His words stunned her into silence. He was describing the perfect wife, the ideal, nurturing partner she’d tried to be. As liberated as she thought she was, she’d never associated that kind of emotional sustenance with a husband’s role.
Not that she was an expert on husbands’ and wives’ roles. Her early exposure to the institution of marriage had presented a distorted picture at best. She’d been raised in a broken home, presided over by a cold, authoritarian father who’d ruthlessly separated his infant daughters from the mother they’d needed.
The truth was, Logan did know her better than either her father or her husband had. Hadn’t she just marveled at how attuned he was to her emotions? Logan saw inside her…and, incredibly, he liked what he saw. He believed in her goodness.
His quiet voice broke into her thoughts. “Answer me, Zara. Did Tony really know you?”
“No.” The admission was as liberating as it was depressing. “No, he never knew me.”
“And neither did your father. And all those spiteful things they said about you…?”
She laughed. This sweet, stubborn man actually had her laughing! “A vicious crock of lies.”
“There! I knew you’d figure it out.”
“Yeah, perceptive little ole me.”
She sensed his smile even before she lifted her fingers to explore his face as he’d explored hers earlier. She felt the fan of crinkles at the corner of his eye, the furrows bracketing his mouth. His lips responded to her touch, closing gently over a fingertip.
The dark magnified everything: the feel of his lips, supple and greedy, drawing her finger into his hot mouth; the tantalizing scrape of sharp teeth, in startling contrast to the velvet stroke of his strong, lively tongue; the rhythmic suction that urged her to respond.
She gave in to his silent command and moved her finger to the cadence he set. Such a simple act, yet so blatantly sexual.
Her soft moan triggered an immediate response. He jerked her hand away and hauled her close, his mouth finding hers with unerring precision in the dark. He kissed her urgently, hungrily, holding her tight, squeezing the air from her lungs. But she didn’t need air, she only needed this voracious mouth, this silky tongue stabbing deep and hard until her very insides clutched at the hot, stroking length of it.
At last he broke off, panting. “Zara…what you do to me…” She lay clinging to him, trembling, struggling to make her brain function. Still holding her, he dropped his head to the pillow, clearly fighting for control. “I guess a cold shower is in order.”
He let his words hang there as silence stretched between them. She knew what he was waiting for. It was her call. She’d have to make the next move. He wouldn’t push her. She wanted him so badly it hurt, yet with each passing second, her courage slipped a notch.
Both her father and her husband had found her sadly lacking. Yet here was this remarkable man who saw qualities in her they never had, qualities she herself hadn’t known were there. The prospect of disappointing him terrified her. She lay still and mute, paralyzed by her cowardice and the old insecurities.
After a minute he started to ease away from her. She stopped him with a light touch. And swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He sat still, waiting. When she said nothing more he slid an arm around her and urged her to lie with him again, curled against his side.
He said quietly, “I want you. to know, I can be very gentle.”
The simple declaration, obviously meant to calm her, instead sent her pulse into overdrive. But why? Gentle certainly had no place in the fantasy her unruly imagination had concocted these last few days, a fantasy featuring Logan Byrne as the energetic, inventive lover instinct told her he was. He’d already demonstrated his sexually assertive nature, and she’d be lying if she claimed it didn’t excite her. That excitement was due in part to the fact that she felt safe with Logan; she knew he’d never cross the line into unwanted aggression.
Yet somehow, she found his soft-spoken reassurance just as exciting. This vigorous, virile man was ready to rein in his natural impulses by sheer force of will, summoning all his tenderness and patience for her sake. Not the seduction she’d fantasized, but potent stuff in its own right.
His hand glided across her shoulder to the collar of her soft rayon blouse, half of a calf-length two-piece dress. His movements were so leisurely she didn’t notice he was working the buttons free until she felt cool air whisper between her breasts. Her breath caught.
“Do you want me to stop?” His tone was so casual he could have been talking about the weather. She didn’t answer. He started rebuttoning her blouse.
“No!” she rasped.
His nimble fingers returned to their task. She lay on her side, perfectly still, feeling her heartbeat quicken with every button he released. When he reached the waistband of her skirt, he tugged out the tails of the blouse.
With maddening nonchalance he flicked the fabric aside and ran his hand lightly over her breasts, cleavaged to the max by her side-lounging position. He ran a fingertip along the lace of her bra. “What color is this?”
Her voice was hoarse. “Red. You packed it.”
“Oh yeah, I did. I like red.”
He eased first one arm out of the blouse, then the other. He unclasped her bra and drew it off her, his attitude composed, almost indifferent.
“Logan…?” She hadn’t said yes yet, didn’t know if she could. What was he doing?
“Stay here.”
She felt the mattress dip as he rose and crossed the room. The bathroom light flicked on. After a few moments his large form reappeared, silhouetted in the bathroom doorway. He kicked off his sneakers before joining her on the bed once more. He sat crosslegged, and in the meager light washing in from the bathroom she saw him uncap a tiny plastic bottle—one of the toiletry samples left for motel guests.
He held the open bottle under her nose. “Lotion.”
She sniffed the light floral scent.
“You’re very tense,” he said, pushing on her shoulder, urging her onto her stomach. “When was the last time you had a back rub?” He lifted her arms from her sides, and she folded them under her head.
“When I could still afford it, before the divorce.”
“A back rub’s like sex—not the same if you have to pay for it.”
He levered himself over her with pure masculine grace to straddle her buttocks. He kept his weight off her, but still she was acutely aware of his heat, where his sinewy, denim-clad thighs touched her hips.
He placed the bottle on the night table, and she heard a wet sound as he warmed some of the lotion in his hands.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re stiff as a board.”
She took a deep breath and willed the tension from her body. Nevertheless, his first touch made her jump.
His warm, slick hands glided over her skin. Splayed, they felt huge, practically covering her entire back. He pushed them from her waist slowly up to her shoulders. A little sigh escaped her. Her elderly Austrian masseuse had never had hands like these.
His long, strong fingers kneaded the tight muscles at the base of her neck, turning them to jelly before. moving on to her shoulders.
She moaned, feeling herself begin to relax. “Mmm, you are good at this.”
“I’m good at everything I do, Zara.”
She smirked at the not-so-subtle implication. His thumbs worked their way up her spine, molding the flesh on either side of it. He worked methodically, isolating muscle groups, pressing and stroking until she lay limp as a rag.
He warmed more lotion and worked on her sides, starting at her waist and moving upward. When he reached the sides of her breasts, pressed against the quilted bedspread, he didn’t hesitate but massaged them, too, while his thumbs rubbed her shoulder blades. Feeling ridiculously tranquil, she basked in the pampering ministrations of those long, slippery fingers—and in the faint hum of awareness resonating from somewhere deep with
in her.
At some point her sluggish mind registered the subtle change as pure relaxation gave way to a sensual lethargy.
He finished with light, sweeping strokes of her back. “Turn over.”
She roused herself to obey, peering up at him through half-open lids as he once again lifted her arms over her head. His dark hair lay loose around his shoulders. His eyes were unreadable in the dim light, but held an underlying intensity that raised her listless pulse just a fraction.
He palmed more lotion and began at her waist, smoothing his hands over her abdomen, stroking outward, applying just the right amount of pressure. She watched him, watched the muscles of his shoulders bunch and relax under the black polo shirt. Maintaining the same indolent pace, he worked on her rib cage. His hands skated up her sides to her shoulders and upper arms, giving each area special attention.
He moved on to her chest, kneading those muscles, lifting and massaging her breasts as he did so. His expression never changed.
That hum of awareness within her rose in pitch and volume. She wondered vaguely if he could hear it, feel it. His hands glided outward across her chest, and she felt her peaked nipples scrape his palms. Her eyes closed on a faint whimper. They slowly drifted open and she saw him watching her face, studying her.
He swept his hands down her torso and up again, gave her shoulders one last firm stroke and sat back on his heels.
“Better?” he asked, swinging his leg over her, dismounting.
Her response was an inarticulate grunt. Yes. No. Don’t stop.
She knew she should be embarrassed by her obvious arousal—the stiff peaks of her breasts, the flush that warmed her face and chest—but she was too re- laxed to care. And somehow she knew that with this man, she had nothing to feel embarrassed about.
For the first time in years, she welcomed the yearning, luxuriated in the little signs heralding the excitement building within her. For the first time in years, she took joy in her rising passion.
He settled on his side, propped on an elbow. “I don’t have to stop. I think there are still a few pockets of tension left.” He slid a hand up one stocking-clad shin and under the hem of her long, loose skirt. She felt it glide upward between her thighs, and gasped as his hot fingers met the bare skin above the tops of her stockings. It was too intense. She quivered like a bowstring, pressing her legs together.
“See?” he said, letting his hand linger there, a hairbreadth from the seat of her desire. “You’re still tense.”
She managed to croak, “You’re a very wicked man.”
He looked devastatingly handsome with that arrogant grin and those sparking golden eyes. “Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.” He moved his fingers, stroking the sensitive insides of her thighs. “How do you propose to make it up to me?”
She chuckled. “Very, very wicked…”
His fingers slid upward a fraction to skim the silk of her panties. The sharp buzz of sensation there, right there, galvanized her, lifting her hips off the bed. Automatically she started to reach for his wrist, then dropped her hand.
No. She didn’t want to stop him. She knew that now.
He smiled gently. He saw it all, she could tell: her internal struggle, her implicit answer.
Yes.
He gave her thigh a little squeeze and withdrew his hand. “Where does this open?” He searched the waistband and found the side button. Within seconds she lay there in only her red satin thong panties, matching garter belt and sheer black stockings.
“I’ve fantasized about seeing you in these things for too damn long.” Taking her hand, he wordlessly invited her to stand up and model for him.
She willingly did so, reveling in the look in his eyes, in the knowledge that she was desired, in her ability to strip away this man’s civilized veneer and expose the snorting, pawing, howling beast within.
He said, “Turn around.”
She did—and wished she could still see his expression, knowing what he was looking at: her bare back and nearly bare bottom, its very nakedness enhanced by the slim thong and the garter straps hooked to her stockings.
As she stood there for what seemed an eternity, she began to comprehend what all the fuss was about, why Logan had assumed her lingerie collection had been purchased by a man. She’d never felt more alluring.
He touched her bottom and she drew in a sharp breath. Her muscles jumped under his lightly stroking fingers. He moved on to her hips, her back.
His breath was hot on her neck as his hands came around to cover her breasts. “Have I ever told you how very beautiful you are?”
“I—I think you have.”
“Well, I can’t say it enough. You have an effect on me that’s practically illegal.” He turned her and pulled her into his arms, and she felt the illegal effect immediately, prodding her belly through his jeans.
He tipped her head back and took her mouth with all the eagerness and impatience she herself felt. He nibbled her lips, sucked on them, tasted them thoroughly before deepening the kiss.
She shuddered as his tongue slid past her lips. He held her tighter, crushing her breasts against his shirt. Before Logan, she had never appreciated this kind of kiss, but now she understood what that fuss, too, was about. She couldn’t restrain herself and didn’t try.
He groaned as she responded in kind, timidly at first. The tip of her tongue touched smooth, even teeth. It flicked over the pointed crest of a canine, and she shivered at the feral images that came to mind. His tongue engaged hers in a primitive mating, until they had to break off for air. He pressed fast, moist, dizzying kisses to her face, to her cheeks and eyelids and temples. If he hadn’t been holding her, her legs would have buckled.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” he said. “What do you like?”
She experienced a flash of panic, feeling woefully unsophisticated, a fraud. “I—I don’t know.” When had it ever mattered what she liked?
“I know your breasts are very sensitive. Do you like this?” he murmured, caressing her with feathery, teasing strokes. He ran his thumb around the peak of one breast, watching it tighten further. A desperate little sigh escaped her. “I think that was a yes.”
He leaned down. His humid breath curled over her breasts as he murmured, “And this?” He placed a soft kiss on one aching tip. Her knees wobbled.
“Logan…” she groaned.
“Do you like it?” he persisted.
“Yes. Yes!”
He sucked the nipple deep into his mouth, and her legs gave out. Scooping her into his arms, he deposited her diagonally across the bed. She writhed as he suckled and caressed her, holding fast to him, tangling her fingers in his long hair.
He seized her mouth in a hard, savage kiss as he parted her legs and fitted himself against her. She grasped his buttocks and arched into him, the pressure of his arousal tantalizing, maddening. If not for the barrier of their clothing, he’d be inside her.
And every nerve, every quivering synapse, screamed for him to be inside her.
Abruptly he lunged across her and upended his duffel on the other bed. He found the string of condoms, tossed them on the night table and yanked off his shirt.
Zara found his stampeding urgency immensely arousing. Kneeling on the bed, she reached for his belt buckle and slid leather through brass with trembling fingers. She dragged open his bulging zipper and closed her hand over his penis through his briefs. He twitched and pulsed under her fingers.
His harsh sigh sounded almost pained. He stood very still, muscles tensed. She began to tug his jeans over his hips, but he lost patience with her slow progress and commandeered the job. In seconds he was nude.
The urge to touch him was overpowering. She ran her hands over his corrugated belly and the lean, hard muscles of his hips and thighs. His heavy erection nodded from its thicket of dark hair.
She felt raw, remade, as if her hurtful past had been wiped clean and she were discovering her womanhood—her birthright—for the very first time.
Tears of joy stung her eyes. She pressed a tender kiss to Logan’s chest. He cradled her head in those huge, capable hands.
“Zara?” Frowning, he lifted her chin. “Are you crying? Did I upset—”
“No. No, I’m…happy.”
His expression softened. He brushed his thumb across her mouth. “There hasn’t been anyone since Tony, has there?”
“No.”
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. You can stop me at any time.” He offered a lopsided smile. “It’ll kill me, but you can do it.”
“I know that.”
He leaned down and kissed her, almost chastely. Hooking his fingers in her panties, he tugged them halfway down her thighs, until her garter hooks got in the way. He scowled at this unforeseen dilemma, clearly unaccustomed to old-fashioned stockings.
Before she could unhook her garters, the professional problem solver reached for his jeans and extracted a small penknife from a pocket. He flipped it open. “Hold still.”
She watched wide-eyed as he slit the sides of her panties, folded the knife and tossed it and her ruined thong on the pile of clothing.
“I’ll buy you another one.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said breathlessly as he gently pushed her onto her back. Her legs hung over the side of the bed, and he knelt on the carpet between them. Her heart thumped in anticipation.
He skimmed his hands up her thighs and brushed his thumbs through the dark tangle of hair. She wondered, could he see it, her body’s hungry, grasping response? Exerting subtle pressure, he parted her, opened her to his avid gaze.
She clutched the bedspread in white-knuckled fists, her hips rocking of their own accord, imploringly When his mouth touched her there she screamed. With his fingers and lips and strong, lithe tongue he quickly brought her to the razor’s edge of release and held her there, teasing, backing off, teasing again.
She thrashed beneath him, sobbing her pleasure, unencumbered by pride or modesty, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of sharing herself with this man.
He broke away to tear a packet off the string of condoms. A heartbeat later he was kneeling before her once more, pulling her closer and holding her legs wide. His eyes held her spellbound, never straying from hers, as he filled her in one slow, deep thrust, a leisurely penetration she felt in every cell of her body.
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