I widen my eyes. How far is he going to take this? Is he going to throw it? Break it? I have no idea. He’s so unpredictable.
He sets the bottle down on the floor, a few feet away. Which is a nasty mess waiting to happen. And I don’t care. I just don’t care. It’s so liberating, to not give a shit about stuff. It’s almost a turn-on in itself.
“You know,” he says, clamping his hands around my forearms and pulling me flush up against himself, “there’s something I figured out about you a long time ago and never told you.”
“Oh, really? And what’s that?” I’m breathing in short, labored gulps.
“I know what turns you on, and why,” he says roughly, his eyes glittering. “It's the same reason people like entertainment that's violent, scary, nightmarish. Stuff that they'd find horrifying if it actually happened to them. But getting a taste of it in a controlled environment, where they know they're safe—it's thrilling. It gets their hearts pumping. Makes them feel more alive.”
While I flatten my lips, he goes on, “That's why you turn sex into a fight. It's not because you want to win. It's because you spend the rest of the time being strong and responsible and invincible. But with this—” He jerks on my arms, bending me backward, demonstrating how utterly I’m at his mercy right now. “You want to be overpowered. Taken. Fucked. You fight me, and you lose, and then you can let go. Surrendering is a release, and you need it so badly.”
Moving his face close to mine, he tilts his head, puts his lips on my neck. I feel his teeth on my skin, scraping up to my earlobe, where he bites down hard enough to make me wince. His harsh whisper is in my ear. “You think another guy is going to get that about you? That dickless fucker last night definitely wouldn’t have.”
I release the breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. “If you're so sure of that, why would you think I'd cheat on you?”
I can feel his muscles tensing. He shifts back a bit, far enough to let him gaze down into my eyes. “Even when you’re not sure you’ll find anything, you still go looking.”
Frowning, I have to replay his words a few times to get what he means. Then I scoff. “That's bullshit, Logan.”
“I know that,” he says seriously. “Now.”
Letting air whistle out through my teeth, I tug on my arms, clenching my jaw when he tightens his grip. It hurts, but I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want him to let go.
Which means he’s right. And it means there’s definitely something wrong with me. Still.
I don’t have to excuse myself or apologize, though. Not with him.
“Then show me,” I say. “Show me why you’re the only one who can give me what I need.”
Forcefully, he pulls me around to the side of the bed, and then he shoves me away from him so that I land on my back on the mattress. The sheet and blanket are in disarray around me; housekeeping only comes every three days here, unless you request it more often, and I was in too big of a hurry to make the bed this morning.
That seems like half a lifetime ago now.
With his knee, he nudges my legs apart, and my gaze drops to the bulge in his shorts.
Yes, please.
But his hands don’t go to his fly. Instead they slide under my knees and pull me to the edge, and then they go up under the skirt of my dress, where he hooks fingers onto the elastic of my panties. Quickly, he slides them off.
As he goes down on his knees, I realize what he’s doing, and oh, my God, I want to weep in gratitude and spread my legs wide, welcoming him. He hasn’t done this in years, not since before everything went wrong between us. Yeah, we still had sex after that, but he never went down on me. I didn’t allow it. Not sure why. Because I could, and it gave me power? Because I needed to keep a part of myself away from him?
I know how to play my part, though, so I clench my thighs, giving him a defiant look. His expression hardening with determination, he digs his fingers into my flesh and pries my knees apart. I fight him, straining to keep them closed, bucking and kicking. Exerting brute force, he wrenches my legs aside, baring me to his sight and touch.
And the instant his hot and wet mouth closes on me, I know the reason I didn’t let him do this for so long. It’s how open and vulnerable this leaves me, and how the selflessness of it disarms me, leaves me defenseless. It’s how hungrily and thoroughly he uses his tongue and his lips to please me, only me, and how it tears at my heart, the way he looks up at me from where his head is between my legs.
I love you, his eyes are saying while his tongue swirls and strokes. I worship you. You’re desirable. You’re everything I want.
Oh, God. Even now, I want to close my eyes and shut it out, the evidence of how he feels. It’s too much. I don’t know what to do with it. Because I’ve never doubted that he loves me. But that love got warped into something ugly and unbearable, and it tore us apart.
“You taste so sweet, baby,” he says as he continues mouth-fucking me, and my eyes drift shut, a moan tearing itself from my throat. He’s so damn good at this, and it feels so amazing I might lose my mind.
Wedging his hands under my ass, his palms warm and firm against my skin, he lifts me off the bed, settling back on his haunches while pulling me up with him. He’s got me pinned in his grip, effortlessly propping me up with his face buried between my thighs.
And I hook my legs over his shoulders, arching my back and curling the loose sheet within my fingers while he pushes me higher and higher, closer and closer. His tongue slips inside me, and a jolt goes through me, a gasp escaping. In and out he slides it, and I start panting, straining, chasing that crest.
Then his mouth wraps around my clit again, drawing it in and sucking, grazing with his teeth, and the buildup comes to an abrupt end. With a choked cry, I throw my head back and let go. On and on it goes, one wave of bliss after the other as I’m coming fast and hard with the hot and unyielding pressure of Logan’s mouth on my pussy.
While I’m still panting, struggling to catch my breath, he lowers my ass back down on the bed, but he keeps his hands there, squeezing and kneading possessively. Quickly, he drags his tongue across my sex, across my opening, and up to the sensitive, swollen knot above, and my lower body jerks off the bed and I yelp at the overload on my nerve endings.
“That’s two,” he announces, pulling back from me at last.
My post-orgasmic fog slowly clearing, I glare up at him as he pushes up to his feet. “Stop. No counting.”
He starts laughing, a smug and brash chuckle.
Then he wrenches off his shirt, and I barely have time to blink before he’s kicked off his shorts and underwear as well. My mouth goes dry. I rake my gaze down his body, gloriously bared, all hard and lean and muscular.
Oh, yeah. He’s definitely been spending more time at the gym.
And at his center, his cock juts out, erect and engorged and pulsing. My pelvic muscles clench involuntarily at the sight, so ready to be wrapped around him, my need a sweet and urgent ache. I want to grab him and pull him down to me, want to have him on top of me and inside me, now.
But that’d be too easy and not nearly as much fun as it could be.
“I’m pretty wiped,” I say, putting my fist up to my mouth and opening it to fake a yawn—only to have it turn into a real one. “You wore me out. Sorry.”
Smirking, he watches me narrowly as I push up on my elbows and scoot back farther onto the bed. Then I flip over and get on my knees, starting to crawl across the mattress away from him.
His hand clamps around one of my ankles, and grabbing the other as well, he yanks viciously, pulling my knees out from under me so I land flat on my stomach, my face smacking into the mattress. My breath whooshes out with a grunt, and I start to push myself up. I feel his movement behind me, hear the bed creak under his weight, and he’s pushing me down again with a hand on the middle of my back.
Keeping me pinned, he pulls down the zipper on my dress, all the way down, exposing my skin to the air and his eyes. With a flick of his f
ingers, he undoes the clasp on my bra.
And then he grasps me by the arms and flips me over onto my back.
Our eyes meet. I hug the flimsy fabric of my dress to my chest, clinging to it while relishing the dark intent in his gaze.
“I’m gonna see all of you now, baby,” he says lazily. “Every”—he hooks his fingers on the neckline—“last”—he’s pulling my dress down until it meets the resistance of my crossed arms—“inch of you.”
“Really,” I say, bringing up my leg that he’s straddling, bending my knee until it touches his balls. “You sure you want to do that?”
Eyes blazing and moving quickly, he throws his leg over mine, pushing it down and neutralizing the threat. Suddenly I’m spread eagle again, this time with the weight of his knee keeping my thighs apart. My pussy starts throbbing, my lungs growing heavy with want, and when he goes back to pulling my dress down my torso, I let him, my arms dropping to my sides.
Shifting sideways, he removes the dress all the way before yanking off my bra and flinging it aside.
Then he’s watching me, lying there naked below him. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was scowling at me. But that grim, intense look on his face, it’s not anger; it’s lust. It’s admiration. It’s raw and fierce need.
“Jesus, Paige,” he exhales, reaching down to cup one of my breasts, thumbing and pinching the nipple. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
I’m breathing through my nose, chest heaving, unable to think of a response. I just want him. I only want him.
Tell him that.
I don’t want to. I’m scared.
But he needs to hear it, and I want him to hear it.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” I say quietly, my gaze locked with his so that I see the emotion that sparks there, see the flash of surprise followed by hunger and then something else…something exposed and vulnerable, almost helpless.
He lowers himself down to me, his lips seeking mine, finding and capturing them. While kissing me with a mixture of urgency and tenderness, he shoves fingers inside me, his thumb on my clit again, rubbing and stroking. Then he grabs his cock, using my wetness to get himself ready while I’m holding my breath, my mouth open against his as I wait, suspended and near bursting.
When he pushes himself inside me, I exhale with a hiss, my lungs emptying. I throw my arms around him, pulling him closer, exulting in the hissing sound that escapes him as I dig my nails in between his shoulder blades. He pulls back and thrusts in again, gliding easily, going deep, and filling me entirely.
“God,” I pant out, snaking my legs around him and raking my nails down his back.
Twitching, he rears back so that I can no longer reach anything but his arms, and then he grabs one wrist first to pull it up above my head and fix it to the bed, immediately followed by the other. His eyes bore into mine as he drives himself into me again, hard this time, so hard I flinch at the tiny burst of pain that shoots into my core.
You want to be overpowered. Taken. Fucked.
The memory of his words ignites in my chest, sending prickles of heat up my neck and into my face. A wild urgency overtakes me, and I tighten my legs around him, arching up into each of his forceful thrusts. Stroke by stroke, I meet him, never breaking eye contact, and it’s the sight of him that pushes me to the brink surprisingly quick, the visual reminder that it’s my husband, it’s Logan who’s inside me, filling and stretching and fucking me.
Not since before the big meltdown between us have I wanted to look at him like this, wanted to feel it in my bones and in my soul that it’s him who’s invading my body, that it’s this man, who I’ve loved and desired more than I thought possible, it’s him that’s bringing me this exquisite joy.
Pinned down by his weight and strength, I have no choice except to let him fuck me. Have no choice but to let him nudge me closer to another orgasm with each pounding, rocking, rhythmic thrust. It flashes in my mind, every time Beth has crowed to me about not needing a man, about how all she needs is her battery-operated friends, and I’ve laughed and agreed with her even as I knew in my gut it was a lie, because there’s no substitute for this.
There’s nothing comparable to the feel of his sweat-slicked skin against mine. Nothing that can replace the smell of him, the powerful solidity of him, the way he overwhelms my senses and makes me let go, so that I feel like I’m soaring, free and carefree.
And that’s where he brings me. It’s where I’m at when I finally come, panting and gasping, my ecstasy surging even higher as I feel him let his control slip, feel him give in with a shudder and a moan, emptying himself inside me.
It takes us a long time to recover. Lying chest to chest and trying to catch our breaths, we stay interlocked, my legs still curled around him, his hands still cuffing my wrists.
“Three,” he says hoarsely against my ear.
“Why?” I hear myself say, hearing the whine in my voice. “Why are you still counting?”
He raises himself up with his face still close, his nose brushing mine. “Because we just got started?”
I groan and laugh at the same time, shaking my head. “You’re nuts.”
Smiling, he presses a soft and lingering and insistent kiss against my lips. Then he looks into my eyes and says, “Too much lost time to make up for, baby. Don’t quit on me now.”
I let out another bark of laughter, this one exasperated.
Because there’s suddenly a tight knot in my throat, and if I don’t laugh, I’m going to cry.
Chapter 23
Logan
I wake up with sunlight on my face, streaming in around the edge of the drapes. It takes a second before last night returns to me. Immediately, I roll over, the starched sheets swishing pleasantly around me—
—and there she is.
God damn. God damn.
I had no idea I’d ever see this sight again. I hoped, yes. Dreamed, fantasized, obsessed. But honestly? I didn’t really believe it would happen.
Lying there on her back with one arm flung up beside her head, she looks almost ethereal, like something out of a fairy tale. She’s as neat and tidy in her sleep as she is when awake: she doesn’t snore, drool, or get bedhead. I’ve always been convinced she forces herself to be such a quiet and controlled sleeper through sheer willpower.
My wife.
Which she still is, god dammit.
Memories of last night wash over me, and my dick wakes up, my normal morning wood growing, hardening. Still, despite the hot and sweaty sex, the sleeping next to her—which it’s been even longer since we’ve done—and despite the day we spent talking with a frankness and openness that I’m pretty sure we never have before…
Despite all of that, I still hesitate to touch her now. As if I haven’t earned back the right.
Which is all kinds of bullshit, isn’t it?
Scooting toward her, I slip my hand under the sheet and blanket, finding her hip, covered by her sleep shorts. No, I’m not sleeping naked, she told me the first time we spent a night together. What if there’s a fire or something? I smile at the memory as I slide my hand around to her front, skimming up under her sleep tank and over the bare skin of her abdomen. She starts to stir, arching her back and pushing her ass up against me. Which, quite frankly, is more than a little maddening.
“Mmm,” she mumbles. “Nuuhh. It’s not morning yet.”
“The sun disagrees with you.” Brushing her hair aside, I kiss her neck, grazing with my teeth.
She sucks in a breath. “It does. Make it go away.”
“Yup,” I say with a snicker near her ear, “because that’s something I can do. I always knew you thought I was a god.”
She’s awake enough to let out a snort, and then she flips over toward me—which gives me a full view of the bruised side of her face.
My gut clenches with fury at Caroline Carne all over again. Because, fucking shit, that's one hell of a black eye. It’s purple and puffy, and her temple and upper cheek are also swollen with
dark pink marks.
She also has bruising on her upper arms. Not nearly as bad—and not entirely unusual. I know I put them there. I know she doesn’t think much of it at this point, seeing it as the price to pay for having her needs satisfied, and that it’s not as damning as it seems, because she bruises easily. Or so she’s always said, anyway.
Still, it’s evidence that I hurt her, and I don’t like to look at it.
“How bad is it?” she asks with pain in her voice.
Realizing my horror must’ve shown in my face, I school my expression. “Not that bad.”
“Uh-huh,” she returns doubtfully.
“I’m pissed off at Caroline, baby, not disgusted with how you look.” I run my index finger down her cheek and jawline. “The day I don’t think you’re beautiful it’ll be because I’m dead.”
Her lips twitching with a hint of a smile, she runs a hand from my neck and down across my chest, a leisurely caress. “Can we just stay here?”
My cock responds to just that small touch. Doing my best to ignore it, I raise my eyebrows. “Thought you were missing your babies.”
“Yeah.” She sighs wistfully. “But this is so…peaceful.” She raises her arms above her head, stretching and yawning. “Seriously. I keep thinking about how much I’m dying to see them and hold them and kiss them, and I know it’s going to take them less than five minutes to make me want to tear my hair out.”
“Which is perfectly normal,” I point out distractedly, reaching up and filling my hand with her breast, molding it, relishing how soft and pliable it feels through her shirt. Then I bury my face in her hair, closing my eyes, inhaling. Her scent is the same as it’s always been—flowery conditioner in her hair, the airy and sweet remnant of lotion on her skin, and the fragrance that is just her.
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 30