Stranded with a Billionaire

chapter Twelve




Logan told Brontë to ask Cooper for the day off on Monday. She asked, with a bemused smile on her face. Cooper was confused about the situation, of course. Since Logan was in the process of buying the coffee shop, and she was dating Logan, did she really have to ask Cooper?

Yes, Brontë informed him. She did.

She got the day off, of course.

When Logan showed up with the limo, she should have been mad at him, but he had such a I-know-I’ve-been-bad smile on his face that she couldn’t get upset. Instead, she eyed the car and then his clothing, noting that despite the expensive wheels, he was dressed down in jeans and a ribbed sweater. “What’s with the limo?”

“We need a ride out to where we’re going today.”

She crossed her arms but couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “We do, huh?”

“We do,” he agreed, and produced a blindfold. “Unless you don’t mind walking the streets blindfolded. This is for you.”

Skeptical, Brontë took the length of fabric from him. “Blindfolded?”

“For our surprise date.” He took it from her and gestured for her to turn around.

Obediently, she turned, biting back her smile. She could feel his fingers moving over the back of her head, and skitters of delight moved through her at even that simple touch. When his hand clasped her arm, she jumped in surprise, gasping.

“Did I startle you?”

“No, I-I’m okay.” Her nipples were hard, though. Embarrassingly so. “How long do I have to wear this?”

“Until we get there,” he told her, and then led her into the limo.

It was impossible to tell how far they were driving—she couldn’t see a clock or see the streets to know where they were headed. Her entire world became the interior of the car and, more precisely, Logan’s large body next to hers in the backseat, his thigh warm next to her own. Her senses were enveloped with his nearness, and just the occasional whiff of his aftershave was driving her wild with need.

When he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, she tilted her head back, hoping he would kiss her. Instead, his thumb lightly traced the contours of her lips. The tender touch sent sensations cascading through her, and Brontë could barely breathe for the ache in her breast . . . and between her legs. God, she needed him. This was torture. Her breasts yearned for his touch, and her entire body felt attuned to him. Without the ability to see, all her other senses seemed to have come alive, and she was on fire with longing.

The car stopped, and Logan shifted next to her.

“Are we there?” Her voice was breathless and husky.

“Not quite,” Logan said. He took her hand in his and led her out of the car. “This is as far as the limo goes, though.”

Brontë tilted her head, wishing she could see his expression. She listened to the sounds around her—lots of people. Outdoors. But where? She wasn’t familiar with the city. “When can I take this off?”

“Now,” he said, and his hands moved to her hair.

He untied the knot, and she caught the blindfold in her hands, tugging it down off of her face, eyes open-wide to interpret what she was seeing.

People everywhere. A park with tall trees, and a large brick wall. Signs stood by the entrance, and she quickly scanned one. One gave ferry rates . . .

“The Statue of Liberty,” she gasped, delighted. Brontë turned back to Logan, unable to contain her smile. “Is that where we’re going?”

“It is.” He looked pleased at her response. “Come on.”

It was the most ridiculously touristy thing they’d done so far, but she loved every moment of it. They rode the ferry across the water to Ellis Island and the museum. Logan held her hand in his as they walked the grounds, their headsets on as they shuffled along listening to the tour. They stopped by the gift shop, and she got a Statue of Liberty T-shirt, postcards, and several pens for her friends back home. Once she’d finished her shopping, they went on to Liberty Island. The Statue was fascinating, and she stared up at it with wide eyes, delighted.

“Do you want a photo?” He asked. “I seem to recall that you wanted your picture taken in front of the Statue of Liberty.”

She nodded, beaming at him. “Want to do one together?”

“Of course.”

They took pictures in front of the Statue, pausing to switch off so they could both have photos on their individual phones. Brontë laughed at the sight of them in one shot. “Your eyes are closed in my picture, Logan. We have to take it again.”

“Let’s change up our pose, then,” he said, and took the phone from her, holding it low so the picture would be an uptilted view.

And he leaned in and very lightly kissed her mouth.

Immediate heat flushed through her body. Brontë clung to him, her hands going to his cheeks and anchoring her mouth against his. She’d wanted this for what felt like forever, and when his lips parted, she took advantage and swept her tongue into his mouth, letting him know her need. He groaned low in his throat at her kiss, and then his tongue was rubbing up against hers. An ache settled low in Brontë’s hips, and she whimpered in response.

Logan slowly pulled away from her lips and grinned down at her. “Let’s hope that photo turned out.”

Dazed, she stared up at him, and reached out to take the phone back. The photo was tilted awkwardly, and the Statue wasn’t even in the picture. “It’s fine,” she murmured, still flushed and tingling.

“It’s not. We need to do it again,” he said, and his hand went around her waist as he took the phone back from her. He angled it up once more, adjusted it, then leaned in and began to kiss her again. The kiss this time didn’t start off delicate. His mouth immediately claimed hers, sending driving desire rocketing through her. Over and over, his mouth slanted over hers, tongue licking at hers in a way that made her knees weak. People were probably watching, and she didn’t care.

She nearly sagged when he released her again, and glanced down at the phone. “Better?” She asked in a wobbly voice, clinging to him.

“My eyes are closed again,” he said, and couldn’t hide the triumphant expression on his face. “We should do it one more time.”

“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose,” Brontë protested, but her words were cut off by the heated kiss he bestowed on her mouth again. And oh, God, desire was hammering staccato notes through her body, and all her nerve endings seemed to be demanding one thing. His body, over hers. In hers. ASAP. All this dating and yearning seemed like one big cruel tease at the moment.

Endless, endless foreplay, she thought, lost in the feel of his mouth against hers. A low moan almost escaped her when he pulled away, but she bit it back. His gaze moved over her face with that same heated look that she was positive was plastered all over her own face. She licked her lips and nearly moaned again, because she could taste him on her skin.

Logan glanced down at her phone, and then handed it to her. “Perfect.”

Dazed, Brontë stared down at the picture. A hot flush crept over her cheeks—in the photo, she was clinging to Logan, the two of them wrapped around each other, the Statue looming in the distance.

She loved that picture.

He leaned in and her breath caught. She stared up at him, hoping for another kiss, but his mouth moved to her ear.

“I want you,” he told her. And he bit her earlobe.

She did moan then, the sound low and full of longing.

“Shall we find someplace private?” he asked her, still nibbling on her ear and making her bones turn to liquid. “Get to know each other a little better . . . all over again?”

“M-my place,” she breathed. “Not yours.”

“That’s fine. Your roommate?”

“Working today,” Brontë told him, and was suddenly wildly thankful that Gretchen had a job of some kind that got her out of the apartment. “All ours.”

“Good,” he told her, and the sound was full of so much satisfaction and promise that she went weak in the knees all over again.

Brontë clung to him on the ferry ride back to Battery Park. His arms were wrapped around her, and she had gone all too easily into his embrace. Waiting to get back to the apartment was a slow, delicious torture, but it gave her time to think . . . and stew in her own thoughts.

He’d taken her out to Liberty Island to see the Statue. Brontë thought of her comment on the plane ride to New York. She’d asked him about seeing the Statue and teased him about how clichéd it was and how she still wanted to do it. Such a small, offhand comment, but he’d remembered it. He’d remembered that she loved sightseeing and had wanted to see the city, and had taken her on a tour of New York City with every date. Even when Logan was deliberate, he was thoughtful.

And he’d completely stolen her heart.

Gretchen had warned her about falling too fast all over again, but this was Logan. Her Logan. Warm and delicious and handsome and thoughtful . . .

And totally loaded. And all wrong for a poor Midwestern waitress.

Well, she wouldn’t worry about that right now. They were heading back to her apartment she shared temporarily with Gretchen, and they were going to make love. Her body thrummed and ached with need for him.

He hadn’t told her he loved her, though.

She wouldn’t tell him she loved him, either. This, she told herself, was just mutual using. Both parties seeking satisfaction. No emotions had to be involved, really. It was just the natural progression of a normal relationship, after all.

It sounded totally convincing in her head.

Truth was, their relationship had never been all that normal. From the moment she’d met Logan until now, it seemed they’d done everything half backward and sideways.

He wasn’t the right guy for her in the long run, she told herself. No billionaire could see himself with a waitress long-term. Those sorts of things were generally pretty incompatible.

But she could enjoy him while she had him. And she would. She would think about the future some other time.

***

Logan rubbed Brontë’s shoulder as she leaned against him in the car. The drive to Gretchen’s apartment was f*cking endless, and his entire body sang with a need to pull Brontë into his lap, tear down her panties, and drive into her.

But he had to be patient. She was calling the shots for now, because she needed to feel comfortable again. That was why they were going all the way across town to Gretchen’s apartment instead of heading to his place on the Upper East Side. Brontë was in control.

At least until he got her naked and squirming under him. Then he was taking control, and he’d make sure she was screaming her pleasure before he even thought about his own.

He nearly swore with relief when the apartment building came into sight. He opened the door, got out, and then held the door for Brontë. He gave the driver a nod, signaling that he wouldn’t need his services for the rest of the evening, and then wrapped his arm around Brontë’s waist again.

She stared up at him with a soft, passion-dazed expression that made his cock hard. “What about your driver?”

“I dismissed him for the night.” He met her gaze, almost daring her to contradict him and send him home with a peck on the cheek—like he’d been doing to her—and a raging hard-on.

He forced himself to be patient as Brontë fumbled with the keys, and then they climbed the stairs of the walk-up. By the time they got to Gretchen’s floor, he was pretty sure he would kill Audrey’s sister if they opened the door and found her standing there. His cock was so hard he ached, and he’d just spent four flights of stairs gazing up at Brontë’s perfect ass as it flexed with every step.

To his relief, the apartment was dark. Brontë flipped on a light when they entered, and a wrinkly gray animal darted across the room, startling Logan. “What was that?”

Brontë seemed amused by his reaction, her laughter chasing away the soft desire in her face. “That’s Igor. He’s a hairless cat.”

He glanced at the animal, which seemed to be all ears and wrinkles. It stared back at him with wide golden eyes. “Hideous.”

“It does take some getting used to,” she agreed with a smile.

“Can you shut him away in Gretchen’s room?”

“I can,” she said, and her voice had gone all breathy again. She bent low and snapped her fingers, and the cat darted over to her. Brontë scooped it up in her arms and disappeared into a side room, returning a moment later and shutting the door behind her. Her cheeks were flushed as if she’d been running . . . or was aroused. The anticipation was getting to her.

Good. Because it was driving him mad. Had been for the past week.

Brontë was gazing up at him, her eyes shining with a look that seemed half expectant, half anxious. Her expression was so full of emotion that it was driving him wild . . . and tormenting him. There was hurt in her eyes—hurt that he’d put there. And a little bit of fear that she might get hurt again.

They needed to move past that moment. And he had an idea of how to do that.

He pulled the blindfold back out of his pocket again and offered it to her. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”

Her eyes widened as she looked down at it, then up at him, realizing what was about to happen. “I . . . Logan . . .”

“You can say no,” he told her. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

She nodded, swallowing, and then her entire face seemed to flush red as she took the blindfold from his hand with trembling fingers and lifted it to her eyes. “Would you tie me?”

An innocent question, but it fired his blood. He moved behind her, taking the ends of the blindfold from her and tying them against the back of her head. She was standing there, stiff and wooden, so he leaned in and whispered huskily in her ear. “Too tight?”

She jumped, her elbow nearly slamming into his jaw. “N-no! It’s fine.” Her hands reached for him. “Just a little unnerving is all.” She turned and grasped his jacket in her hands and then gave it a small tug. “Should we go to my room?”

“I’ll lead the way,” he told her, and swept her into his arms, enjoying the muffled sound of surprise she made and the way she clung to him. Desire surged through him, mixing with triumph. He’d won her back. She was in his arms, and he was going to make love to her and show her that he’d never wavered.

His arms tightened around her possessively. Brontë was his again.

Good.

He pushed open the door to the other bedroom. Brontë’s room. There was a single twin bed in the corner of the room with a plain wrought iron headboard, and a small dresser that held a few mementos from their dates that week. A vase of flowers—flowers that he’d given her—sat in the windowsill. There were no pictures on the walls, and the entire room seemed barely lived in. The realization pleased him—she’d be back with him after tonight. His place felt empty and lonely without her.

Logan gently laid her on the bed and admired her, the curves of her body, the beauty of her face, the way the ends of her hair curled wildly. The way she bit her lip as she anticipated his touch. Carefully, almost reverently, he brushed his fingers down the length of one denim-clad leg and enjoyed seeing her shiver in response. He turned and shut the door to Brontë’s small room, just in case her roommate did show up again, and she jumped at the sound.

“Everything all right?” he asked her.

A nervous giggle was his answer. “I’m fine. Just . . . a little on edge.”

“That’s part of the appeal of having you like this,” Logan murmured. His hands went to one of her shoes and eased it off her foot, and he smiled at the way she wiggled her toes in response. “Watching your response as I touch you. Watching you anticipate my moves. All of it pleases me.”

“And are you hard?” she asked breathlessly.

He took her hand and placed it on his cock. That quick caress had him nearly groaning aloud at her touch. His cock felt like steel and ached with the need to bury itself into her, but he would pace himself.

Her fingers lightly glided along his shaft, exploring and feeling him. She licked her lips, the unconscious move making his cock jerk in her hand. “You’re so hard, Logan. So big in my hand.”

And she was so delicate under his. “Beautiful Brontë,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her lips.

She made a small noise of protest when he kept the kiss brief, automatically reaching for him again and stroking her hands down his cheeks. “I want you.”

“Let me play with you, Brontë. It would give me such pleasure.”

She shuddered at his words and nodded.

“First, I’d like to undress you,” he said in a low, seductive voice, intending to seduce her with words as well as touch. Her hands automatically moved to the waist of her jeans as if to help out, and he caught her hands in his. “Allow me.”

Her hands fluttered at her waist, as if uncertain, and then she dropped them to her sides. “Okay.”

Logan leaned in and pushed her sweater up, exposing an inch of skin above the waist of her jeans. He kissed the skin, enjoying her shiver of pleasure beneath him. “I plan on taking my time exploring you, love. You’re going to be begging for me to take you by the time I’m done with you.”

She sucked in a breath. At her sides, her hands clenched and then flexed, as if she didn’t know where to put them.

“Just relax,” he told her with a small grin, knowing that she’d never be able to.

“Oh, sure,” she said with a small laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

“It is,” he agreed, undoing the button of her jeans and then lowering the zipper with excruciating slowness. His cock throbbed at the sight of the sliver of pale blue satin exposed. His mouth lowered, and he nipped at her skin through the satin, enjoying her small jerk of response. “These are lovely.”

“My panties or my hips?” she teased.

“Both,” he teased back. He tugged the thick fabric of the jeans down her legs, tossing them aside and on the floor when he was done. Her socks went next, each one carefully removed with a light skimming of fingers over her flesh.

Now her sweater. There were no buttons that he could lovingly pull apart. Shame. He slid a hand under the soft fabric, caressing her belly.

She squirmed, ticklish. “Stop that.”

“Stop touching you?” His fingertip dipped into her belly button.

Brontë sucked in a breath, and when his tongue followed the finger, she moaned in response. “Never mind. Keep touching me. I’m obviously delusional.”

“Clearly,” he murmured, swirling his tongue around the edge of her belly button as he pushed her sweater upward. Ah, damn. She’d worn a matching bra. The cups were the same ice blue satin decorated with little black bits of lace around the edges and between her breasts. He’d wanted to see her naked right away, but the sight of her curves cupped in that gorgeous lingerie made him rethink his idea. He’d leave her in it a bit longer, and then strip it off of her later.

But for now, her sweater had to go.

“Hands?” he asked her, sitting upright again.

Her forehead furrowed over the blindfold, and she lifted her hands in the air after a moment’s hesitation. “Like this?”

“Exactly.” He tugged her sweater over her head and arms in a deft move and tossed it aside, pleased at the sight of her beautiful body. “You’re gorgeous. I could look at you all day and never get tired of it.”

A soft smile touched her mouth, and she reached for him, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I could look at you all day, too.”

“Ah, but this is about me pleasing you,” he said, clasping her hands in his. “And you’re not playing fair. No touching.”

She did a mock pout that made him want to lean down and kiss her mouth. Instead, he took her hands and directed them over her head, to the wrought iron headboard’s bars.

“Keep them here,” he instructed her. “I want to play with you a little longer.”

He was pleased to see the little shiver move over her body at the thought. She obeyed him, her breathing quickening with excitement.

Logan skimmed a hand down her leg, caressing the skin. The front of her thigh was smooth and soft, her calves dainty and her ankles elegant. He could indeed spend all day admiring her body. He ran a finger along her skin, tracing a light pattern over her from foot to thigh, noticing how she reacted when he touched her. She jumped when he moved over her thighs, and he repeated the motion, this time skimming the inside of her thigh, and was pleased to see her twitch even more.

“‘Afflicted by love’s madness, all are blind,’” she quoted suddenly.

“Oh?”

“I just . . . it felt appropriate at the moment.”

Logan chuckled. “Very appropriate, except I am enjoying looking at you far too much to claim to be blind.” His fingers played along the lace of her panties. “Plato?” he asked innocently.

Her lips quirked with amusement. “Sextus Propertius, I believe.”

“Intriguing name,” he commented. His fingers grasped her thighs, and he pulled them apart, eliciting a startled gasp from her. “Keep these open for me, Brontë. I want to get my fill of looking at you.”

A whimper escaped her throat, but she did as he’d commanded, her knees falling open, her legs spread wide on the bed. He pushed them apart until they were flat on the mattress , the ice blue panties totally exposed. She was so wet that he could see it seeping through the fabric of her panties, and he palmed his cock in response, groaning. “I see how wet you are, love. Should I taste you?”

A shudder rippled through her, and she moaned, clutching at the iron headboard. He watched with fascination as her thighs quivered, as if desperate to lock together again. He ran a curious finger down the inside of her thigh, starting at her knee and moving toward her sex.

She seemed to shudder with every inch caressed, until her hips were rolling on the bed. “Logan,” she breathed, her head turning back and forth despite the blindfold. “Touch me.”

“Where shall I do it?” He brushed a knuckle over her belly button again. “Here?”

“Lower.”

He went to her knee and caressed it. “Here?”

She moaned in frustration. “You’re a horrible tease.”

“Now, love,” he chided. “If I was a horrible tease, I’d move in and touch you like so.” And he stroked one finger up the damp satin between her legs.

Brontë’s sucked-in breath was audible.

He pushed his finger, nudging at the * under the layers of clothing. “But I’m not finished playing, Brontë. And if I continue to touch you here, you’ll come. And I don’t want that just yet. I’m enjoying teasing you far too much.”

Her hips bucked against his hand, trying to create friction between his fingers and her flesh. Naughty woman. He spanked her sex lightly in reproach, enjoying her startled gasp. “Are you not having fun, love?”

“I’m not sure if this is fun or torture,” she panted. Her body shifted on the bed, about as close to squirming as she could get away with. Her hips wriggled under his hand, still resting atop her sex. He let it remain there a moment, a silent tease, before he removed it.

A small protest escaped her throat.

It died when his knuckles brushed over the tip of one of her breasts. He could tell they were hard and tight through the fabric of the pretty bra. Tight and needing, and probably delectable. Logan’s mouth watered just thinking about how she’d taste in his mouth, and he tugged at the cups of her bra, freeing her breasts. The underwire of the bra pushed her breasts upward, plumping them as if offering them to his lips. And who was he to refuse such an offering? Logan bent forward and took one succulent tip in his mouth.

Brontë moaned.

“Delicious,” he murmured against her skin, rolling the tip of her nipple against his lips. Such a hard little nub. He flicked his tongue against it. He loved her nipples—a dusky rose, slightly tilted. Dark and pretty against all that creamy flesh. He began to tease the other with his fingertips as he tongued the first, flicking and teasing it with his mouth.

Underneath him, Brontë whimpered, her hips undulating again. Her hands clenched the iron headboard tight, as if she needed to hold on to something desperately. “Oh, Logan.”

He kissed her flesh—the tips of each breast, the sweet valley between them, the gentle curves underneath them. She moaned wildly with each caress, her blindfolded head moving back and forth, as if in denial.

And so he paused.

“More,” she demanded, arching her back so her breasts were thrust oh-so-beautifully into his face. “Please, Logan.”

“Not yet, love,” he murmured, kissing one nipple and then sitting up. His cock strained against his pants, so f*cking eager that he could feel pre-come beading on the thick crown. He stood and began to remove his pants, desperate to free his cock.

She whimpered, confused. “Logan? Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, love,” he told her. “Just getting undressed. My cock’s so hard it’s aching and my clothes are too tight.”

A smile curved her lips, and she licked them, which nearly made him come in his pants. “I love your cock.”

“Do you, now?” He stripped off the rest of his clothing, kicking it onto the floor before kneeling back alongside her again. His cock thrust into the air, hard, the head slick.

“Mmm-hmmm,” she said with a small sigh of delight.

He wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking it while looking at her lying in the bed, legs spread for him, panties wet, her breasts thrust up. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were listening for his movements since she couldn’t see him.

Logan moved back over her, leaning in to kiss her mouth. His hand went to her breast, palming it, and he settled between her legs. She responded to his kisses eagerly, her tongue meeting his and rubbing against it with soft mews of desire. He moved down a little, settling his cock against her wet core and thrusting.

She gasped, her hips rocking against his flesh.

“Feel good?” he asked her, thrusting his cock against her sex again. The wet fabric prevented him from pushing deep inside her, a teasing barrier.

“Oh, God, yes,” she moaned. “Logan, I need you so bad. I want you inside me.”

He wanted to be there, too. But he wasn’t done playing. He thrust again, enjoying her moans of response.

When she parted her lips and licked them again, a mental image formed in his mind that made him groan aloud. He had to get up.

She whimpered a protest, turning her head and looking for him.

“I’m here,” he told her, standing by the head of the bed.

He caressed her breasts, plucking at the nipples. Then, he ran a thumb over her lower lip, unable to resist that mental image in his mind. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”

Her entire body seemed to tremble with anticipation, and then she took his thumb in her mouth and bit down lightly. “I trust you.”

“Do you want me?”

“More than anything.”

He grasped the headboard and leaned forward until the head of his cock pressed against her mouth. “Then taste me.”

Her lips parted, and she ran her tongue over the head of his cock, licking up the salty pre-come there. He groaned when her tongue slipped down the shaft, flicking against it. Then she opened her mouth and tilted her head, taking him in deeper. The sight of her lips wrapped around his cock was almost enough to send him over the edge, and he clutched at the headboard, trying to keep control. “Brontë,” he groaned. “Ah, God, your mouth.”

Her tongue licked against the underside of his cock, running along the thick vein there. So trusting and loving. So incredibly erotic.

She sucked, trying to take him deeper, but he pulled out of her mouth. It was too much pleasure too fast, and it would be over with far too quickly if he let her continue.

He wanted her to come first. Logan moved a step back from the bed, eyeing her all spread out and delicious. “Are you enjoying yourself, love?”

She nodded, biting her lip. Her hips lifted a little, as if unable to stay down. “More, Logan. I need you.”

“I know,” he told her. “I’m going to give you more. But I need you on your hands and knees.”

Her little gasp was followed by a low moan, and she obediently turned over, moving to her knees and then leaning forward to rest on her elbows. The position pushed her pretty ass high into the air.

Logan ran his hand all over her exposed skin—her thighs, her calves, the small of her back, along her spine. It was a pleasure simply to touch her. She seemed to be enjoying it as well, her little breathy sighs of pleasure almost as enticing as touching her. His fingertips snagged on the waistband of her panties, and he tugged them down her thighs, exposing her wet, gleaming flesh.

Brontë moaned again, her fingers curling into the blankets on the bed, anticipation making her entire body tense.

Well, now. He had to reward that. Logan brushed his fingertips over the slick lips of her sex, then parted them, stroking up and down.

She jerked in surprise, and then a whimper escaped her when he circled the slick opening to her core. She rolled her hips, forcing his fingers to dip in, just a little. “Logan,” she breathed. “I need you so badly.”

He moved down to her *oris, rubbing it between two of his slick fingers and stimulating it. Brontë jerked again, her hips flexing, and her gasps became rapid and wild, as if she were unable to control herself. She worked her hips against his hand, and he continued to rub her *, then pushed his thumb into her core.

She went wild, writhing against his hand and moaning his name as he continued to work her. He could feel her p-ssy shuddering with each shallow thrust, and he pushed the pad of his thumb forward, increasing the friction even as he continued the measured, steady rubbing of her *oris. “Logan,” she cried. “Oh, please! I—”

Her entire body clenched under him, muscles quivering, and she made a soft, keening sound. Her p-ssy clenched around his thumb, milking it with the force of her orgasm. He continued to rub, wanting to prolong the pleasure for her, and she continued to make that low keening noise that made his cock throb with wanting her.

The orgasm seemed to go on forever, but then Brontë gave one final shudder and sagged against the blankets, resting her cheek against them. Her legs were sprawled, her sex gleaming wet from her pleasure. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Logan.”

He licked his fingers, tasting her pleasure on his skin. “Beautiful.”

A soft, sated smile curved under the blindfold, and it made his cock jump with need. “Condoms?”

She stilled, reaching for the blindfold. “Oh . . . I don’t think I have any . . . I don’t—” He spanked her ass lightly, and her hand flew away from the blindfold. “Pill. I’m on the pill.”

“Right. Good.” He was pleased to see that her hand had slipped between her thighs and she was playing with her flesh, lightly rubbing along her *. She bit her lip as he waited, watching her. She let her hand slide away.

“No,” he told her. “Keep touching yourself. I like seeing that.”

He could see the hot blush stealing over her cheeks under the blindfold, but her hand returned between her legs and began to move slowly again. He watched her, fascinated by the sight of her pleasing herself. His cock jerked with need again.

Logan moved behind her on the bed, moving between her spread legs. Her ass was so beautiful, perched in the air, that he couldn’t resist running his hands over it again. “Are you still touching yourself?”

She sucked in an excited breath and nodded, as if unable to trust her voice.

He thrust into her in one swift move, hands gripping her hips. She jerked in surprise, a choked moan escaping her. He stilled immediately, worried that she’d been too surprised and he’d somehow hurt her. “Brontë?”

“Move,” she moaned, her hips bucking up against him. “Oh, God, move.”

He groaned in response to that, thrusting hard again. He’d wanted to be so controlled in his movements, slowly driving her back up the peak of desire, but it seemed that, sheathed deep in her warmth, he’d lost all control. His thrusts were rough and wild, his hands gripping her hips to anchor her back against him. And she was out of control, too, pushing back against him to add force to his thrusts, a low scream building in her throat.

“Keep touching yourself,” he demanded, his voice ragged as he continued to pump into her.

Her only response was another muffled scream, and he felt her p-ssy clench all around him. Logan uttered a curse, trying to retain control, trying to keep his rhythm, to make this as good for her as possible. Make it last until she was mindless with pleasure. Show her how much he f*cking loved her and her body.

She made a soft sound that was almost like a sob, and then she spasmed around his cock, sucking him tight as she began to come again, her body trembling all over with the force of her passion.

He lost control. Thrusting hard into her again, he groaned her name and went over the edge, his own orgasm exploding from his body with a fierce intensity that shocked him. It seemed to go on forever, coming hard and fierce, until it left him as breathless and wrung out as the woman beneath him.

Logan pulled out of Brontë, ignoring her small noise of protest, and rolled the condom off, tossing it into a nearby trash can. When he turned around, she was sitting up in bed, her hands pulling at the blindfold. He moved toward her, gently undoing the knot at the back of her head and then leaning in to kiss her when she smiled up at him.

“I love you,” he told her, his voice gruff. “I mean that.”

Her smile faltered a little. “Thank you.”

She didn’t say it back. For a moment he was surprised, and then angry. And then he chuckled at himself. So this was how she’d felt when she’d confessed and he’d ignored her. Fair enough. It was a good lesson for him to learn. “You don’t trust me yet.” It wasn’t a question.

She bit her lip, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just really . . . I just—”

“Don’t apologize. You can’t help the way you feel. Just know that I do love you, and I’ll prove it to you somehow.” Logan sat down on the edge of the small bed and grabbed the blankets. “You’d better move over if you want to get any sleep tonight.”

Brontë gave a small squeal and shifted on the bed, elbowing him by accident as they tried to make all of their limbs fit in the twin bed. “We both won’t fit,” she protested.

“We will,” he said with determination, and pulled her hips against him until their bodies were flush. The fit was tight but pleasant, and it allowed him free rein to nibble on her ear.

She was already drifting to sleep, though, her eyes drooping with exhaustion, and so he watched her doze off, his mind whirling with thoughts. One particular quotation that he’d read in another of her books came to mind, though. To test whether she was awake, he leaned in and whispered something sure to get a response.

“Veni, vidi, vici.” I came, I saw, I conquered.

“I heard that,” she muttered sleepily, but she smiled and patted him on the arm.

He decided to keep the other to himself. “Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.”

It seemed that loving Brontë brought out the philosopher in him as well.