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I swear to GOD, I am done. The psychic was wrong—I do not die floating in a mound of ice cream; I die here. On Logan’s sofa. As his head descends between my legs and his lips touch me there.
I take my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from shouting out something horribly inappropriate, but he doesn’t care in the least. There’s no letting up, no coming up for air. His mouth stays there and his tongue turns circles, and just when I think, Wow, so this is what Buddhism feels like. Hello, nirvana, his hand slides up my thigh, between my legs, and he touches me. He turns his hand so his palm faces the ceiling, and then I watch with a barely contained moan as he presses his middle finger inside of me.
Tongue and finger. Finger and tongue. Is there a better combination in this entire world?!
After that, I must pass out for a moment, but when I gather my senses again, he’s continuing to turn circles with his tongue and pump in and out of me with his finger, and I really only have myself to blame for this. I asked for this treatment, but maybe I would have held off if I’d known he’d be so bloody good at it! I’m not containing myself at all. I should be lying back, as if bored by his average bedroom skills, but instead my thighs try to grip him like an anaconda. My stomach is quivering. My hands are fisting the sofa cushions. Then I twine them in his hair.
I tell him he’s good at this—too good. Instead of thanking me, he continues the endless torture. I am going to lose control of myself, and I warn him of this. Maybe he should know I’m seconds away from crying out? But he only pumps into me harder with his finger. Faster. And then his tongue touches me in the exact perfect spot and I detonate. I’m a bomb exploding into a thousand pieces, leaving shrapnel scattered across his flat, and he’s with me, until the end, until my body stops shaking and I sink heavy into the sofa.
He hovers over me, his eyes molten and hot. I think to make a joke, some kind of thank you to him for doing that, but then my gaze drops between his legs and all my premeditated words pop and disappear.
Suddenly there is one thing I want more than anything in the world: to feel him inside me. To feel stretched by him. To feel his weight and pressure between my legs. I need it more than air.
I push to sit up and reach out for him, to touch him and wrap my hand around his hardness. His eyes flutter as soon as I grip him, and my smirk unfurls on its own. I doubt it will ever get old, me overpowering him, even for a moment. It’s just everything he is and everything he stands for. He’s this hulking guy with muscles of steel. He should be impenetrable, a brick wall, but I know his weakness, and I’m holding it in my small hand.
“Well then…should we continue?”Chapter NineteenCandaceInstead of answering, he reaches down to wrap his hand around mine. He grips it and starts to pump faster, tightening my hand on his length. He’s showing me what he wants me to do, and I’m nothing if not a star pupil. I learn quickly and tighten my grip, using both hands, because well—he is bloody tall and proportioned everywhere, if you catch my drift!
His head lolls back for a moment and then he leans forward, releasing my hands so he can bend down and unsnap the back of my bra. He doesn’t get it the first time and I want to shout, RIP IT! I DON’T CARE, but then he’s got it and he’s tugging it off. I let go of him so the material can slip down my arms, and then he stares down at me in awe, taking me in. I’m sure I’m blushing all over, a real embarrassing red tinge. I imagine how I look in his eyes. I’m slender and petite. My breasts are perky, but they aren’t the best in town by any means. Still, judging by the way he’s looking at me, I think he quite likes them.
I reach out to grip him again, and then his hand reaches out to touch me. He drags the pad of his finger softly over my collarbone and then lower, curving around my left breast. Teasing me. That’s fine—I’ll tease him right back. I slow my pace, sliding my hands up and down his length in a rhythm that’s no doubt pissing him off. His eyes flare with emotion as they lock with mine, and I smile. It’s innocence personified, but he reads between the lines. His brows furrow and he reaches out to skim his hand over my breast. I arch into him, and he rewards me for it. He cups the weight in his hand, feeling it, and I think—not for the first time—that he’s got lovely hands. They’re big and calloused and confident, the hands of a man who takes what he wants.
