I LIGHT THE CANDLES IN my room, the long ivory sticks on the fireplace mantel, the subtly scented votives on the nightstands beside the bed. I dim the overhead lights and brush my teeth, running my hands through my hair, tucking one side behind my ear. I’d already switched my damp blue dress for a short nude pleated chiffon gown when we got back to the palace, and I strip that off, leaving me in only a champagne silk slip, bare and braless beneath it.
Then I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are bright and my cheeks are flushed pink. Every nerve ending is awake and alive.
I tremble.
Not with nervousness—I could never be nervous with Logan; he’s too careful, too caring with me. No, I quake with anticipation. Desire. It floats through me like smoke, swirling inside, making my blood rush and my heart gallop.
I’ve wanted this so much, wished for it for so long.
And now it’s happening.
Please, God, please let him hurry.
After Henry and Sarah’s beautiful ceremony, we toasted with Champagne. Unlike when we first came back to the palace, Logan didn’t join in. He stood by the door, waiting and watching. Olivia stuck to my side like glue, touching my arm and holding my hand, as though she needed to reassure herself I was really there. I don’t blame her; I feel awful about scaring her and my dad—everyone—so terribly.
But at the same time, the urgent need to break away from the group and go to my room to await Logan wound up inside me like an overtightened spring, until it was ready to pop. Finally, finally, we said our good-nights. Logan was gone then, not by the door, as if he’d faded into the shadows—no one but me noticed. I walked with Nicholas and Olivia back to their apartments, and I hugged my tired sister and relieved brother-in-law one more time before making it up to the refuge of my room.
And now I wait. I’ve already waited so long, you’d think I’d be used to it. But this need inside me is stronger than it’s ever been—sharper, more acute, feverish. Every muscle in my body is strung tight and my skin is tender, overly sensitive. My teeth grind and the blood rushes in my ears, echoing soon. Soon, soon, he’ll be here soon.
There’s a knock on my door.
And my soul comes alive.
I fly to the door and pull it open.
Before I can take a breath or see him clearly, Logan steps into the room, grabs me, pulls me against his chest, kicks the door closed with a bang—then spins us around and presses me up against the wall. And he’s kissing me, we’re kissing each other, desperate and grasping and wild.
He tastes like red wine—like oak and blackberries—and the drag of his mouth across mine makes me drunk. Logan lifts me like I’m weightless and his fingers curl around my thighs, palms sliding. He moves his hips between my legs, pinning me against the wall with his pelvis, rubbing against me, making me wet and throbbing.
Somebody once told me a slow-burning fire is the hottest—and it must be true. Because Logan and I are a fucking inferno.
He yanks at the strap of my slip and it snaps. He pulls the fabric down, exposing my breast, and his mouth devours me. He suckles and licks urgently, opening his mouth wider to envelop nearly my whole breast. It’s as if he wants to taste every inch of my skin all at once.
Then he’s back to my mouth, kissing me long and deep and wet, until I’m shaking in his arms.
“I’ll give it to you sweet, Ellie.” He breathes hard. “I swear I’ll make it so fucking sweet you’ll ache . . . but now I just . . . I need . . .”
My hips rotate and I’m rubbing myself up and down on the rock-hard length of his cock beneath his pants. My head thrashes.
“I know. I know, Logan. Just take . . . please.”
I need him inside, now. Pressing into me—surging deep.
I squeeze his shoulders, grasping at the starched cotton of his shirt. It feels manly under my palms. His scent, his rough groans, the tight hold of his large hands, the stab of his hot tongue—everything about Logan is strong and hard, domineering, and so deliciously male.
He moves one hand from my leg and I feel him tearing at his pants, the scratch of his belt against my thigh as he frees himself.
Yes, yes . . .
My desires clash—because I want to see him, see everything. I want to hold him in my hand, stroke and hear him moan. But that yearning evaporates when I feel the touch of hot, silken flesh against me. I feel the girth of his cock against my soft opening. I’m slick, slippery for him, but he’s so big he has to push through my tight muscles. I lift my knees, stretching my joints to open for him.
He moves forward slowly, steady and unyielding. And then Logan is sliding inside me. More, more, impossibly long. There’s a dull pinch as I stretch around him, until all of him is buried within me—deep and full—and the wisps of his pubic hair tickle the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
I feel so full. Complete. I squeeze my muscles, clench my pussy hard, just to feel more of him deep inside.
His arms are contracted tight under my hands, his breath brushes against my lips, his forehead rests against mine. “Ellie,” he whispers, and no word has ever sounded sweeter. “Ellie . . . Ellie . . .”
We kiss roughly, my tongue invades his mouth, caressing his, licking, searching inside. Logan’s hips pull back and his cock retreats just a little, then he slides back and we moan together, greedy for the friction. He pulls back again, farther, withholding more—then thrusts back in, harder. Needier.
And the rhythm starts. Over and over—it’s the wet slide of his cock, my clasping squeeze, and the deep, harsh push back in.
This. Always this. It’s more than I dreamed, better than I fantasized. It’s hard and full and perfect, and I want to live the rest of my life with Logan’s hard cock buried deep inside me.
Pounding against me. Ramming inside me.
Fucking me, needing me, loving me.
His hips circle between my legs, twisting as he thrusts, dragging his pelvis across my clit. And the pressure, the tension, builds between my legs.
“Don’t stop! Oh God, more . . . more . . . fuck . . .”
I bite his neck, his earlobe—for real, not gently. Because it’s so good. Because if I don’t, I’ll scream the goddamn house down.
I feel his big hand covers my breast, squeezing greedily and the snap of his hips between my legs. It’s wild and untamed and raw. We move, grinding against each other without thought. It looks like fucking, sounds like rutting . . . and feels like making love.
I hold his face in my hands, kiss his open mouth and inhale the air he expels.
“Come inside me, Logan.”
My plea tears a moan out of him, low and long against my shoulder. And he thrusts so hard, my head jerks back.