“You’re so beautiful.”
Hardly. I’m wearing faded jeans and a loose striped shirt that keeps falling over one shoulder, and my hair is a tousled mess because it was insanely windy outside earlier. I know I don’t look beautiful, but the way he’s gazing at me…I feel it.
I reach for the bottom of my shirt, then pull it over my head and let it fall to the ground. His nostrils flare when my skimpy bikini-style bra is revealed. Holding his gaze, I bring my hands behind my back and undo the tiny clasp, and then the bra falls away, too.
Logan sucks in a breath. He’s seen my breasts before. He’s seen me naked, actually. But the hunger in his eyes, the glittering admiration…it’s like he’s looking at me for the first time.
I wiggle out of my jeans and panties, and approach him with confidence that startles me. I should be nervous, but I’m not. My hands are steady as I tug his wife-beater off him. God, his bare chest never fails to make me light-headed. It’s sculpted. Masculine. So fucking perfect.
He doesn’t say a word when I ease his sweatpants down. He’s not wearing boxers. His erection juts out, hard and imposing, and when I curl my fingers around it, he makes a desperate noise at the back of his throat.
But he still doesn’t touch me. His arms remain plastered to his sides, and he stands completely motionless. I don’t think he’s even blinking.
“Is there a reason your hands aren’t all over me right now?” I tease.
“I’m trying to go slow,” he says miserably. “If I touch you, I won’t be able to stop, and then I’ll be inside you and—”
I shut him up with a firm kiss, locking my hands at the nape of his neck. “That’s kind of the point. You getting inside me.” Then I nibble on his bottom lip, and just like that, the thread of control he was clinging to snaps like an elastic band.
Growling against my lips, he backs me toward the bed, his strong body pressed tight to mine, his erection trapped between us.
My calves bump the edge of the bedframe, and I tumble backward with a screech, pulling him down with me. We land on the bed with a thud that makes us laugh. The sheets smell like lemon laundry detergent, clean and inviting, and the fragrance, mingled with the heady male scent of him, succeeds in fogging my brain. His body ripples with urgency as he kisses me again. He was right to warn me—he doesn’t stop kissing me, not even to come up for air. Doesn’t stop touching me. Everywhere. He hungrily explores my neck, my breasts, my belly, and then he’s between my legs, his tongue slicking over my clit, hot and greedy.
I used to be so self-conscious when my high school boyfriend did this to me. It was always too intimate, made me feel exposed, but with Logan I’m too consumed with pleasure to care how vulnerable this position makes me.
My hips strain to meet him, aching for more, and he chuckles and gives me the contact I crave. He wraps his lips around my clit and sucks, and if I hadn’t been lying down, I would have keeled right over. Pleasure shoots up my spine and surges through my bloodstream, and when he pushes one long finger inside me, my mind fragments into a million pieces. I come faster than I expect. Faster than he expects, and he groans as I convulse against his face, his tongue and finger working me through the orgasm.
As I crash back to earth, he lifts his head with a soft curse. “I love making you come,” he mumbles. “It’s so fucking hot.” His finger slides out, then in again, and an aftershock of pleasure sizzles through me. “And you’re so fucking wet.”
I whimper when his finger disappears, but the disappointment is replaced with pulsing excitement, because he’s reaching into the top drawer on the night table to grab a condom. Swallowing hard, I watch him roll it down the length of his shaft. Skillfully. God, he’s probably rolled on a million condoms in his lifetime. He’s pretty much a sexpert.
What if I suck at sex?
My heart gallops at a breakneck speed when he lowers his strong body over mine. His lips brush my temple. Softly. Sweetly. “You sure about this?” he whispers.
I gaze up at him, my worries fading away. “Yes.”
His features are taut in concentration as he brings his erection to my opening. He nudges forward, and I tense involuntarily. The intrusion is barely a millimeter deep, but the pressure is intense. His cock is a lot bigger than the one finger he’d just had inside me.
“Are you okay?” His voice is husky, laced with concern.
“Yes,” I say again.
Heat unfurls in my core, and my clit pulses in time to my rapid heartbeat. Logan eases in half an inch, where he meets resistance. It’s a foreign sensation, but not unpleasant. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and the tendons of his neck strain, as if he’s fighting for control.
Anticipation that borders on dread lodges in my chest. It’s probably the worst possible comparison to draw right now, but this reminds me of the first time my mom took me to the salon to get my legs waxed. Lying there while the hot wax was applied to my skin, watching the esthetician grip the corner of the warm strip, anticipating the pain as I waited for her to rip it off.
“I think we need to Band-Aid this,” I blurt out. “Forget slow. Just do it fast.”
He chokes out a laugh. “I don’t want to hurt you.” In fact, he’s stopped moving altogether, his erection neither plunging nor retreating. Just…there.
“What’s the matter, Johnny? Scared?”
Defiance flares in his eyes. “Mocking a guy isn’t gonna get you laid, baby.”
“Stalling isn’t going to, either.” I grin up at him. “Come on, baby. Deflower me.”
Logan keeps one hand on my hip, but lifts the other to my mouth, giving my lower lip a chastising pinch. “Don’t rush me, woman.” His gaze softens as he sweeps it over my face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes—”
That one measly syllable barely leaves my mouth before he plunges deep. I gasp, the jolt of pain taking me by surprise.
He’s all the way inside, and from the tight stretch of his features, I know he’s forcing himself to remain still.
“You with me?” he murmurs.
I nod. The pain is already abating. I tentatively move my hips, and his eyes roll to the top of his head. “Jesus Christ,” he croaks.
God, why isn’t he moving? I feel so completely full, yet oddly empty.
He once again checks in on my mental, emotional and physical state. “How’re you doing?”
I roll my eyes. “Great. How about you?”
“I’m dying here.” Finally, finally, he does something other than lie motionless on top of me. His erection inches out, just slightly, then glides back in.
Pleasure shoots through me. “Oh, do that again.”
“You sure? I’m trying to give you time to adjust.”
“I’m good. I swear.”