"That's rape, Isabel."
I have to shake my head. "It wasn't. Not entirely." I tremble. "But then, it also was. I don't know. It's all so confusing with him. He gets in my head, and makes all my thoughts somehow . . . not make sense. Not . . . my own. I don't know. He's all I've ever known, from the moment I first woke up. It's always been him."
"So before, in my conference room--"
"I wanted that, Logan. Please believe me. I wanted it so badly. I loved every single second of it. The way you touch me, the way you kiss me, I've never known anything like it and I'm crazy for it." I spin on the stool so I'm facing him, grab his knees as he twists to face me.
He eyes me carefully, his blueblueblue eyes seeing into my soul. "Don't ever lie to me, or tell me what you think I want to hear. Okay? Please? I'd rather hear the unpleasant truth than an easy lie."
"I promise I will always be truthful with you."
We've somehow finished all the food and both beers, and Logan slaps the countertop rather suddenly. "Movie time."
"What?" I'm baffled by the sudden change in topic.
"I swore to you that I'd bring you home, feed you beer and pizza, and binge-watch movies with you." He nudges an empty bottle. "We've had the beer and pizza, so now it's time for a movie."
"Okay." I don't know how to say that as much as I want to watch movies with him, I want to finish what we started in the conference room even more.
He takes my hand and leads me to his bedroom, which I haven't seen yet. It's simple but beautiful, and comfortable, like the rest of the home. Muted green paint on the walls, thick dark carpeting on the floor, exposed beams on the ceiling, a wide bed on a high, dark wood frame, a flatscreen TV mounted on the wall opposite.
He gestures to the bed. "Only place to watch TV, so get comfy."
I smooth my dress over my hips with my palms, a nervous gesture. "Okay."
The bed is high, and my dress isn't really made for climbing. At least not gracefully or modestly. I try to slide up onto the bed backward, keeping my knees pressed together. I'm not sure why I'm trying to be modest, considering what we did not that long ago, where his fingers were, but it feels necessary. I don't quite make it, and only end up pressing my backside against the edge of the mattress and wiggling gracelessly. I try to catch a foot on the edge of the frame, but I can't quite manage that either, not without flashing Logan. Especially not wearing heels.
He laughs, and I can't help but laugh too, because my efforts to get on the bed were rather comical. "Isabel, honey. That dress is gorgeous, don't get me wrong. But . . . would you like something else to wear? A shirt of mine, maybe?"
"Wouldn't your shirt be rather large on me?" I ask.
He nods. "That's kind of the point. It'd be like a nightgown."
"Sure. I'll try that." I manage to sound casual, but the idea of wearing one of Logan's shirts has my stomach in twisting knots.
He pulls open a drawer of the bureau underneath the TV, pulls out a neatly folded black T-shirt, hands it to me. "That's one of my favorite shirts. I've had it since I was in high school. It's really soft and comfy, so . . . yeah." He turns away. "I'll give you a second to change."
I kick off my shoes, and my feet immediately thank me. Logan is at the bedroom door, rubbing the back of his neck, and I realize that by giving me a moment to change he meant he'd leave me alone.
"You . . . um . . ." I pause to rally my nerves. "You don't have to leave, Logan."
He stops, his hand on the doorknob. "I'm not making any assumptions, Isabel. This whole thing happens on your time, okay?"
"You've already seen me naked, Logan."
"Doesn't mean I'm going to just assume you're okay with me watching you change. That's kind of intimate."
"So is what we did in your conference room."
A smile crosses his face. "True." He puts his back to the bedroom door. "I'll stay, if you want me to."
"I don't mind," I say, reaching up behind my back to tug down the zipper of my dress. "I don't really want you to leave, if I'm being honest."
I can't quite reach the tab of the zipper, though, without contorting. Logan crosses the room in three long strides and stands behind me. "Let me."
His fingers touch the back of my neck, brush my hair over my shoulder, and I feel my dress loosen as he pulls the zipper down.
I expect more, but I feel him step back. "There."
I pivot to face him. His eyes rake over me, and I cannot mistake the hunger for me that I see there. "Logan," I start, not quite sure what I was going to say.
There's nothing to say, I decide. I keep my eyes locked on his as I shrug my shoulders, letting the garment droop forward to hang from my arms, which are bent at the elbow, clutching my belly. I'm nervous, but I'm not going to let that get in the way. I palm my thighs, and my dress pools on the floor around my feet.
Logan's eyes immediately devour my body, and he draws in a ragged breath. "You are so beautiful, Isabel."
"I'm not even naked," I say, uncomfortable with compliments.
"You don't have to be naked to be beautiful, you know." He takes a step toward me, and his fingers touch my waist. "You're so sexy, just like this, in your underwear."
My cheeks flame, and I duck my head, unable to sustain the eye contact. "Thank you." It's all I can summon.
I latch onto his wrist with my fingers, so he can't escape. He doesn't try, just flattens his palm against my spine, directly at the center of my back. He's not touching me sexually, I notice. Avoiding any erogenous zones. For me, or for himself?
The next step, other than throwing myself at him, is to finish undressing. I swallow my fear. I know he's not rejecting me, I know that he's being respectful and giving me time, which I should need, considering what happened not that long ago. But all I can think of is his kiss, his mouth on mine; all I want is his touch, to come again, for him. To feel him. To make him come. I want to know what he looks like when he loses control.
I reach up behind my back and unhook the first eyelet, and then the second, and then the third. I don't give myself time to think, I just slide my arms out of the straps and toss the bra to the floor. His nearly iridescent indigo eyes rake down from my face to my breasts, and my nipples harden under his gaze. They harden so fast they ache. I can feel my heartbeat in my chest like thundering drums, hear nothing but my pulse in my ears. Sliding my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my underwear, I shimmy them down over my hips, and it's hard to breathe, and I don't dare look anywhere but at the floor.
The silk and lace fall to my ankles, and I'm naked.
I've been naked in front of Logan once before, but that was accidental. Sort of. Whatever that was, it's different than intentionally, purposefully removing all my clothes so Logan can look at my nude body. This is making a statement.
"Fuck . . . Isabel . . . you're so insanely sexy it's hard to breathe when I look at you." His voice is a silken murmur.
I summon every ounce of courage I have. I reach for him. My index finger hooks in his belt loop and I pull him closer. His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare and his Adam's apple bobs. I feel need, such blazing, furious, undeniable need. I am on fire with need. The tips of my breasts brush his chest, and I drag my fingernails upward between us, catching the hem of his T-shirt and lifting it up. His arms go up, and I carefully work the shirt off, tossing it aside. Shirtless now, Logan is breathtaking. As in, looking at him, I can't breathe.
My hands are moving of their own accord. They find the loop-and-button of his jeans, slip the button free. He is motionless, staring at me, breathing heavily. My fingers clasp the tab pull of his zipper and lower it, and now his bulge spills out of the opening. My throat clogs. My breathing stops.
He just blinks at me and remains still.
I push the denim down, and Logan steps out of his pants. His underwear is gray, tight stretchy cotton molded to his body. I cannot look away from his groin, from the outline of his penis bulging and thickening as I stare at him. He inhales deeply, an
d his brows furrow as I reach for him one last time, slipping my index and middle fingers of each hand between the elastic and his flesh, running them around the circumference of his torso, and my fingertip brushes the crest of his erection. He flinches at this contact, and sucks his belly in. I tug down, and his shaft sways free as the fabric releases him. A lift of each foot, and Logan is naked with me.
We are naked together.
I feel giddy, and terrified.
I have to touch him. My palms roam across his chest, down his sides, and carve around to clutch his buttocks. Pull him closer. He lets out a breath, palms my hip, and then his lips touch my shoulder.
"Logan," I breathe. It is a plea, and he knows it.
His mouth descends, crossing my breastbone, and he bends, kissing the slope of my right breast. Strong fingers trail up from my hip, and he cups my breast from beneath and lifts it to his mouth. His touch is gentle, his mouth warm and wet. I moan at the feel of my nipple being flattened in his mouth, the feel of his tongue flicking over it, striking a chord of desire within me. Stoking the flames.
Just as I'm about to reach for his erection, he backs away. His gaze glints, gleams.
"Lie down on the bed, Isabel." His voice is soft, as warm as it always is, yet now insistent as well.
I back up. My bottom bumps up against the mattress, and I lift myself up onto it. Lie back. Shimmy backward so my head is on the pillow. Breathe hard, my breasts rising and falling, swaying, shaking with each breath. My nipples hurt. My core aches. I am drenched. I do not mean to, but I find myself posing for Logan. One hand threaded through my thick black hair, one foot planted, knee up, thighs touching to block his view of my privates, my other arm barred across my chest.
He, naked, hard, just stands and stares at me for a moment, and I stare back.
He is glorious.
Tattoos, a jumble of images, sleeve his arms from shoulder to elbow. His hair is loose and wavy, curling at the ends, hanging down his shoulders. His body is a warrior's body, whipcord lean, hard as diamonds and sharp as a blade, every muscle defined as if etched by a razor into marble. His manhood is . . . I bite my lower lip as I stare at it. Longer than it has any right to be, thicker than I'd expected, a very subtle inward curve to it. I want to touch him, wrap my fingers around him and put my mouth on him and feel him against my tongue, taste his skin; I want to guide him to me and feel him penetrate me.
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."
NINE
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.
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