She had no illusions as to what this was—they were alone on the beach. They were spending copious amounts of naked time together. He was handsome, and he must have thought her attractive. They could have wild, passionate sex for a night or two, or however long it took for them to be rescued. Then they’d part ways and she’d go back to work in Kansas City and he’d go back to work managing the hotel and their paths would never cross again.
It was the perfect situation for a no-strings fling. Except Brontë wasn’t good at the no-strings thing. That was for strangers, for people she would run into and never see after that night. Logan was different. She already knew a lot more about him than she did a lot of people. She liked him. Not that she normally didn’t like guys, but most of her relationships seemed to end on an ugly note, and she didn’t want that to happen with Logan. But if she turned him down, she’d never get the chance to experience just how wonderful making love to Logan might be.
“I want this,” she admitted in a soft voice, “but I don’t know how good I am at casual relationships.”
“We can worry about that once we’re rescued,” he told her, and leaned in to close the distance between them.
***
She was going to do this. They were going to do this. She was going to have a ridiculous, exciting, passionate fling with a man. Not just any man. Gorgeous, serious, totally alpha Logan Hawkings, who made her toes curl every time she looked at him. Who kissed like he’d invented it.
And here she was, in an ugly tourist T-shirt, with wild beach hair and not a touch of makeup. Maybe it wasn’t Brontë as much as it was that she was the only woman on the island? That was a sobering thought.
He touched his fingertips to her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Should I not have asked?”
“No, asking is good,” she said, and gave him a shy smile. “I’m just not exactly at my hottest at the moment.”
“Quote me something.”
She gave him an odd look and then laughed, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “‘Happiness depends upon ourselves.’ Aristotle.”
“See?” He whispered, leaning in to kiss at her neck. “Hearing you say that is so incredibly hot.”
She laughed again. “You’re a strange man.”
“And you’re beautiful,” he said bluntly. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you all day.”
And that was enough to bolster her deflated ego. She leaned close to him, her gaze moving to his mouth. “Then kiss me?”
“You have to ask?” He leaned in closer.
“Asking’s good,” she murmured again, just as his lips met hers.
For the second time that day, she was swept away by his kiss. He had such an amazing mouth. She’d kissed plenty of men, but none of them had ever kissed her with such . . . blatant ownership. Logan’s mouth slanted over her own, his lips taking control first, followed by his tongue. She was helpless to resist, and parted her lips when his tongue brushed against her mouth. Then she was lost as his tongue thrust and rubbed against her own, the kiss moving from one of simple pleasure to something deeper. His fingertips played along her jawline as he kissed her, as if ready to hold her steady if they needed to.
His mouth continued to slant over hers, his tongue stroking deep until the world narrowed to Logan’s mouth on hers and Brontë was lost in the sensation. She’d barely noticed that she was now leaning heavily against him, his body supporting her weight. When he shifted, she nearly toppled and began to giggle.
“Careful,” he warned her. His voice was stern, but there was a crinkling around his eyes that told her he was amused. “It seems my kiss is rather dangerous.”
“Extremely,” she said breathlessly, resisting the urge to reach up and touch her lips. They felt swollen and soft and wet from his kiss. With her eyes on him, Brontë leaned back on their beach blanket. “In fact, I might need to lie down to get my bearings.”
Logan’s big body loomed over hers for a long moment, and then he lay down beside her, turning and propping up on one elbow to face her. “Better?”
She glanced over at him. His face was cast in shadow at this angle, but he was still delicious. From the big shoulders to the large hand that lay on the blanket, she loved the look of him. The beach itself made her feel a bit exposed, though. She stared up at the night sky and then turned her head, listening to the gentle sound of the waves as they hit the beach. “Should we go inside?”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Part of her wanted to stay out here in the open, by the beach. And part of her was totally panicked at the thought of making love out in the open. “I want to stay out here but it feels . . .”
“Wrong?”
“I was going to say naughty.”
One corner of his mouth curved up into a half smile. “And naughty is bad?”
She reached over to him and trailed a hand down his chest, feeling the light sprinkling of chest hair across his pectorals. “Actually, no. Now that I think about it, I rather like naughty. What about you?”
“I don’t have condoms out here. Unless you brought them.”
She was an idiot. A total, freaking idiot. She should have grabbed them when she was inside. She had her birth control pills . . . somewhere. But she was pretty sure she’d missed a few days and didn’t want to chance it. Condoms it was. “No, I didn’t bring any.”
“Then I can pull out.” He lifted her hand from his chest and began to nibble on her fingertips. “If you’re okay with that.”
His lips danced along her thumb and sent shivers up and down her spine. “I’m good with that. I’m clean, by the way.”
“So am I,” he said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go inside?”
“No, I like it out here.”
“Where it’s naughty?”
She grinned. “Precisely.”
Well, they’d gotten everything out of the way except the actual act itself. He was simply watching her, lightly kissing her fingertips. What had she expected? For him to maul her as soon as she gave the okay? She suspected he was holding back, making sure she was just as interested in this as he was. She had to show him that she wanted him, too, and that she wasn’t just saying yes for the hell of it.
So she wiggled a bit closer to him on the blanket and leaned in, pressing her lips to his. His tongue flicked against hers encouragingly, and so she grew a bit bolder, taking more liberties with the kiss and twirling her tongue around his. Her hand slid down his chest, and she twined her fingers into his chest hair, tugging at it.
“Touch me,” Brontë told him softly. “Please.”
Logan’s hand went to her side, and he gently pushed until she rolled onto her back. He immediately followed, flipping over to cover her, his weight braced on his elbows. She could feel his long body settle between her slightly parted legs, and then she was suddenly wide-open to him in a move that felt both shocking and right. She was wearing just her panties under the long t-shirt, and Logan’s boxers felt scorching—and far too thin—against her thighs.
Logan leaned in a little closer. “Maybe I want to keep kissing you for a bit longer.”
“That’s okay, too,” she said breathlessly, acutely aware of him.
He lightly ran his fingers over her face, as if memorizing her features by touch. Then he leaned in and kissed her mouth, his lips featherlight against her own. He then kissed her cheek, his lips skimming her skin until he reached her jaw, where he pressed another kiss. Her chin was next, then her nose, and Brontë closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of his mouth on her skin, his weight over her. She could feel the heavy heat of him cradled against her pussy, and was half tempted to wrap her legs around him. Would that be too much too fast? She wanted to keep enjoying him and his touch. If he wanted to go slow, that was fine with her.
Logan’s mouth moved along her jaw, and
then she felt him take her earlobe in his teeth and gently tongue it. A gasp escaped her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Like that?” he asked softly, and repeated the motion.
She bit back the moan rising in her throat and gave a small, jerky nod.
He nibbled on it for a moment longer and then slid his tongue down into the hollow underneath her ear and down her neck, causing shivers to move over her skin. His weight shifted, and she felt his cock press hard against her pussy, then rub up and down against it through her boy shorts. A whimper escaped her throat and she automatically lifted her hips, slipping her panties down and locking her legs around him.
“Like that?” he asked again.
“Just like that,” she breathed, rocking her hips against him. He felt so good, and she hadn’t had sex in so long. Dear God, if casual sex felt this nice, why wasn’t she having it more often?
His hand slid between their bodies, and she felt him tug at her Bahamas T-shirt. “Let’s take this off.”
She nodded, and he pulled it up to her neck. Then she began some creative wiggling to tug it over her head while still lying on the ground. All the while, she felt him slide farther down her body, and then his mouth latched on to her nipple, tonguing it.
Brontë moaned, a jolt of pleasure moving through her at the touch. Her hands went to his shoulders, rubbing, then digging her nails in as he flicked at her nipple with his tongue before moving over to her other breast and beginning to nuzzle it. A hot ache bloomed between her legs, and she moaned again, unable to bite back her pleasure. His mouth was so skilled. She raked her nails across his shoulders, encouraging him.
He sucked hard on her other nipple and then released it with an audible pop. Dazed, she stared down at him in time to see him lightly flick his tongue over the wet tip, then look up at her. “Your breasts are beautiful. I’ve been wanting to play with them all afternoon.” His hand gripped her breast, thumb grazing her nipple even as he leaned over the other one again. “Watching them naked and glistening with water was driving me mad.”
She drove him crazy? He was driving her mad. At his words, she arched underneath him, thrusting her breasts in the air so he could have full access to them, and was not disappointed when he pinched the tip of one at the same time that he licked the other. A bolt of pleasure shot straight to her sex, and her legs tightened around his torso. Her voice was breathy. “Logan.”
“Love it when you say my name,” he murmured, his lips moving against her nipple.
“Oh, Logan,” she moaned when he nibbled at the tip again. “God, you feel so incredibly good.”
“Let’s see,” he murmured, pressing a kiss between her breasts. His hand left her breast and skated down her belly, then lower, to her mound. A hot, thick finger slid between her folds. “Definitely wet.”
She was. She was wetter than she ever remembered being with a man. And she was so turned on that she ached inside, her sex clenching as if she needed something—or someone—buried deep within her. “Oh, God.”
“Logan,” he murmured, and nipped her breast even as he slid that finger in and out of her pussy. “I want you to say my name again while I’m touching you.”
“Logan,” she breathed, the word turning into a whimper when his slick finger moved to her clit and began to rub it. Her hips rocked involuntarily, and she clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into the tattoo on his biceps. His touch felt so amazing that her entire body seemed one big bundle of nerve endings, and they were all connected to the clitoris that he was rubbing and rolling under his fingers. Hot tension began to climb through her body, and she moaned low in her throat, her legs tightening around him. “I—I’m going to—”
“Come.” He made it sound like a command more than a question, and as he spoke, his fingers worked over her clit even faster, circling quickly.
She cried out as her entire body stiffened in her orgasm, then bit her lip to hold back as he continued to rub at her clit in slow, teasing circles that made her orgasm seem to last forever. Her entire body was quivering when she finally came down, and she noticed her nails had made half-moons into his shoulder. “Oh,” she breathed, removing her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
He leaned in and kissed her, hard and possessive. “About what?”
“Y-your shoulder,” she said, bewildered. “I’m hurting you.”
“You’re not hurting me, Brontë,” he said, and kissed her hungrily again, making the flames lick through her belly once more. With his hand, he dragged her arms back around his neck and then flexed his hips, surging forward until his cock rested against her naked pussy, and rubbed there. He was incredibly hard and thick, and she made a low whimper at the feel of him through his boxers. “I want you to keep touching me. I don’t care if you claw up my back.” He tugged at her lower lip with his teeth and then whispered against her mouth, “I like your reactions. They feel real to me.”
Another laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around his neck again. “I’m not very good at faking these things. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Not disappointed,” he said, rocking his hips against hers in a slow, circular motion that made her entire body follow the movement, her legs sliding back around his hips again. “And I know you weren’t faking.”
That masculine smugness in his voice made her curious. “Exactly how do you know that?”
He pressed a thumb to her clit, and she cried out, her nails cutting in to his shoulders again. “Because of that.” He slid a finger lower and circled around her opening, then ever so slowly pushed into her, causing her to gasp in reaction. “And that,” he murmured. “If I had a finger sunk deep inside you when you came, you’d clenched all around me, wouldn’t you? Milk my finger like you would my cock.”
She bit her lip and wiggled her hips a bit, too shy to answer.
“You’re sweet, and you’re smart, and sexy, and so very real, Brontë. That’s what I like about you.” He leaned in and gave her another light kiss, his fingers leaving her pussy, and she nearly cried out with disappointment.
“I like you too, Logan,” she said softly, her hands moving over his arms and chest, caressing his skin. “I want to touch you.”
“I want to fuck you,” he murmured against her mouth, and she gasped at his directness. “I promise I’ll pull out.”
She nodded, and gasped with surprise when his tongue thrust into her mouth, even as he shifted and she felt the head of his cock fit up against the slick opening of her sex.
Logan Hawkings definitely wasn’t one to mince words. He told her what he wanted and went after it. Brontë realized this an instant before he thrust deep, and she whimpered at the sting of unused muscles as he seated himself deep inside her.
He tensed over her. “Virgin?”
She shook her head. “Just been a while, that’s all. Give me a moment.”
He leaned in and kissed her again, his tongue dancing over hers in a way that felt incredibly decadent with his sex buried in her own. When she nudged her hips slightly, he swung his, rocking the two of them in a slow, circular motion that made Brontë instantly aware of every muscle in his body—and hers.
“Oh . . . do that again,” she breathed, holding on to him tightly.
Logan did, repeating the motion and exaggerating it for her benefit. It was a subtle roll of his hips, but he pressed forward and pushed enough that it rocked her body with his, and the slow roll of their hips brushed him against her clit, sending sensations pinging through her. She moaned again, her heels digging into his buttocks, encouraging him.
He was not a man who needed much encouragement. This time, when he thrust, he surged deep inside her, rocking her entire body on the blanket and causing her to cry out with pleasure. She clung to him as he began a hard, steady thrusting, pushing deep and hard inside her with every muscle, every sinew in his body. Her world narrowed down to his hip
s, pushing against hers, the grit of sand on the blanket at her back, the smack of his flesh against hers as he thrust deep again, the bounce of her breasts with every jolt of their bodies. She lost herself in the sensations, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. He was breathing hard over her, every breath a satisfied rasp, as she began to make soft, pleased noises in her throat with each thrust he made.
The elusive orgasmic feeling was rising again, and she focused in on it, moving her hips in time with his to ensure that each thrust was deeper, harder, stronger, and with each push of his cock into her, she got a little closer to coming.
He shifted his weight, adjusting her hips, and with his next thrust, her eyes flew open. That had been . . . different. The almost-but-not-quite orgasm feeling hovering at the edges of her consciousness flared to the forefront, and when his next thrust pushed forward, it happened again. Her pussy clenched around him in response, and he groaned even as he sucked in a breath.
“Wh-what was that?”
Logan’s hands moved to her hips, angling her just so, and then he thrust again. When she keened in response, he grinned down at her, the look wicked and triumphant all at once. “G-spot.”
Oh, God. She didn’t think anyone had ever hit it before. And oh, God, she really liked it. Her nails clawed his back again. “I need more.”
He gave another brutal surge, shoving their bodies across the blankets with his next push, and she cried out as the orgasm danced so close. Her feet left his hips, and she planted them on the ground so she could better lift her hips when he pushed in again, and thrust just as hard against him, her hips working furiously in time with his. That spot was back, and his short, quick pumps were rubbing up against it in the most incredible way that made her entire body arch with pleasure. She was so close and then—
She cried out as the orgasm rushed through her with force. Her sex clenched tight around him, and she heard him utter a muffled curse before he pulled out. She dropped her hips back to the ground as he stroked his cock with his hand, once, twice, and then he was coming on her belly, hot jets of come splashing over her skin.
Stranded with a Billionaire (THE BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB) Page 8