolling her eyes. "It's the female equivalent of a cock block."

"Yeah, no, I, umm…I know what it is, I'm just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you used it in actual conversation."

"This isn't a conversation, Logan, it's a fight," she reminded him.

"Touché," he acknowledged, sitting back into his chair. "Look, I really am sorry. No justifications. I was thrown off guard, but that's no excuse for my behavior."

She stared for a moment, lips pursed as she studied him. Her shoulders relaxed and the fight seemed to go out of her. She just looked…exhausted. "I'm going to bed," she replied. No acceptance of his apology. No acknowledgement of it. She turned and started to walk back towards the office door. He should be happy she wasn't at least continuing to rake him over the coals. But he knew enough to know a quiet Rory was worse than a screaming one.

"Ace?"

"It's fine, Logan," she told him coldly. "I just…can't do this anymore right now. We'll talk in the morning." And then she was gone and he was left sitting there, a giant pit in his stomach. It was fine. They'd talk in the morning. But what if it wasn't fine? What if he'd screwed it all up? What if she left and he lost the company and all of this was for nothing? That alone was enough to terrify him. But he also couldn't help the niggling, little feeling inside that told him that company wasn't really what he was worried about.

The tile was cool against his feet as he padded into the bathroom. He was beyond ready to wash this day away. It had started off so well; a business deal worth celebrating. He should have stayed and celebrated in Buenos Ares, then none of this would be happening. He'd still be blissfully unaware of the fact that Rory was dating her sexy-professor ex-boyfriend. And he certainly wouldn't know what they'd been up to on the couch. His eyes squeezed shut as she manifested before him…he wouldn't know the curve of her breast or the dusty rose color of her areola. And he also wouldn't know the disappointment in her eyes when she was truly disgusted by him. He wouldn't know he even cared about any of that.

He reached into the shower, adjusting the knobs exactly the way he liked them, then, as the water warmed up, he stripped off his clothes, tossing them in the hamper before stepping in.

The steam misted around him, water shooting at him from every angle as the jets alternated their pressure. He pressed his hands against the wall, letting the built in shower heads massage away the tension. His eyes fluttered shut.

Shit!

There she was, again. Her alabaster skin flush from arousal. The soft bit of fleshiness at the top of her hip where her skirt sat, just perfect for digging his fingers into as he pulled her towards him. The valley between her tear-drop shaped breasts. He wanted to bury his face in there and never come up for air. He could feel his cock starting to stand at attention.

He stood back up, adjusting the knobs on the shower to deliver him a much-needed blast of cold water. He didn't need to melt the stress away, he needed to freeze the lust. He gritted his teeth against the cold, rubbing at his eyelids with the heel of his hand to try to rid them of the picture painted on their insides.

"There, Logan, touch me there," the husky tremble of her voice echoed in his ear.

God. Fucking. Damn.

He needed to think about something else. Anything else. Baseball. Work. Finn getting up and performing at that drag show the other week. He should think about how fucking mad she was at him for acting like a jealous, possessive asshole. He should think about how he was going to get her not to pack up all her shit and leave him to face the board and his cousins with their newly garnered shares of his company.

He shouldn't think about wrapping his mouth around her tit and making her climax from nipple play alone. Instead, he should think about the look of utter weariness and disappointment in her eyes as she walked out of his office.

That image actually did come to mind and he felt a pang of angst. "I'm sorry," he imagined himself whispering to the figure in his mind. He saw himself reaching up to caress her cheek. "Don't go. Let me make it up to you."

Her eyes softened. "Make it up how?"

"You tell me."

Imaginary Rory bit her lip…the gesture intentionally coy.

Fuck, this was happening whether he wanted it to or not and apparently no amount of cold water was going to help. He turned the temperature back up, planted his left hand firmly on the shower wall, lathered a little soap in his right hand, and dropped his head.

"I can think of a few things you could do."

"Tell me what you want, Ace," he smirked. "I'm your willing slave."

His palm grasped his rapidly hardening dick, the fingers wrapping themselves around it.

His mouth was on her, his hands tangled in her hair. She moaned with gratitude.

His fist was moving faster and faster, pumping against his throbbing cock.

"Fuck, yes, Logan. I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want you inside of me."

He slid his hand up under her skirt, lifting her leg by the thigh and wrapping it around his waist. He shoved her panties aside, the feel of the flimsy lace the same as her bra, and entered her with one swift thrust. She let out a gasp, her blue eyes—her electric blue eyes—rolling back in her head. "Oh god, Logan."

"That's right, Ace. Come for me, baby."

He thrust into his hand, imagining the warm, slippery feel of his own grip was the inside of her pussy. Imagining her walls clenching him tighter and tighter as she got closer to the edge.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," she chanted until she shattered.

He shot his load out all over the shower wall. His hips slowed to a stop and he released his grip on his member. Logan crumbled forward, resting his head against his arms as he caught his breath.

Well, damn. His life just got a whole lot more fucking complicated.