I am overwhelmed, so full of joy and exuberance and gratitude and raw fierce lust that I cannot contain it. I sink my mouth around him, sudden and fast. Take him deep into my mouth, opening my throat and tasting him on my tongue. He groans, shudders. I back away and replace mouth with fist, smearing my saliva on him. Stroke him. Faster and faster.
Feel him tremble under me, feel his moans in his chest, hear them echo in the bedroom.
I know he’s close. I can feel it, taste it in the leak of clear fluid from the tip as I lick him, suckle him, feather kisses to the side, lick up the length. He throbs at my touch, thickens between my lips.
“You taste so good, Logan,” I hear myself say. “Let go, let me taste you on my tongue. Give it all to me.”
Who is this, speaking this way? I have never said such words. I have never even thought such words. Yet they pour from my mouth, and they sound sexy. I sound sexy. I sound worldly. Womanly. Sensual.
“Is—Isabel.” He is out of breath, his voice tense. “Jesus, what are you doing to me?”
“Making you feel good, I hope.”
“This isn’t feeling good, Is, this is heaven.”
Is. Like, a diminutive? A nickname? “Is?”
“You don’t want me to call you that?”
“No, I do. I like it.”
“Is. Izzy?”
“Is. I like that.”
Abruptly, Logan rolls us so I’m beneath him. Kneels between my thighs, staring at me, chest heaving. The tip of his penis leaks fluid, evidence of his nearness to climax. “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything.” I mean it, too. I will do anything he asks of me. It’s crazy to feel so strongly so quickly, but I do.
“Touch yourself.”
I’ve touched myself before, of course. In the dead of night, awake, unable to sleep, wrestling with old nightmares and new needs, I have touched myself. But I’ve always been vaguely ashamed of it, for some reason.
To touch myself in front of him? While he watches? My chest contracts and my skin feels too tight on my bones, and my heart hammers. I tingle. Blink at him. Press my thighs together.
“Logan, I don’t know . . .” I whisper, not able to look at him. “I don’t know if I can.”
“I want to watch you make yourself feel good. It’ll be so sexy, watching you.” He sinks to sit on his shins, and his erection juts high and hard and proud. It is huge, and begs for my fingers, my lips. My core. “Like this, Is. Watch me.”
He wraps one hand around his thick shaft, and his fist looks so hard and so big like that, so rough. It should be my hand there, not his. But it is hot, watching him. He strokes himself slowly, one pump of his fist. The head protrudes, and the skin stretches backward, and then he brings his hand back up. He thumbs the tip, and then plunges his fist down again.
Oh.
Oh, god. His face, as he does this. The way his eyes narrow. His jaw clenches. His chest expands and contracts heavily. His testicles hang and sway beneath his fist.
It is almost involuntary then, how my fingers steal across my belly and between my thighs. My core aches, watching him pleasure himself. I throb, tingle, burn. I have to touch myself, if only to alleviate the pressure. A bolt of lightning strikes me as I touch three fingers to my clitoris.
Swipe, circle, press.
My breath hitches, and I stare into his eyes, force myself to remain open, to splay my thighs wide and tuck my heels against my buttocks, to let him watch. And oh, oh, god, yes, it is erotic, so sexy. Touching my privates and knowing he’s watching. Seeing him do the same. The intimacy binds us. I cannot look away, cannot stop. I’m rising toward climax, a mountain of heat washing over me, a tidal wave of intensity crashing through me. And I’m watching his fist pump harder and harder, and his touch is so rough, so harsh, so vigorous. I would be gentler, softer. I would caress him with such gentility, such exquisite tenderness.
I keep one hand between my thighs, stroking myself in ever-quickening circles, but I have to touch him. I knock his hand away and replace it with mine. I stroke us both, and he watches.
My hand is a plunging blur around his thickness, pumping up and down and up and down, faster and faster. He’s groaning, and I’m whimpering, and he’s thrusting into my hand, rutting hard into my fist. I’m grinding against my fingers, and I feel my climax approaching, feel it like not just mountains about to collide, but continents moments away from smashing into each other. I cannot breathe and cannot stop, and all I see is his face, his incredible blue eyes and his heaving chest and his tattoos and his erection in my hand, and my own fingers circling desperately.
“Oh fuck, Isabel. I’m so close,” he grunts between clenched teeth. “I love watching your hand on my cock.”
Cock. His cock. A new word. I’ve heard it, of course, but I’ve never said it. “I love touching your cock. I can’t wait to watch you come, Logan.”
“You talk dirty like that, I’m gonna come even sooner.”
“You like it when I say those things?”
“Fuck yeah,” he rumbles. “It’s hot. Everything you do is hot. But this? Hottest fucking thing ever.”
I’m stroking him hard and fast, plunging my fist down his length as fast as I can. When he starts to grunt and I watch his jaw clench and feel his cock throb in my fist, I slow.
“Fuck, Isabel, I’m right there, please don’t stop.”