Exposed (12 page)

I want him. I
want
him.

I let my knees spread apart, and he growls.

Climbs onto the bed. Kneels between my thighs, leans over me, one palm in the mattress beside my face, the other burying in my hair. His lips brush mine, a tease.

Not a kiss, yet, but a tease.

A lick of his tongue, flicking against my lower lip, where I’d bitten it.

I remember putting a glass of whisky to my lips, putting my mouth where his had been. I remember the taste of the whisky against my tongue, the burn on my throat, the way I wanted it to be his mouth on mine.

His fingers spear through my hair and scrape downward to cup the back of my head, and he lifts me up, brings my mouth to his,

and kisses me,

and kisses me,

and does not stop for an eternity.

Not until we are both breathless and his tongue has tasted every corner of my mouth, has licked across both of my lips, has slashed against my tongue, not until I cannot help but pull away just so I can breathe.

That is when he leans back, slides his palms over my shoulders, down to the slopes of my breasts. Cups their weight. Thumbs both of my nipples at once. Bends, kisses the skin between my breasts.

“You deserve to be worshipped, Isabel,” he says. “You deserve to be shown how perfect you
are.”

I
have to blink back a surprised wash of intense emotion: wonder, embarrassment, need, tenderness, raw lust.

I find my voice, and my own words surprise me. “Then worship me, Logan. Show me.”

He licks my nipple and plunges a middle finger into my cleft. “I’m going to.” A curl, a come-here motion with his finger, and I cannot stop a moan. “Be loud for me, Isabel. I want to hear every sound you make.”

Mouth latched onto my nipple, one hand between my thighs, he cups my breast with his other. Sucks, swirls his tongue around my nipple. And then pulls away. His finger slides out of my opening and brings my essence with it, smearing it onto my clitoris. I ache, oh I ache. I’m going to come again. Soon, and hard.

As he finds a circling rhythm, slow and soft touches of two fingers against my throbbing clit, he alternates kissing and suckling both of my breasts, one and the other, one and the other. Tension coils inside me, centered low in my belly. I tighten. Curl up, knees
rising, and he does not speed up his rhythmic touching of my most sensitive flesh. I am moaning, I realize. Nonstop. Aching. Needing. Feeling his touch and needing more.

“Can I taste you, Isabel?” Logan asks.

“Please, Logan.”

“Please what? Tell me what you want, sweetheart, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Taste me. Make me come. Touch me. Let me touch you.”

He kisses his way down my body. Sternum. Belly. Hip. Thigh. Over and over, he kisses my body, not missing anywhere. He lifts my left leg and kisses the back of my knee, and I whimper at the soft warm touch of lips there, and then he’s flicking his tongue and sliding his mouth over my thigh, and I moan. A single flick of his tongue over my nether lips, and I’m writhing, gasping. But he doesn’t give me what I need, not yet. He transfers his kisses to my other thigh, kissing downward now, to my calf, lips feathering over my ankle.

“Logan . . .” I gasp.

“I know, honey. But I told you that you deserve to be worshipped. Let me worship you.” And he kisses the top of my foot.

Now his mouth travels back toward my core, over the top of my thigh, lips landing on the crease where hip meets leg, such an erogenous spot. Inward. To the mound just above my privates. To the very top of my core, and his tongue laps out, licks the very crest of my core, where my labia meet.

“Oh god. Logan, yes. Please.
Please.
” I am breathless, gasping each word. Begging. He makes me beg, just by the way he touches me, kisses me.

He fits two fingers into my opening, slides them deep. Curls them, withdraws, inserts. Starts a thrusting rhythm. His tongue lashes against my clit, and I writhe into his tongue, into his tongue,
into his fingers. Move against him shamelessly. Bury my fingers in my hair, grip it, lift my hips.

“Can you come?” he murmurs.

“So close.”

“How close?”

I can only whimper wordlessly and arch off the bed and grind against his mouth and fingers. His mouth covers my core now, and he sucks my clitoris between his lips and creates a suction, flicking it with his tongue, sliding his fingers in and out, in and out, and his free hand reaches up to pinch my nipple.

“Now, Isabel. Come for me, right now. Let me feel you squeeze around my fingers, baby. Let me feel you come so hard you can’t breathe.” His words are the catalyst I need. “Ride my fingers, ride my mouth. Take it from me.”

I gasp, and lights flash behind my squeezed-shut eyes. The tension in my belly breaks apart, and I’m crying out loud. I bear down, clenching around his fingers with all the force I can muster, and then all control is gone as he matches my desperate rhythm with his mouth, with his tongue, with his fingers, taking me to the upper reaches of my climax and pushing me past it, to a place I didn’t know existed.

“Yeah, that’s right, just like that. Scream for me. Come for me.” He whispers against my flesh. “You are so fucking beautiful, Isabel, so sexy, so fucking sexy.”

I come down, and he’s kneeling upright. Watching me. I’m sweaty, gasping. My breasts sway with my heaving breaths, and he watches their motion openly.

I’m still shaking, trembling from the force of my orgasm.

“I want to touch you now, Logan.” I sit up. Reach for him.

He moves closer to me, kneels astride me. Gazes down at me. His erection is in front of my face, his hands on my shoulders. “Touch me then.”

I tear my eyes from his and allow my gaze to roam his body, tracing the wild profusion of his tattooed arms. There are pinup girls, playing cards, crossed assault rifles, Old English–style lettering, sparrows, spiders, skulls, handguns, characters that must be from movies, masks, all woven together and growing out of a tree trunk whose roots spread around his biceps and the crease of his elbow.

I look down then, down to his erection.

I wrap one hand around it, slide my palm down the soft flesh to the base, and then circle my other hand around him, spanning most of his length, although a bit of the head protrudes above my upper hand. I lick him there, flatten my tongue over the tip of him. He groans, and his grip tightens on my shoulders. I glide my palms up, and then down. Let go with one hand and stroke his length from tip to base, over and over, learning the feel of him, the way he fills my fist, the way his skin slides and stretches. How he moans, what makes him grunt. I squeeze gently, and he gasps. I have nothing within me but desire. Need. I want all of him.

I wrap my lips around him, fit my lips to the groove under the bulbous head. He moans, a long, sustained growl. “Isabel. Don’t.”

“I want to.”

He pulls back, sinks to sit on his heels. “Let me taste you again.”

I shake my head. “I want you, Logan. I want to touch you. I want to make you feel good. I want this.”

“But what happened—”

“Had nothing to do with you. Has nothing to do with how much I want you.” I lean into him, kiss his mouth. “Lie down and let me worship you too, Logan.”

He moves to his back, pillowing one hand beneath his head, reaching for me with the other. “I want this to be about you, Isabel.”

“It is. This is what I want.”

I take my time then. I start at his sharp, high cheekbones, kissing
each one, and then kiss his mouth, lick his lower lip, the upper. Take his tongue into my mouth and suckle it. Kiss his throat. His chest. Flick my tongue over each of his nipples, run it along the grooves under his pectoral muscles, through the ridges of his rippling abs. Down, down. To his hips. Palm his hips, flatten my hands on his belly. Run them up, smooth them back down to his thighs. Kiss down one, as he did mine. Proving to him that his body is as beautiful to me as mine is to him. I memorize him. The taste of him. The sight of him, stretched out beneath me, his lean body hard and radiating lust, oozing masculine sex appeal. I take him in my hand, caress his shaft. Take my time with that too, enjoying the feel of him in my hand more than I have ever enjoyed anything in my life. More than junk food, more than freedom, more than antique books, just touching him and kissing him is better than anything I’ve ever known.

I am overwhelmed, so full of joy and exuberance and gratitude and raw fierce lust that I cannot contain it. I sink my mouth around him, sudden and fast. Take him deep into my mouth, opening my throat and tasting him on my tongue. He groans, shudders. I back away and replace mouth with fist, smearing my saliva on him. Stroke him. Faster and faster.

Feel him tremble under me, feel his moans in his chest, hear them echo in the bedroom.

I know he’s close. I can feel it, taste it in the leak of clear fluid from the tip as I lick him, suckle him, feather kisses to the side, lick up the length. He throbs at my touch, thickens between my lips.

“You taste so good, Logan,” I hear myself say. “Let go, let me taste you on my tongue. Give it all to me.”

Who is this, speaking this way? I have never said such words. I have never even thought such words. Yet they pour from my mouth, and they sound sexy.
I
sound sexy. I sound worldly. Womanly. Sensual.

“Is—Isabel.” He is out of breath, his voice tense. “Jesus, what are you doing to me?”

“Making you feel good, I hope.”

“This isn’t feeling good, Is, this is heaven.”

Is. Like, a diminutive? A nickname? “Is?”

“You don’t want me to call you that?”

“No, I do. I like it.”

“Is. Izzy?”

“Is. I like that.”

Abruptly, Logan rolls us so I’m beneath him. Kneels between my thighs, staring at me, chest heaving. The tip of his penis leaks fluid, evidence of his nearness to climax. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.” I mean it, too. I will do anything he asks of me. It’s crazy to feel so strongly so quickly, but I do.

“Touch yourself.”

I’ve touched myself before, of course. In the dead of night, awake, unable to sleep, wrestling with old nightmares and new needs, I have touched myself. But I’ve always been vaguely ashamed of it, for some reason.

To touch myself in front of him? While he watches? My chest contracts and my skin feels too tight on my bones, and my heart hammers. I tingle. Blink at him. Press my thighs together.

“Logan, I don’t know . . .” I whisper, not able to look at him. “I don’t know if I can.”

“I want to watch you make yourself feel good. It’ll be so sexy, watching you.” He sinks to sit on his shins, and his erection juts high and hard and proud. It is huge, and begs for my fingers, my lips. My core. “Like this, Is. Watch me.”

He wraps one hand around his thick shaft, and his fist looks so hard and so big like that, so rough. It should be my hand there, not his. But it
is
hot, watching him. He strokes himself slowly, one pump
of his fist. The head protrudes, and the skin stretches backward, and then he brings his hand back up. He thumbs the tip, and then plunges his fist down again.

Oh.

Oh, god. His face, as he does this. The way his eyes narrow. His jaw clenches. His chest expands and contracts heavily. His testicles hang and sway beneath his fist.

It is almost involuntary then, how my fingers steal across my belly and between my thighs. My core aches, watching him pleasure himself. I throb, tingle, burn. I have to touch myself, if only to alleviate the pressure. A bolt of lightning strikes me as I touch three fingers to my clitoris.

Swipe, circle, press.

My breath hitches, and I stare into his eyes, force myself to remain open, to splay my thighs wide and tuck my heels against my buttocks, to let him watch. And oh, oh, god, yes, it
is
erotic,
so
sexy. Touching my privates and knowing he’s watching. Seeing him do the same. The intimacy binds us. I cannot look away, cannot stop. I’m rising toward climax, a mountain of heat washing over me, a tidal wave of intensity crashing through me. And I’m watching his fist pump harder and harder, and his touch is so rough, so harsh, so vigorous. I would be gentler, softer. I would caress him with such gentility, such exquisite tenderness.

I keep one hand between my thighs, stroking myself in ever-quickening circles, but I
have
to touch him. I knock his hand away and replace it with mine. I stroke us both, and he watches.

My hand is a plunging blur around his thickness, pumping up and down and up and down, faster and faster. He’s groaning, and I’m whimpering, and he’s thrusting into my hand, rutting hard into my fist. I’m grinding against my fingers, and I feel my climax approaching, feel it like not just mountains about to collide, but
continents moments away from smashing into each other. I cannot breathe and cannot stop, and all I see is his face, his incredible blue eyes and his heaving chest and his tattoos and his erection in my hand, and my own fingers circling desperately.

“Oh fuck, Isabel. I’m so close,” he grunts between clenched teeth. “I love watching your hand on my cock.”

Cock. His cock. A new word. I’ve heard it, of course, but I’ve never said it. “I love touching your cock. I can’t wait to watch you come, Logan.”

“You talk dirty like that, I’m gonna come even sooner.”

“You like it when I say those things?”

“Fuck yeah,” he rumbles. “It’s hot. Everything you do is hot. But this? Hottest fucking thing ever.”

I’m stroking him hard and fast, plunging my fist down his length as fast as I can. When he starts to grunt and I watch his jaw clench and feel his cock throb in my fist, I slow.

“Fuck, Isabel, I’m right there, please don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” I whisper. “I promise.”

I want to watch this. Feel it. Experience every moment of his orgasm, and the delirious joy of knowing I’m giving it to him. Nothing matters now but bringing Logan to orgasm.

I feel it begin.

I’m feathering slow, soft, gentle strokes, shallow ones, and he’s going mad, thrusting, and I know he wants it hard and fast, but I know he’ll feel it all the more intensely if I give it to him slow and gentle. And I want to make it last. For me. This is selfish, what I’m doing. Dragging it out. Memorizing it.

So good.

I’m still touching myself too, and I’m reaching climax as well, but that’s subsumed beneath the tsunami of ecstasy I feel watching him.

Sweat dots his upper lip, his forehead. Shines on his chest. His hands are on my thighs for balance as he thrusts up into my fist, seeking more.

“Oh . . . Oh fuck. Isabel . . .” His voice is ragged, guttural.

I pull him closer, and he rises up, plants a knee on either side of my body, and now I can taste him and touch him at the same time. I take him into my mouth and stroke him at the root and finger my clit and groan, and he gasps. I feel him tense, feel his body tighten.

“I’m coming, Is . . .” he groans.

“Mmmmmmm.” It’s all I can manage, because I’m writhing with my own climax and because I’m too carried away with his to form words, and because I’ve got his cock filling my mouth.

He thrusts, and I like it.

I taste him.

But I want to watch.

I back away and he’s kneeling upright, grasping the headboard of the bed while I’m lying down. I stare up at him, and his eyes fly open to meet mine. I finger myself and feel climax rip through me, and it’s a hot knife slicing me apart.