“I’m a lioness, Logan, isn’t that what you told me?”
He rumbles a laugh. “I did say that, didn’t I?” His finger delves into me once more, and I gasp. “Can you keep quiet?”
“I can try,” I whisper. “But I might bite you again.”
“Fine with me. I’ll just bite you back.” He places his teeth on the delicate skin on the side of my neck and bites down with exquisite gentility.
“That wasn’t even a bite,” I say.
“Of course not. I would never do anything to actually hurt you.”
And then he withdraws his finger and smears it over my clitoris again, and I can’t help but moan, muffling it against his throat. Again, finger sliding in, pulling out, rubbing over me. Again and again and again, until I’m aching with need for him to do more, touch me more.
“Logan,” I whimper, “please . . .”
“I know, baby. Soon.” Two fingers now, and I am breathing heavily against his throat, clutching his hair, his head, his shoulders.
My hips drive, seeking more.
Despite his promise of “soon,” it is not soon. He draws it out. Explores me, scissors his fingers, thrusts them in, exploring my depth. Drawing out, testing the sensitivity of my clitoris, slipping it between his fingers, rubbing it, flicking it, pressing against it, touching me and touching me and touching me, but not enough that I can find release.
The more he touches me, the wilder my hips become. I bury my face in his flesh and moan ceaselessly, muffling the sound in him. At some point, the aimless thrash of my hips becomes a grinding, and god, finally, he fills me with three fingers and I grind against them, ride them.
Wantonly, I seek my release on his hand.
“Oh god, Logan . . .” I moan, and it is not a quiet sound.
“Sssshhhhh, baby. Hush. Bite me if you need to.”
My teeth find the round part of his shoulder and sink in, and I taste salt flesh and flick my tongue across it, and the taste of him, the feel of his flesh and muscle under my mouth drives me even more wild. My entire body is rocking downward, pushing my core onto his fingers, driving the building tsunami of my orgasm to manic threshold.
I whimper, teeth locked onto Logan, and grind hard and fast around his fingers, which he thrusts into me.
And then, as I am close to losing it, he pulls them out and smashes them against my clit and I involuntarily arch my back, biting down on my scream so hard my molars ache. Logan’s mouth finds mine, his tongue parts my lips, and he swallows my moans as I come apart. Heat blasts though me, lightning strikes my core and sizzles up throughout my body, curling my toes and causing my stomach to tense and my thighs to quiver, and I can only ride his touch with everything I possess, screaming into his breath, trying to quiet myself and failing.
“God, Isabel, baby, you come so beautifully,” Logan murmurs. “I can’t wait to watch you writhe like this naked for me, I can’t wait to make you scream out loud.”
His voice is catalytic, and I don’t know if I come again, or if it’s another wave of the first, but I am seized anew and his fingers are whirling faster than thought around my clitoris.
Finally, I am seeing stars, the orgasm fades, and I am left limp and wrung out, gasping. “Logan, my god Logan.” The way I say that, it is ambiguous. It could mean that Logan is my god, that he has consumed my world and my belief, or it could just be a rushed-together colloquialism.
I am fully clothed, and so is he, and I’ve just come harder than ever before, harder than I thought possible.
Logan grabs the back of my knees and tugs them tight against his body, pulls me closer, and then rocks up and forward so I am flipped to land on my back. His eyes are hot, blazing, fierce, wild. His chest heaves, as if his control is hanging by the thinnest thread. He leans over me, his hair coming loose from the ponytail, blond curls and waves hanging over his shoulder. He dips down, kisses me. Deeply, thoroughly, so I am left utterly breathless and in no doubt as to his intentions.
Leaning back on his knees, he lifts his fingers to his mouth. I can only stare in amazement and confusion and crazed heated desire as he fits his index finger—the one that was just inside me—into his mouth and sucks my juices off. He repeats this with each finger that was inside me, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Really, Logan?”
He grins. “Really, Isabel. You taste amazing. I can’t wait to have my mouth all over you.”
I exhale shakily. “What do I taste like?” I hear myself ask, and it’s a question I’ve long wondered but never had the courage to ask.
In previous encounters, questions and talking in general were . . . discouraged. My voice was heard only when I was commanded to raise it.