Exposed (13 page)

I’m bucking and writhing, coming, coming, coming, moaning, whimpering.

And then Logan comes.

He grunts, and his seed gushes out of him. I watch it spurt between my fingers and slide over my knuckles and splash onto my breasts. He watches this as well, and groans, thrusts hard into my hand, and I lean up and take him into my mouth and suckle as he grunts a curse, thrusting into my mouth.

Orgasming still, now shooting his come onto my tongue.

I taste his essence, smoky and thick and salty, and I like it.

He’s got more, and I want to watch him come some more.

So I let him fall out of my mouth and caress his length, plunge
my fist to his base and pump him hard, and another jet of semen shoots out of him and onto my breasts in a white-hot sticky line on my skin.

So much come, and looking up at him, watching him thrust, I see that he’s not yet done.

I mouth his cock and taste skin and semen, take him deep and suck and stroke his root and cup his testicles and touch him and suck him and take the come that lands on my tongue and swallow it and suckle him yet more.

I let him fall free one last time and he sags, and a droplet leaks out of him; with his eyes on mine, I lean forward, extend my tongue, and lick it away.

“Jesus, Isabel,” he growls.

“You taste amazing, Logan.”

I have my hand around him, still, and don’t want to let go.

He’s lowering himself to lie down, though, so I have to let go. A moment of silence then, wild and fraught, as we lie side by side.

He gets up, leaves without explanation. I hear water running, and he returns with a washcloth. I reach for it, but he just shakes his head, takes my hand in his, and gently, tenderly washes his sticky, drying come off my fingers. And then he folds the washcloth and wipes, cleaning me in gentle strokes of the warm cloth, perhaps with a little extra attention for my breasts, holding each one in turn and making sure they are both wiped clean. He leaves once more, tosses the washcloth into the bathtub, and returns to the bed, sliding under the blankets beside me.

I remain where I am, lying next to him, a couple of inches of space between us.

I have no clue what comes next. I want more. I want him. I want us. But I don’t know what he wants and I don’t know how to ask, and I don’t know what normal people do in circumstances like these.

He looks at me. “What are you still doing way over there?”

I frown, puzzled. “Way over where? I’m right beside you.”

“Exactly. Too far away.”

His arm scoops under me, and I’m rolled into him, my face pressed against his chest. I’m on his left side, and I can hear his heart beating:
thrumthrum-thrumthrum-thrumthrum
; a timpani, hammering under my ear. His arm tightens, pulls me closer yet. Lifts me, settles me bodily on top of him so I’m half on him, half on the bed. He cradles me, his arm a taut band over my shoulder, across my back, his big wide rough palm cupping a globe of my bottom. My thigh lies over his. My hand nestles on his chest.

“Better,” he says.

I can’t breathe.

This is too much. This is too right.

I don’t deserve this. This is too much happiness, too much perfectness, too much wonderment, too too too much. Ecstasy has me seized in crushing talons, making it hard to breathe. I’m near tears.

He’s
holding
me.

Just holding me.

I listen to his heartbeat and try to settle myself, try to calm my frantic heart.

And of course, Logan is tuned in to my plight. “Isabel, honey. You’re shaking like a leaf. What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“Bzzzzzt,”
he says, a sound like a buzzer. “Wrong answer. Try again.”

“It’s too much.”

“What is?”

“This.” I pat his chest. “Us. You holding me. I don’t know how to—it’s too good. I like it too much. I want it too much.”

“How can something be
too
good?”

“It just is. I don’t know.” I am so emotional, suddenly. Gripped
by something so intense I cannot fathom its scope. I am near tears and can’t seem to stop them, even though the last thing I want is to cry after such a sensual, sexual, incredible experience.

But I sniffle, and I hate myself for it.

“Hey, hey.” He touches my chin, tilts my face up to look at him. “Is this good tears or bad tears?”

I can only shrug. “I don’t know. Not bad. That was so incredible, and now this.”

“Just let me hold you. It’s okay,” he breathes. “You can cry. It’s okay. Whatever you need, it’s okay. Just let me hold you.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how to what?” His lips brush mine, not a kiss, but a reminder of a kiss, a promise of a kiss to come.

“To let you hold me. This is all so new for me.”

He knows exactly what I mean, and he doesn’t like it. But he doesn’t say anything. Just tightens his arm around me, kneads his fingers into the muscle of my buttock, caresses it, reaches down to clutch one of the globes, smooths his hand over both, as if he just can’t get enough of touching my bottom.

And then he reaches out to the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed, opens it, pulls out a long black remote, and turns on the TV. Searches through something called Netflix and finds a movie. The one he’s told me about,
What About Bob?

Naked, emotional, being held like I’ve never experienced before, the taste of his essence still in my mouth, his hands on my backside, his chest under my ear, we watch a movie together.

It’s silly, funny, ridiculous, cheesy, and wonderful.

When it’s over, he scoots off the bed. “Stay here.”

He doesn’t explain what he’s doing, so I remain where I am. He returns with four bottles of beer in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. He arranges the pillows behind our backs, and
we sit up together, a thin sheet across our laps. He hands me a bottle of beer, sets the bag of chips in the space between my thigh and his, and brings up another movie.

P.S. I Love You
, it’s called.

We drink our beer, and eat the greasy, unhealthy, and incredibly delicious chips.

And I cry.

Sob, actually.

So sweet, so sad, so romantic. I swoon, and push the bag of chips away and snuggle closer to Logan, and he wraps his arm around me again. This time, his palm finds my thigh, clutching it possessively, stroking now and then lower or higher, making me wonder in the back of my mind if he plans to touch me again, if he’ll steal his touch inward. I don’t quite tense, but I want to.

I’ve lost track of time, and I don’t care. I’m not tired at all. The sky is dark outside, and the world is quiet.

That’s not true, though; the world isn’t quiet, because there is no world. There is only this bubble of purity and perfectness and wonder, this bed, this man. Our skin, my scent on him, his smell on me. His taste in my mouth, a lingering memory of kisses shared. There is only this, and this is all I ever want. I beg the universe to let this last forever.

He fetches us each one more beer, and a carton of strawberries, which we eat by pinching the green leaves and biting beneath them.

I’m dizzy, a little drunk, and wildly happy.

He turns on
The Day After Tomorrow
, an apocalypse-scenario movie, and I like this one, too. It’s easy to watch, easy to relax into and not think about anything.

Except the man cradling me in his strong arms.

I’ve slunk lower in the bed, so my head is on his chest, my beer finished, and I don’t want any more. I just want to be here, watching
movies with Logan, holding him and being held. My arm is across his hips. His fingers trace circles on my back, dare to my hip, dance over my bottom, slide up my spine, and steal lower again.

I find my hand skating over his stomach, under the flat sheet covering us. Seeking skin.

And then, with a glance up at him, I dare to touch him first. He smiles down at me, grips my backside, kneads it, teases a touch almost-but-not-quite between the cheeks, making me squirm and gasp. I have one hand around the hardening thickness of his cock, and I watch as it straightens, thickens, burgeons fully erect in my hand.

I don’t know what I want to do to him first. Everything. I want it all, and I want it now. I want to just hold him like this in my hand, to stroke him with my fingers until he comes over my knuckles and into my palm. I want to wrap my mouth around him and suck him until he’s exploding onto my tongue again. I want to lie beneath him and beg him to masturbate onto my breasts and onto my face. I want to climb astride him and put him into my core and ride him until we’re both spent and gasping.

I want all of that, and I don’t know where to start.

I just know I ache for needing him, for wanting his touch, that I’m desperate to watch and feel him explode because I can make him feel better than he’s ever felt.

“Logan,” I breathe. “I want everything with you.”

“I know,” he says. “I want it all with you, too. I want to fuck you and love you and taste you and come on your tits. I want to lick your pussy until you’re begging me for more. I want to feel you shiver beneath me as we come together.”

I’m stroking him, long slow slides of my fingers around his cock. Watching the way my fingers splay around his flesh. Watching his skin move. Watching his hardness grow harder. I want him inside me.

He slides a finger into me, an unexpected but gentle touch,
exploring my wet warmth. He strokes inside me, adds a second finger. Thrusts gently. Adds a third, the three fingers bunched together to fill me. His fingers slide in and out of me, and I have to close my eyes, because I’m focused on the feeling, utterly swept away by the feel of his touch within me. He drags my wetness over my clitoris and smears it in circles, and I moan, and he delves his fingers back into me.

I lose track of what I’m doing, and he rolls me to my back. I let him, and my thighs splay apart. He pushes my legs wider open, cups both hands under my bottom and lifts my entire lower half off the bed, bringing my slit to his mouth, and now he devours me as if he’s starving; he feasts on me, licks, slurps, sucks my throbbing clit between his teeth and I come within seconds, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps me aloft with one hand, effortlessly holding me up with one arm under my bottom, and now his other hand finds me. My heels rest on his shoulders, my knees dangle draped apart. I’m spread open for him, and he feasts.

I come, spasming, arching my spine to crush my core against his mouth.

And then he slides his essence-slick fingers out of my slit and drags them down. His eyes meet mine. “Has anyone ever touched you here?” he asks, and touches me somewhere sensitive and forbidden.

I shake my head. “No,” I breathe.

He doesn’t ask permission. He feathers a gentle touch over me, back there. I moan low in my throat and swallow hard. His tongue flicks my clit, and I spasm, and then he’s lapping at me until I’m writhing again, and I feel his fingertip touching me, pressing in gentle circles and I feel the pressure of that touch all throughout my body, feel it tightening my muscles and gathering heat in my core, and I don’t stop him. I want his touch. I want him. I want every orgasm he will give me; I’m greedy for them. Desperate. Willing.

I press my heels into the hard muscle of his shoulders and push down with my hips, opening yet farther. His touch at my backside is still so gentle, so careful. Yet insistent. Matching the pace of his tongue, the suction of his lips around my clitoris. I feel yet another orgasm welling up within me hard and fast, rising like the tide, inevitable, powerful. This one, perhaps, more potent than anything I’ve ever felt in my life. His fingertip touches, presses, circles, and I’m writhing. Gasping. Whimpering.

“Tell me how you feel, Isabel,” Logan says.

“So good,” I answer. “I like this. I’m going to come soon.”

“Hard?”

“Yes, Logan.”

“How hard?”

“Harder than I’ve ever come before in my life.”

“You like how I’m touching you?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He presses a little harder, and my instinct is to bear down and clench up, but I don’t. I feel myself stretched, just the tiniest bit. I flex my hips and open my knees and breathe hard, and allow his touch.

“No one’s ever touched you like this?” he asks.

“No. Never.”

“Does it feel good?”

I whine in my throat as climax roars in my ears, my blood thundering, my core tightening. “Yes.”

“Curse, Isabel. Say all the dirty words you know.” He licks at my clitoris, and I shake, aching, trembling. “Scream my name when you come.”

“Logan . . .” He wants bad words. He wants me to be dirty. “This feels so
fucking
good, Logan. I’m going to come so hard.”

“I can taste it. I can feel it. Come on my tongue.”

“Give me more,” I whisper, speaking my darkest desire. “Your finger . . . give me more.”

He wiggles his finger, and I groan loudly. “This? You like this? My dirty girl likes it when I touch her asshole.”

I moan in equal parts mortification and desire. I
do
. Oh god, I do. I like it so much. It feels so good. “Yes, Logan. I like it. I’m your dirty girl, and I like it.” Did that sound stupid? It did, to me. It sounded idiotic. Cheesy.

But Logan moans against my core and his finger throbs in and out of me in shallow pulsing thrusts and I’m whimpering and grinding against his mouth and taking more of his finger and I feel fire blossoming now. Perhaps it only sounded stupid to me, because I feel so self-conscious, despite how incredible this is.

Whatever I’d felt before, any other time in my life, any orgasm I’ve ever experienced, it was but a shadow of what is about to occur.

I shatter.

I scream. My scream deafens even me.

There are no words to capture the intensity of my orgasm. It is fire. Wildfire, sunfire, angelfire. All the stars in the galaxy going nova in my core all at once. Volcanoes erupting, earthquakes wracking the tectonic plates of my being.

“Logan!”
I scream.

I am left breathless, shaking, trembling, shivering, and I can’t help crying. I am so limp, so utterly wrecked that I can only reach for Logan and cling to him and shake, and try to breathe. After I don’t even know how long, the shivers and shakes subside, and I can breathe. And Logan is still painfully erect, prodding into my belly.