Beyond Layers: Layer Series Book Four (Layers Series 4)

by Alexander, TL

  Three masterpieces complete, I find myself still wanting. Sam, you greedy little bitch. But I can’t help it. I need more; I need to be attached, to be filled, to be taken. I need to be fucked.

  “Logan,” I breathe. “I need… Please.”

  “Tell me what you need,” he whispers over my swollen clit.

  I tug on his hair. He stops mid-glazing, looking up at me with those beautiful brown eyes.

  I silently beg him to relieve my wantonness. Never in my life have I wanted a man to fill me, to take me, to paint me with his seed, tame me with his aching need, more than this man, more than at this moment.

  Message received, he grabs his shorts off the floor and removes a condom from a no-longer- hidden pocket. He tears it open with his teeth and rolls it down his beautiful cock like the love-master he is.

  The veins in his neck pulse, the muscles in his biceps flex, his corded and packed chest and abs heave with restraint. His body is saying, fuck her hard and fast, but he somehow seems to sense or understand this is more than a fuck to me; it’s a new beginning.

  He leans his big, hard perfection over me. Giving me half his weight, he nuzzles my neck. I breathe in his maleness, his strength, his need. He lifts himself off me and I touch his flesh for the first time. As I run my left hand down his cheek, it melts into my palm, and his eyes close. The spirit of a kindred, of an old soul, filters through my palm, floating down my arm, before bathing my heart.

  I let my right hand trek down his muscled shoulder and back, coming to rest in the middle of his solid left ass cheek. He opens his eyes, looking into mine. And I know, even if our coming together only lasts for an hour, a day, a week, I know I’ll remember it for a lifetime. I’ll never forget the determined yet solemn look on his face. I’ll never forget the solid perfection of his body. Never forget the smell of his need and his haunting lust-filled sad eyes.

  “Samantha,” he whispers. “I want you, need you, but if you’re not ready, we don’t—”

  My left hand wraps around his neck and I pull him down, joining our lips. “Take me, Logan.”

  And he does. He slowly and reverently pushes his big, throbbing cock into me.

  And I won’t lie, because I’m not good at it. It hurts, burns even. He’s stretching me, pulling and filling this girl as no man has. When he’s fully seated, he pauses. Giving me a moment. I suck in a breath. I thought he was teasing me, but now I’m not so sure. He truly might be too much for this girl to handle. I feel as if I’m swelling around him, encasing him; I’m becoming his mold.

  His breath hitches as his brown eyes seek out mine. “Samantha,” he breathes.

  “I know. I’m sorry, it’s a little snug.”

  “Damn, angel. Don’t ever apologise for being tight. I feel like a fucking king right now.”

  “I don’t know about a king, but most definitely a King Kong.”

  He chuckles. “Angel. I’m wrapped, cocooned by your wet, hot pussy, ready to explode, and you make me laugh.”

  Feeling his cock impatiently twitching, I inhale, and then exhale, slowly. “Okay, Kong. Show this girl what she’s been missing.”

  And he does, setting a slow rhythm until I beg him for more. Beg him for harder, faster. After that, it’s all a blur, as he fucks me like I know only he can. I come hard once, then twice.

  He joins me minutes later. “Fuck, angel. You are this man’s heaven.”

  From the first moment my eyes landed on Samantha, she became mine, my angel. Don’t ask me how I knew, because I won’t be able to answer you; it’s not something I can explain in words. All I knew, and know, is that she has some kind of power over me. Call it voodoo, call it witchcraft, call it fate, it doesn’t matter; it just simply is. I might not know what to call it, but I do know it’s a power that can lead me to heaven or banish me to hell.

  The moment I slid my big, fat, throbbing cock into her tight pussy, I became hers. I knew she’d bring this man to his knees. I would beg to touch her, beg for her touch, beg to know her, to let me in.

  My angel has been sleeping on my shoulder for the last hour; I can’t seem to close my eyes, to take them off her. I’m afraid she’ll leave, disappear, or I’ll wake up and realize she was a figment of my imagination, an impossible dream. I tuck a strand of her long blonde hair behind her ear. She is so goddamn beautiful I can hardly believe I’m the guy lying next to her, the guy who just fucked her for hours until she begged me stop. Logan Romano, you’re in so much fucking trouble.

  She is so different from the women I’ve been with. Many of them puck bunnies or women who want to ride my stick because I handle one for a living. Sam is nothing like those women; maybe I imagined it, but she seemed turned off by the fact I play in the NHL. If that’s the case, maybe that’s why she won’t tell me her last name or anything about her. Maybe she thinks I’m nothing but a stickhandling manwhore. Fuck me. I am a stickhandling manwhore.

  Her eyes flutter open and she looks up at me with those aqua eyes. “Hey.”

  I kiss her forehead. “Hey.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Not long.”

  She runs her hand down my shadowed cheek. “You’re one beautiful man, Mr. Romano.”

  I bring my lips to hers. “Angel, you’re breathtaking.”

  Rolling over, she winces.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sore, Mr. Fucked Me Seven Times,” she teases.

  “I believe it was eight.”

  She snorts. “You were counting?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you count the number of orgasms I had as well?”

  “Or course. Fifteen.”

  She shakes her head and kisses her way down my neck and pecs. She pauses over a scar on the upper left quadrant of my chest, running a finger over it. “What happened? This scar looks new.”

  I want to tell her, but something tells me, warns me, not to.

  My angel’s lips gently run over it. I wonder for a second if she’s figured it out. Then she looks up at me. “You don’t have to tell me, Logan. I understand.”

  “It’s nothing, angel,” I say, kissing her forehead. “Got hit with a biscuit.”

  Her brow wrinkles. “A biscuit?”

  “A puck.”

  “Oh.” She smiles. “So what do you call a stick?”

  “Lumber.”

  She preforms an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

  “Hockey has its own lingo,” I tell her.

  “I’ve heard my brother-in-law and nephews say a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  She runs a finger over my lips. “Chicklets. I believe it means teeth.”

  I nod. “Or jibs, or bad jibs. What else have you heard?”

  She bites her lower lip. I’ve watched her do this when she seems nervous or is thinking. “Something about riding the pine.”

  “It means sitting on the bench.”

  “Of course it does,” she says, as she pushes me onto my back and straddles me.

  She kisses her way down my chest, pausing just below my right rib cage. “And this scar?” she asks and kisses it.

  “Skate blade.”

  She frowns and continues on her journey, pausing to kiss a scar just above my right hip.

  “Appendix,” I tell her before she asks.

  She makes her way on down my body, kissing each scar as I tell her about each of them. By the time she finishes just at my right ankle, I’m rock solid. I feel as if I could fuck her forever and I’d never be satisfied, never get enough.

  She kisses and licks her way back up. When she reaches where I want to be kissed the most, she flattens her perfect tongue and licks from base to leaking tip.

  I moan as she spreads my legs and kneels between them. “I must say, Mr. Romano, I’ve never seen such a beautiful penis. God stopped making molds after he made yours.”

  How many penises have been surrounded by your perfection, angel? I have no right to think, or to ask this, but I want to. The
thought of her lips on or around any other cock makes me…. I push the thought out of my mind and just feel.

  “It was made for your God-stopping-mold of a pussy.”

  She smiles around my cock. “I was being quite serious, Mr. Romano.”

  “So was I, Ms.—Sam.” Please, tell me your last name.

  She reaches for a condom and rips it open with her teeth. Then… fuck me until Christmas. She puts it in her mouth, gently blows, and rolls it on down my needy cock.

  “Good God, angel. That was hot.”

  She smiles. “I’ll show you something hot.” Straddling me, she slowly sinks on down.

  “Fuck me, Sam.”

  She leans over, pressing her lips to mine. “That was the plan, Mr. Romano. I just need a minute.”

  “Sore?”

  She nods. “You fill me like I’ve never been filled, Mr. Romano.”

  “You do things to me, make me feel things, I’ve never felt, Sam.”

  Our lips lock and she begins her ride. It’s slow, deep, and sexy as hell. I don’t believe this woman, this angel stroking me, has a clue how stunning, how complete and perfect she is. Samantha, my mystery angel, is the real deal, the one in a million, the one you only dreamt about. What the hell, Romano?

  I feel my balls tighten and I know I’m about to explode. But there’s no way I’m going to come before my angel does. I sit up and grab her ass. Flipping her onto her back, I lean over her.

  She frowns and pinches my right nipple.

  “Hey. What was that for?”

  “I wanted to give you pleasure. Wanted to make you come.”

  I kiss the tip of her nose. “I’ll come, angel, but not before you do.”

  I grind into her as I circle my hips.

  She moans. “God, Logan. You make me come undone.”

  You have no idea, angel.

  “Holy hell. I love your stick,” she says, all breathy.

  “My stick loves you.”

  “God, Logan, I’m…”

  “Let go, beautiful girl. Come for me.”

  “Oh my hell, Logan. I’m…”

  She comes long and hard. I follow, longer and harder.

  I place my head on her shoulder, catching my breath. “Angel, that was….”

  She runs a hand through my hair and down my back. “Heaven, Logan. That was heaven.”

  I wake several hours later, in the strong arms of a man, the strong arms of Logan Romano, god and master of my body.

  I carefully extract myself from his arms, not wanting to wake the master. Grabbing his tee off the floor, I pull it on. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I take in all that is Logan Romano. He’s one fine specimen of a man and he’s made this woman feel like a goddess. He has touched and worshiped every inch of me. Well, not every, but almost. I feel as if I’m a cat high on catnip, munching on a canary as I bat a mouse between my paws. Yes, I’m high on this man, and every single hard and soft part of him.

  I look at the clock radio on the nightstand. We’ve been in bed and all around the bed, doing all kinds of wonderful deeds, for almost twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours of fucking bliss. How is that even possible?

  I regrettably peel my eyes off Mr. Romano and make my way to the shower. Smiling and daydreaming about shower sexcapades with a man who knows how to work both of his sticks, I stand under the steamy spray and close my eyes.

  My mind cast adrift and wandering in holy-hot-man dreamland, I don’t hear the shower door open but I do feel a large callused hand running up my spine.

  I lean away from the spray and look over my shoulder. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he says, as lush lips trail over the back of my neck. Grabbing a sponge, he squirts on some bath wash. “May I?”

  “If you must, Mr. Romano.”

  “Oh, I must.” He smells the sponge. “What is this wash? It smells like heaven.” He picks up the bottle and reads the label. “‘Angel.’ But that’s… how is that possible?”

  “I have it custom made and I let the makers choose a name for it. That’s what they named it.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s just…”

  “Unbelievable?”

  “Yes.” He runs the sponge down my spine. “This script,” he says, running the sponge over my inked lower back. “It’s beautiful. What is it? What does it say?”

  “It’s Gaelic and it basically says, ‘love them, then set them free.’”

  He reverently traces a finger over the script. “You’ve lost someone… someone dear?”

  I nod.

  “You’re not going to tell me about it, are you?”

  I turn and face him. Sad eyes meet mine, pleading, begging me to tell him, to let him in. But I can’t. I can’t tell the man who fucked me for hours about the man who will forever own a piece of my heart. Guilt washes over me, wrecking me, when I realize I haven’t thought of Lane in the last twenty or so hours.

  I look away as tears begin to cloud and overflow my eyes.

  Strong arms surround me, enveloping me. “Angel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  I take a deep breath, steadying my voice. “No. I’m sorry, Logan. I can’t talk about it. Just like you can’t talk about the tattoo on your arm.”

  He has a stunning Yin-Yang on his right upper arm. The Yin isn’t solid or shadowed like it usually is. It’s filled in with a half-heart and the name “Luke,” written beautifully in a delicate script. I would guess Luke is a brother or a close friend.

  He releases me but continues to wash me, each stroke turning harder, rougher, as if he’s punishing me, or trying to wash away this angel’s sins. When he’s washed every inch of me, he roughly washes my hair. I let him do it, let him get it out, let him punish me, us. As I’m rinsing my locks, eyes shut tightly, I hear the door open, then shut.

  Alone and feeling lonelier than I have in such a long time, I let my tears flow, letting the water wash them away. After a couple of minutes, I get myself under control and step out. As I’m drying, I hear Logan step into the guestroom shower. He and I are emotionally similar, meaning we’re not good at disguising or holding things in. We have visible and invisible scars, wearing them like a scarlet letter over our hearts. Logan Romano is not who I expected or wanted him to be. He might be a hot, cocky stick-handler, who’s skated around many rinks, but he’s not an uncaring, using bastard. It’s obvious this hook-up, or whatever the hell it is, isn’t turning out like I wanted it to. He clearly has deeper feelings for me, and I him. I told myself it was because he’s my first lover since Lane, but it’s more than that, so much more. I need to end this, us, before it’s too late. Before I’ve fallen in love and he is taken away from me, and from everyone else who loves him.

  Logan sits at the bar and I place a plate in front of him.

  “I hope you like omelets.”

  He nods and I hand him a fork and a napkin.

  He digs in without saying a word. He must have had a talk with himself as well, during his shower. His emotions are now reined in, under control.

  “I have a few hours of work to do this morning. What are your plans?”

  He downs half of his glass of orange juice before he looks at me. “I need to check in with the painters then I thought I’d go for a run.”

  “Do you think you could go to the market?”

  He nods. “Just give me a list.”

  “Logan, I’m—”

  He holds up a hand. “Don’t. You told me this was just a… fling, a hook-up. I’m not going to lie and say I’m good with it. I… I care for you, Sam. I know we just met but there’s this… I don’t know, like I said before, it’s as if there’s a force pulling us together, connecting us. And now I’ve had you, touched you, I—”

  “Logan, I—”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says, as he stands, walks over to the sink, rinses his plate, and puts it into the dishwasher. Finally, he turns and faces me. “You can deny it all you want, angel, but it’s fact and you know it.”

  “I wasn
’t going to deny it; I was going to say it’s taken me by surprise, whatever this is between us.” I rinse my plate and he steps aside so I can put it in the washer. He leans against the cabinets, folding his muscular arms over his chest. It’s an intimidating stance and it’s working. I feel small and insignificant, standing across from him.

  I look down at my bare feet as I take a minute to figure out what I’m going to say. After a minute, I look up at him, into his eyes. “Logan, whatever this is between us, ends here.”

  He frowns and for some reason it makes his arms look bigger. “Why? You live in New York. I’ll be moving there in a few weeks. What we have, the chemistry we have, Sam, it’s not something you find very often, if ever.”

  “You don’t want to get involved with me, Logan.”

  “I am involved with you. What do you think we’ve been doing for the last twenty-four hours? I’d say our fucking was pretty damn involved,” he nearly shouts.

  I wince. “Logan, nothing you do or say will change my mind. It’s the right now, or it’s nothing. I am sorry, I truly am.”

  “Will you at least give me your full name?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t, Logan. If I do then you’ll know everything I’m trying to protect you from.”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble? Are you afraid of someone?”

  Only you, Mr. Romano. “No. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not in trouble and no one is going to hurt me.” Except for you.

  He runs a hand down his shadowed cheek. I hate this heaviness between us. I hate that I’m making his beautiful sad brown eyes look sadder, miserable. But how can I tell him I’m cursed? How can I tell him I will be the end of him, in one way or another?

  He looks down at the tiled floor and sighs. After a couple of minutes, he looks back up at me with defeat written all over his beautiful face. “I hate this, Sam. I hate fighting, feeling like your enemy. Let’s not fight. Let’s enjoy the time we have left.”

  I nod, relieved and happy.

  He stands at his full height. “I’d better get going.”