Stranded with a Billionaire

chapter Four




Logan awoke with a raging hard-on and with Brontë’s tangled hair across his chest. Her legs were twined with his, and she made soft little noises in her throat as she slept. It would have been so easy to roll her over and show her just how sexy and desirable he found her. To kiss her and persuade her into doing what he wanted.

But he remembered her nervous laugh when he’d told her she was beautiful, and he paused. Was she just humoring him? Maybe Brontë didn’t appreciate the attentions of a manager after all. Damn it. His cock was just going to have to wait.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, willing his body to relax. It took a few minutes before he was back under control. It was time for them to get up and face the day. They’d slept long enough, and lying in bed next to her made him want to do things that didn’t involve sleeping. He gently shook Brontë. “Wake up.”

She jerked away, her hair falling in her face as she bolted upright. “Huh? What?”

“Calm down,” he told her. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Brontë rubbed a hand over her eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”

“My phone’s dead. Water must have gotten into it.”

She folded her legs under her and pulled out her phone. It lit up for a minute, highlighting her face in the darkness, and then winked out. “Damn it. There goes my battery. It said it’s eleven a.m., though.”

“We should head down to the kitchens and grab lunch, then.”

They headed down to a quick meal of fresh fruit left on the countertop and some wrapped crackers. It wasn’t glamorous, but the fridge was starting to smell and even the interior of the freezer was getting too close to room temperature for comfort. Neither of them wanted to risk getting sick from bad food.

Brontë suggested they check the store for any other food items, and then they headed back in that direction since there was nothing else to do with the day. As they walked,though, Brontë stopped in her tracks and stared out through the broken glass of the lobby windows.

Logan followed her gaze. The sun was shining; the sky was blue. A breeze rippled into the building.

“This is the first day it hasn’t rained since I got here,” Brontë exclaimed, moving forward. Her aqua shoes crunched on the broken glass at their feet, and he noticed that the standing water in the lobby had receded, too. She peered outside and then looked back at him. “Should we check out the beach?”

He shrugged. He’d just as soon go back to the stairwell and wait for rescue, but she seemed to want to explore. “If you like.”

Her face brightened. “I would. Do you think the beach is trashed, too?”

“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?” And he stepped forward through the broken glass, gesturing for her to follow him.

She did, and they made their way out into the front of the resort, squinting at the bright sun after days of low light. He studied Brontë as she picked her way across the sand-covered sidewalk toward him. In daylight, she was even more beautiful—not in a traditional way. Her hair was wild with tangles and blew around her head like a messy halo, and her face was round, without the well-defined cheekbones of the models he normally dated. But her eyes were sparkling and her skin was lovely and she smiled up at the sunlight as if it were the best thing ever, and he thought she was stunning.

“It really did a number on this place, didn’t it?” She raised a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun and glanced back at the resort. More than half of the windows were blown out, and it looked like one wing of the building had collapsed. He didn’t want to think about how much that would cost in repairs. Palm trees that had lined the driveway had been uprooted and fallen over. One had toppled into one of the windows on the second floor. A car lay on its side in the distance, and junk from inside the hotel was strewn across the lawn. A fine layer of sand covered the concrete, gritty under their shoes.

“Come on,” he told Brontë. “Let’s see what the beach looks like.”

They crested a dune, and there was the ocean spread out before them. Rippling and blue and endless, the thin white line of the beach the only thing separating them from it. Birds flew overhead. There was driftwood everywhere, floating in the water, lining the edge of the surf, and piled up on the sand, but nothing could ruin the sight of that beautiful blue water.

At his side, Brontë gasped, her hand going to his upper arm. “It’s gorgeous.”

It was, though the same could’ve been said for his companion. He enjoyed her unbridled enthusiasm, too. They slid down the dune and moved toward the lapping waves. At his side, Brontë sighed wistfully.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking that it figures that we have nice beach weather after my vacation has already been ruined. I would have loved to spend a few days just enjoying the sun and sand.”

He waved a hand at the empty beach. “What’s stopping you?”

Her face lit up, then fell again. “Shouldn’t we be working on making shelter or some other survival sorts of things?”

“We have food. We have shelter. All we need to do is wait to be rescued. If it’ll make you feel better, we can make an SOS on the sand.”

She stepped forward into the surf, letting it wash over her ankles, and her eyes closed in pure bliss. She tilted her head back, letting her tangled hair whip in the breeze.

He didn’t feel the same urge to step into the surf that she did, but his gaze followed her intently as she soaked up the sunshine and enjoyed the water.

Her eyes opened after a minute. “Should we go back and get swimsuits?”

“Why?”

Brontë grinned at him. “To swim?”

Logan picked up a piece of driftwood heading in her direction and tossed it away. He didn’t see the point in going back to the hotel just for a change of clothing. “There’s no one here but me, Brontë.”

She bit her lip, studying him for a moment. “You’re right.” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for courage, and then pulled off her bra. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”

Damn. He’d just been suggesting that she could swim in her underwear, not that they should skinny-dip. Of course, now that she was taking the initiative, would he correct her on that?

Hell, no. Carpe diem, he told himself, and then grinned. Brontë would have approved of the thought.

***

This was the bravest, stupidest thing Brontë had ever done. She tossed her bra onto the sand, her heart pounding in her breast, and didn’t look at Logan as she shucked her panties and kicked off her water shoes. Instead, she concentrated on the water, as if standing naked on the beach were something she did every single flipping day.

The truth was, this was an experiment. And it would either go really well or really badly.

But she’d seen him looking at her. And he wasn’t giving her the looks that an uninterested man would give her. The looks he gave her were hot, scorching with interest. As if he were waiting for something to happen before making his move. What that would be, she had no idea.

And she was getting tired of waiting for him. After he’d caressed her lip the night before as they ate, she’d been unable to think about anything but kissing Logan. Sleeping with Logan. Sharing this remote, tropical paradise with Logan and having no one around but the two of them. Granted, a building destroyed by a hurricane wasn’t the most romantic setting, but Logan was gorgeous and attentive, and it had been a while since she’d been seeing anyone seriously, so why not grab the bull by the horns?

Standing on the beach, totally naked, she put her hands on her hips and tried to look at this in a positive way. Even if he thought she was a crazy woman, the sun felt warm on her skin, and she was going to enjoy the ocean for today at least. She headed into the surf up to her knees and reached down for a handful of water. It felt colder than she’d thought it would be, and she shivered a little, rubbing her arms.

Something splashed past her. Brontë froze in place, then glanced over just in time to see a pair of white buttocks disappear into the water as Logan made a shallow dive into the surf in a short distance away.

Damn it! He’d been naked, and she’d missed it? She resisted the urge to slap the water in frustration, moving deeper and then sinking into the water to cover her own nudity. He’d accepted her challenge, though. That was a good thing, though she had no idea what to do now that he had. Flirting really should not be this hard, Brontë, she told herself.

Logan surfaced a short distance away, flung his wet hair back, and then stood in the water. She noticed the surf went only to his waist. Correction—more like his hips. Low, low on his hips, his privates barely covered by the ripples of the waves.

Her cheeks heated as she couldn’t help but look over at him. Okay, the man definitely had a good body. He was toned and fit all over, his body slightly tanned as if he enjoyed the sun, but not too much. There was a tattoo of something on his biceps that she couldn’t make out from this distance. He didn’t seem like the type to get inked. He was a serious, almost stern sort of man, not a party boy who would get a tat when he was out with his buddies.

Intriguing. That didn’t fit the picture she had in her mind of Logan Hawkings, responsible manager. He’d seemed a little stuffier in her mind, but that tattoo added a new angle. She wasn’t quite sure who he was, and she liked that.

Brontë moved out a bit farther in the water, feeling extremely exposed without even a swimsuit on. The water brushed against her skin with gentle, silky caresses, and the sunlight touched her everywhere. It was a unique experience, this skinny-dipping thing. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it, though she’d gotten to see Logan’s ass, so that was a plus.

His gaze swung to her, and he began to move slowly toward her through the water. Brontë forced herself to hold her ground, instead of shying away like a nervous virgin. “Well, you’re definitely not a man who can resist a challenge,” she told him.

Logan grinned in her direction, and she sucked in a breath. The man was sexy when he was stern, but when he smiled? God. She could have sworn her girl parts had just given a squeal of delight in response.

He didn’t stop until he was right next to her. It was still only waist-deep, and if she stayed crouched down, she’d be more or less at eye level with his cock. Not exactly a power position. Of course, standing meant she’d show him her breasts, but hadn’t he already seen them when she’d stripped down on the beach?

Brontë steeled her courage and got to her feet, water cascading off of her body. She gave him a challenging look as if daring him to say something.

But he didn’t. He only stepped closer, his somber gaze intent on her face. He reached out to her, cupped the side of her neck, and she felt him subtly draw her toward him. She was helpless to pull away, fascinated by those dark eyes, and when the tips of her breasts brushed against his bare, wet chest, she gasped.

“For what it’s worth,” he said in a low, husky voice, “My suggestion was going to be that we swim in our underwear.”

“Oh,” she said weakly, her gaze dropping to the mouth that was mere inches away from her own. “I wasn’t sure—”

His mouth lowered on hers. She hadn’t expected to be kissed with such blatant intensity. He pulled her against him, his wet flesh brushing against hers, and she felt the long heat of his cock against her belly even as they kissed, letting her know exactly what he thought of the situation. Logan’s mouth was firm against her own, and he tasted sweet, like fruit. His tongue flicked against the seam of her mouth, urging her to open for him, and she was helpless to resist.

A low mew escaped her when his tongue plunged into her mouth, turning the kiss from an exploration into decadent conquering. It stroked against her own, confident, assertive, and bold.

Each thrust of his tongue told her what he’d be like in a relationship, in bed. He’d take control of her body and make her hum with desire. If she encouraged him even a little, he’d rise to the occasion. He wasn’t the type that would take no for an answer.

And she really didn’t want to say no at the moment.

He tasted so good. Even more than that, he felt good against her, sun-warmed and wet and hard. The waves caressed at their waists while Logan continued to kiss her as if nothing else in the world mattered, and her toes curled in response, desire surging deep inside her.

All he’d done was kiss her, but she felt keenly aware of every bit of his skin pressing against her own: her nipples brushing against the fine hairs of his chest, the press of his cock at her belly, his fingers on her neck as he held her close, his thumb stroking her jaw. His lips caressing her own. His tongue thrusting wickedly, as if suggesting much more than just a kiss.

After what seemed like an eternity, Logan pulled away, and Brontë staggered, her knees suddenly weak and useless. His hand went to her elbow to steady her, and he pulled her body against his.

She gazed down at his biceps, at the mysterious tattoo. It was . . . well, it was rather hideous. The circular blob turned out to be a skull with a twisted two-dollar bill sticking out of the eye sockets. That was not what she’d expected to see on someone like Logan.

He leaned in for one more soft kiss, his tongue grazing her lips and distracting her from her study of his tattoo. “Was that what you wanted?”

That was a rather arrogant question. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her mind. “I wasn’t sure what I wanted until just now, actually.”

“And now?”

“Now I think I’m rather glad we’re alone on the beach,” she told him breathlessly.

He grinned, his expression confident and self-assured, and leaned in for another kiss.

Just then, a wave rose up. It slapped the two of them sideways, splashing them in the face and covering them with tendrils of seaweed.

They sputtered, breaking apart, and Brontë was hit with a fit of giggles as Logan pulled a handful of seaweed off his shoulder and flung it away from him in disgust. Logan looked over at her with a sour expression. “More nervous laughter?”

“No, this time I’m totally laughing at you,” she said, and yelped when he leapt to dunk her.

The spell was broken, and they started splashing each other and riding the waves, or simply floating in the water. It was nice to just play and relax, and even when she dunked Logan, it didn’t turn sexual again.

It was as if a question had been answered, and now Logan was content to wait for the right moment. Which made her feel a bit like prey being stalked by a predator. A very masculine, sexy predator that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to escape. She rather liked being his prey, and what did that say about her?

***

For the first time since going on vacation, Brontë spent a day in the sun and enjoyed every moment of it. She played in the waves, lay out on the sand, hunted for seashells, and laughed her ass off when Logan built the sorriest looking sand castle ever. They played like children all afternoon, right down to making sand angels and wrestling in the water.

Once out of the water, Brontë put her bra and boy shorts back on, not quite brave enough to run around stark naked. To her relief, Logan followed her lead, and they walked up and down the beach a few times examining debris floating in the water and talking. They were covered in sand and their underwear was more wet than dry, but they didn’t care.

Eventually, they grew tired of frolicking in the water, and Logan suggested they make the SOS signal.

“I suppose we should,” Brontë said mournfully, looking at the setting sun. She didn’t want the day to end.

He must have noticed her reluctance, because he regarded her for a long moment, then said, “There’s enough driftwood on the beach that we could build a fire and hang out here a few hours more.”

She brightened. “That sounds like a lovely idea.” Her stomach, however, ruined it by growling.

Logan’s lips twitched with amusement. “How about I work on the SOS and building a fire, and you go and get dry clothes and something to eat and drink?”

Brontë snapped her fingers at him. “Now that sounds like a plan. I’ll be right back.”

“Take the flashlight,” he told her, and picked up a heavy piece of driftwood, dragging it forward into the sand.

She did, and raced up the dune, spraying sand as she walked. She’d seen bottles of wine earlier and thought it might be pleasant to enjoy one on the beach. They had sticks of beef jerky taken from the gift shop, and she could probably find some cheese in the restaurant somewhere. Wine, cheese, and a quasi– beef product. Not bad. Of course, if they were going to have a fire, they should have s’mores. With that in mind, she went to the restaurant and raided the kitchen until she found exactly what she was looking for—graham crackers and marshmallows. With the foodstuff and a few bottles of water to round things out, along with a spare blanket that they’d left out to dry earlier, she headed back down to the beach.

While she’d been inside, the sun had set even lower, turning the orange skies into a deep, smoky purple. On the beach, she could see that Logan had spelled out a SOS in driftwood, and set up a pyramid of wood on the far end of the beach. She headed there and made it to his side just as the fire caught.

He glanced up at her with satisfaction as he got to his feet and continued to feed small pieces of wood into the burning pyramid. “You look great.”

She laughed at that, glancing down at her bare, sandy legs, clad only in aqua shoes. She was now wearing a lemon-yellow Bahamas T-shirt that was two sizes too big and went down to her thighs, and she was pretty sure that her hair was one big snarl. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know. But you still look great.” The look he gave her was appreciative. “I’m glad you’re back.”

She hefted the wine bottle. “I brought drinks, food, and dessert.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“And a flirt,” she teased back, but she couldn’t help smiling. “But I think that’s a forgivable offense.”

They spread the blanket on the ground and set up the food, taking bites out of the jerky, crackers, and cheese and drinking straight from the wine bottle.

The sun disappeared below the horizon, and the sky grew dark. Soon, the only light glittering for miles was their small fire. It made Brontë feel very small and alone, and she moved closer to Logan.

He mistook her gesture and passed the wine bottle again, glancing over at her. “Thirsty?”

She took another sip of wine, grimacing at the strong taste of the red. She’d grabbed the most expensive bottle—because hey, why not?—and it was rather strong. She was more of a boxed wine kind of girl anyhow. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about?”

“How there’s no one around for miles.” She stared off into the dark skies and uncrossed her legs, stretching them out on the blanket. “And how that can sometimes be a little frightening.”

His hand went to her ankle, and he gave her a gentle squeeze before caressing her skin. It was as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching her, and Brontë sucked in a breath. After a moment, Logan said, “Don’t be frightened. I’m right here next to you.”

“I’m glad,” she told him softly. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

“You’d probably still be in the elevator.”

She frowned. She didn’t like to think about that. If he hadn’t been here . . . she shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His hand remained on her ankle, his thumb lightly gliding over the skin in a way that made her feel nervous and restless and aroused all at once. He wasn’t doing anything else, though, just touching her. She stared down at that hand and then blurted, “Do you want s’mores? You know, chocolate and graham crackers and marshmallows? They’re the perfect camping treat.”

He glanced at the fire, then at her on the blanket. “I suppose this is a lot like camping, isn’t it?”

“Right down to the campfire,” she said with a grin. “Do you have a stick for my marshmallow?”

As he turned away, she blushed hard, because that sounded incredibly dirty to her own ears. Do you have a stick for my marshmallow? My God, why don’t I just ask him to throw me down on the beach and harpoon me like he’s Ahab and I’m a sexy, sexy whale?

They speared two marshmallows on the same stick, and Logan thrust them into the flames of the fire. “So you’re one of those men, are you?” Brontë teased.

He glanced back at her. “One of what men?”

She gestured at the now-flaming marshmallows. “You’re willing to eat a little charcoal as long as it gets done faster.”

“Collateral damage,” he told her. “One expects that sort of thing when making a bold decision.”

“Very bold,” she said with a nod. “Could you blow out one of those bold decisions and put it on my cracker so I can eat?”

He did, and she smooshed it with the chocolate, licking her fingers as she nibbled at the treat. He pushed his together and then popped the entire thing in his mouth, eating it in one large bite. The man didn’t do anything by halves, did he? She shook her head at him, grinning, and continued to nibble away at hers.

A large dollop of melted chocolate landed on her thumb. She regarded it for a moment and then lifted her hand, intent on licking it clean.

Logan’s hand caught hers before she could, and he moved her hand to his mouth and very gently sucked the chocolate off of her thumb. A low flutter started in her belly, and her pulse began to pound as his dark gaze shifted to her face.

“Speaking of bold decisions,” he murmured, and then ran his tongue along the pad of her thumb again. “Have you decided?”

“Decided?” she echoed, hating the quaver in her voice.

“You and I keep dancing around our attraction without ever really coming out and saying exactly what we’re thinking. I’m not like that, Brontë. I’m the kind of guy that wants to let you know exactly how I feel, but you keep running away.”

“I’m not running,” she protested, feeling breathless. “Tell me.”

“I’ll show you, then.” His gaze was intense as he watched her, and then it slid to her mouth, and she knew he was thinking about their kiss.

And now she was thinking about that kiss, too.

He leaned in and ever-so-lightly brushed his lips against hers. The movement was delicate but intense, a mere hint at what she could expect from him. And she wanted more, but he moved away and looked down at her, studying her face.

Logan spoke again. “It’s your move, Brontë.”

She stared at her hand captured in his. Shadows caressed his face, the breeze causing his hair to ruffle over his forehead, and she noticed the heavy beard stubble along his jaw. It had rasped against her skin as they’d kissed, but not hard enough to make her pull away. She could reach out and touch him right now if she wanted. Claim him. Or she could walk away from all of this and they’d just be friends. Camping companions. He was leaving it up to her.

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 p-ssy, 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 p-ssy, 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 p-ssy. “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 * 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 *oris 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 * 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 * 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 p-ssy, 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 *, 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 p-ssy, 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 f*ck 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 *, 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 hips, 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 p-ssy 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.

Once done, he exhaled heavily and lay down on the blanket next to her, where she was staring up at the sky, dazed and dreamy.

That was incredible. Mind-blowing. She’d totally forgot about being on the beach, though she suspected the sand that had gotten on the blanket would remind her soon enough. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Thank you?” He was still panting. “For pulling out?”

“No,” she said dreamily, though that was nice of him, too. “For showing me where the G-spot was. I had no idea. I think I’m ruined for non-G-spot sex now.”

He laughed, the sound short and forceful. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Well, okay, it’d have to be really great sex to make up for the lack of the G-spot attention.” She sat up and grimaced at her sticky belly, still covered with his seed. “I think I’m going to go take a quick dunk.”

“It’s probably cold.”

“‘You will never do anything in this world without courage,’” she quoted at him.

“Is that a challenge?” He asked, grinning. He got to his feet and curled his hands into mock claws, looking as if he were a predator about to pounce on his prey. “Are you saying I’m not brave enough for cold water?”

“Not at all,” she said, turning toward the ocean.

When he took a step forward, she ran for it, a high-pitched squeal of alarm escaping her. Moments later, he had an arm around her stomach and was dunking her in the chilly surf. Brontë screamed and clung to him, dragging him under with her until they were both sputtering and laughing.

“There’s your courage,” Logan told her between chuckles.

She laughed too, delighted by his mood.

They rinsed off quickly, dumped sand on the fire, and then headed back to the hotel in the darkness. Their stairwell was just as they’d left it, complete with mattress, pillows, and blankets. Before when they’d crawled into the bed, they’d been clothed. When Brontë crawled into bed this time, she was naked and slightly damp, and so was the man who crawled in after her. As soon as she pulled the blanket over her body, he tugged her close and spooned her, his hand sliding possessively over her waist and resting on her breast.

As if he cherished her.

And she thought that maybe, just maybe, Logan was going to ruin after-sex cuddling for her, too. Because being pressed up against his big, strong body as she drifted off to sleep, his hand possessively cupping her breast, felt a little too good to be true.