Exposed (24 page)

“God, Logan,” I breathe.

“How do you want it, Isabel?”

He keeps my hands pinned over my head; our fingers are mated, turning this intimate and loving rather than controlling. I am alive with excitement, wired with need. He rubs his chest against mine, and his chest hair scratches my sensitive skin, my nipples stuttering against his pectorals. Rubs his belly against mine, his cock an iron bolt between our bodies. Kisses my throat, and I tilt my head up to welcome more of that, which he gives me, lips on my throat, just under my jaw, down the outside of my neck, over the pulsing hollow at the base. He bites my earlobe and works his hips, and I feel his erection find my slit. I gasp, lean my shoulder blades against the wall, and widen my stance.

“You want it like this?” He slides into me with exquisite gentility, masterful slowness. Once, twice. So slow, so tender. “Or . . . like this?”

He pulls out. Straightens. Palms my cheeks and kisses me, desperately, fiercely, unendingly. I cannot breathe for the demanding eroticism of the kiss, the way he owns my mouth and dominates my breath and takes over my entire soul and mind and body with just his mouth, his lips and tongue.

I am abruptly airborne. There is no warning, no transition. Just a release of my hands, and his palms under my buttocks and my legs winding automatically around his trim waist.

“FUCK!” I scream. The vulgar epithet is ripped out of me.

He is in me, crashing into me. The moment I left the ground, his cock slammed up into me with sudden power and I was left utterly breathless at the sudden onslaught, his erection stretching me to a sweet burn. He lifts me again, and then lowers me. This time, it is gentle. A reminder, I think.

“Like this?” he asks. Demanding an answer.

“No,” I whisper.

His teeth nip and pluck at my skin, biting the flesh on the slope of my breast, at the side of my neck, worrying my nipple with searing roughness. He grips my buttocks in his hands and spreads me apart and lifts me up and lowers me, once more, gently. Thrusting into me, gently.

He slams his mouth onto mine with a sharp slash of teeth on lip and his tongue slashes mine and he . . .

There is no other word for it:

He fucks me.

His hips flex and his cock pounds into me roughly. His hands grip my ass with bruising force, splaying me wide so he can fuck deeper. And then his mouth leaves mine and finds my breasts. My tits. He laves them, licks them, not just my nipples but the slope and the undersides and my areolae, licking and kissing. All the while, he plunders me roughly, almost savagely.

“Like this?” he asks, his voice dark and guttural. Rougher than it has ever been.

“Yes, Logan, god yes.” I cling to his neck, his shoulders. “Don’t stop. Keep—keep fucking me just like this.” I feel a bolt of embarrassment when that slips out of me, but then Logan makes a low
grumbling growl and suckles my nipple harder and his cock drives into me harder, and I feel a blast of pride.

Oh, so perfect. This. I bury my hands in his hair, grip it tight and hold on. I ride him. I let myself go. Lean back to brace against the wall and moan wantonly, drive my hips against his, seek more and more and more. Ride him furiously, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging his mouth against my tits, encouraging him to suck and bite and lick them yet more. When his teeth pinch sharply at my nipple, I yelp breathily, and he does it again, taking my nonverbal encouragement for what it is.

I savor each fragment of sensation: his mouth wild on my tits, his cock sliding into me, stretching me, his hands clenching my buttocks so hard I’ll have marks later—which I’ll treasure, I must be sure to tell him—lifting me up and lowering me down, doing so harder and harder with each thrust, until my clit is bumping against his base just so, and I’m crying out nonstop, whimpering in his ear, sobbing my ecstasy to the ceiling.

There is no stopping my orgasm. It is a freight train barreling through me, the earth splitting open under me. I cannot tamp the scream that erupts. I writhe on him, grip his hair so hard I know it must hurt but he only growls like the wolf he is, hard and lean and primal and fierce.

“Logan—Logan . . . oh my fucking god, Logan . . .”

“Touch your pussy, Isabel. Right now, while you’re coming all over me.” He growls this into my ear.

I wrap one hand around his neck and lean back. He does the same, allowing some room between our joined bodies. His hands lift me, press my ass up and forward, and he continues to surge up into me, demonstrating incredible, breathtaking power and stamina. I reach between our bodies and touch my middle and ring fingers to my clit, just a touch at first. I groan and feel my still-undulating,
clenching climax twist and ratchet higher, hotter, harder. God, this. I know exactly how to make myself come hard and fast. So I do. I find the perfect pressure, the perfect circling rhythm. Logan thrusts into me, and I’m whimpering now, sweat sliding down my temple and between my breasts.

Electricity, lighting heat; there are not enough synonyms for the power that flows through me. I come immediately, and it is as if I am being turned inside out, ripped open and spread apart and tangled up. I feel Logan beneath me and in me and around me, his teeth on my nipples and his hands on my ass and his cock inside my pussy and his hard body blocking out anything but him, anything but us, anything but this climax like a galaxy of stars going nova all at once.

I don’t slow or stop, and neither does he.

I didn’t know orgasms could exist thus, one after another until each explosion is part of the last, a chain of detonations. I didn’t know my mind could splinter from the magnitude of this physical and emotional experience, my soul bursting into fractal shards so the soft vulnerable essence of who I am is exposed and melted and merged with Logan’s.

Because he too is fragmenting. Coming apart. Going mad, in this moment. Letting loose all that boils within. His eyes fly open at the moment of his release, and I do not look away, I stare into his very heart as he pours himself into me. I see moisture pooling in his eyes, even as his voice is growling with predatory ferocity, even as his purely male and powerfully masculine body unleashes his orgasm. I feel him break apart.

And I am there to catch every piece and puzzle them together with mine. I kiss him as he comes.

I feel something break inside me, something hot and wet squirting out of me at the exact moment Logan cries out. It is almost
embarrassingly involuntary, as if something literally broke open inside my core, drenching both of us where we are joined. I know Logan felt it.

His thighs tremble, and his knees give out. I find my feet as he crumples, and I am so desperate to remain connected to him in this moment that when he lies down on the floor right there in the hallway, I lie on top of him and take his manhood in my hand and play with it as it softens, cradle his heavy balls in my palm and caress those too. Kiss his chest and his chin, his cheek and his lips, his throat and the outer shell of his ear.

“Jesus, Isabel.” He is breathless, gasping, pouring sweat. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know anything could feel like that.”

“Me neither.”

After a few minutes, he shifts beneath me. “As much as I love having you on top of me, babe, this floor isn’t exactly the most comfortable thing to lie on.”

I slide off him, stand up, and offer him my hand. He takes it, grinning, and I put all my strength and weight into lifting him off the floor. He’s shaky still, sweating, breathing hard.

“Good thing I never skip leg day,” he says.

I am reminded, now that the adrenaline and sexual high is wearing off, that I’m sore from my own workout. “You amaze me, Logan.”

He shakes his head. “It’s you, Isabel. It’s all you.”

I’m not sure what that means. Only that the way he says it makes my heart melt all over again.

“Now we’re both all sweaty,” I say.

“And you just took a shower.” He twists on the hot water, steps in.

I step in after him. I wish I had something cute and quippy to say, but I don’t. I can only lean under the hot spray and let my hands soar over his body, let my eyes close and let him wash me. Let him
scrub me, taking far more time than is really needed to get me clean. And when he’s done washing me, it’s my turn to run the bar of soap over his wet, slippery skin and take all the time in the world to simply appreciate the beauty of his body with my hands.

“We’d better get out soon,” he says, “or this is going to turn into round two.”

The water still runs hot, and I am still afire with barely sated need. He’s woken something in me, I realize. An insatiable voracity.

I lean my back against the marble under the shower head, spread my stance wide, feet far apart. Urge him to his knees. Tangle my hands in his hair and pull his face against my core, writhe my slit against his mouth and keep him buried there until I come.

Again and again and again.

There is no end to the number and the ways that this man can make me come.

And when I’m limp and panting, I let myself collapse to my knees. I remember what he said he wanted to do to me, when this all started. He’s hard, by this time. Wonderfully, gloriously hard. Swaying in front of me, wet with shower water. Wet with need. I lick the water away, swipe after swipe of my tongue up his length. Sink my mouth onto him and suck until he’s gasping, and then back away. Cup my breasts with both hands and lift them, lean against him. Fit his cock into the narrow space between them and then press them together. He thrusts, and the tip protrudes from between the taut globes, and I take it into my mouth.

“This is what you wanted before, right?” I ask, glancing up at him. “Like this?”

“Fucking hell, Is,” he groans, tipping his head back.

“I’ll take it that’s a yes?”

He looks down at me, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Fuck yes.”

I move with him, rising as he pulls back, lowering myself around him as he thrusts up, and at the apex of each thrust I capture his glans with my lips and suckle the tip, lick him, flick my tongue over and around. He’s barely even blinking, watching this.

His fingers go to my hair. I’m glad he stopped me from shaving it all off, because I love his hands in my hair, the way he holds on. I’ll have to make sure when I do cut it, I leave enough for him to hold on to.

“Mmmm,” I moan, when he pulls at my head, urging me to take more of him, “Yes, like that. Take it, Logan.”

He surges between my crushed-together tits and into my mouth, harder and faster, and his hands clutch at my hair, gripping the damp mass and holding me in place. All I have to do now is hold on to my tits and take his cock into my mouth. I do so eagerly, loving each taste of him, the slide of his hardness between my teeth and over my tongue. Not going deep, just enough that I can taste him.

I moan now at each slide of his cock between my lips. I moan for him, because when I do his lip curls and he thrusts harder and his cock throbs thicker, and I moan for myself because giving him pleasure and seeing him lose control is bliss to me, is its own form of sexual pleasure. Not the kind of pleasure that leads to orgasm, but the kind of pleasure that can only come from giving something beautiful and incredible to one’s lover.

He is my lover.

This revelation stuns me, sends my heart into palpitations. Little things like that have the power to shock me, for some reason.

He takes me. Takes my mouth. Takes my tits.

“I’m about to come, Isabel,” he grunts in warning.

I moan around him, humming. Release my tits, and take his cock in my hands. Stroke him slow, gazing up at him. Lips around the broad springy head, tongue fluttering over the very tip.

It’s a whim, a last-minute decision to retake ownership of something done to me. To choose something for myself and in so doing erase the ignominy and violation I felt.

I feel him tense, feel him throb between my lips. The decision hits me, and I pull my mouth off him and sink down onto my haunches on the wet marble, shower splattering warm on both of us. He comes, a thick white jet of seed shooting violently out of him and onto my upturned face. I feel it on my mouth, lips, chin. My mouth is open, so it lands on my tongue, salty and musky. On my cheek, running down to my jaw. I stare up at him, blinking through the spatters of water and strings of come, and see that I’ve shocked him.

I’m up on my knees again, his cock between my tits, and I accept another splash of his come on my lips, licking it away with a glance up at him, feeling powerful and seductive. I did this for
me
, not for Logan. As a “fuck you” to Caleb and everything he did to me that I didn’t choose. It’s not something I would want on a regular basis, but I need it in this moment. I am retaking myself. Assuming ownership over my sexuality.

I take Logan’s cock into my mouth and wrap both hands around it and pump hands and mouth on him until he’s groaning and grunting and his knees are dipping and he’s hunched over me. Until he gently tugs me away, up to my feet. Finds the washcloth and wrings it out. Curls his arm around my waist and tucks me to his side, tips my face up, and washes away his seed, kisses me.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” he murmurs.

“I know. Neither was I. But I wanted to . . . remove the stigma and negativity of how that felt.”

“I don’t want you to ever feel—”

I twist off the water as it’s starting to go cold, then cut him off. “Logan. I did what I
wanted
to do. For me. Letting you”—I work up the courage to say exactly what I mean, the way he said it—“letting
you fuck my tits . . . that was for you. Having you come on my face, that was for me. Not because I got any kind of weird sexual satisfaction from it, but . . . well, you know what happened. I told you. I did that for me. To take it back.”

He helps me out of the shower, unfolds a dry towel, and wraps it around me, and another for himself. We each dry off, and then I turn to him as he cinches the towel around his waist.

“Logan? I do wonder, how did it feel, for you? What did you think?” I don’t bother with the towel, once I’m dry. I like his eyes on my body.

He lets out a breath. “There’s nothing you could do that wouldn’t be incredible. But . . . it was hot. I’m not gonna lie. Seeing you, watching you, watching you take my cock in your mouth, between those big beautiful tits of yours . . . it was hot as fuck. I swear to god I’ll never forget it as long as I live. It’s a mental image I could jerk off to until the day I die. Coming on your face . . . that’s a little different. That’s not something I’ve ever really wanted to do before. Just not my thing. I never wanted to make anyone feel like I got off on . . . something that to me smacks of degradation, I guess. It’s a common theme in porn, the come-shot to the face. But I never saw the eroticism in it. Sex, for me, to be really amazing, is about mutuality, mutual satisfaction. And that’s what’s out of this world about our connection, is that we just . . . we have this incredible, fucking
amazing
chemistry together.”