Heat builds between us. When he drapes my legs over his shoulders, allowing him to go deeper, I cry out, sounding almost like an animal.
I can hear how soaked I am, the obscene wet sounds of him pounding into me, and God, it only makes me wetter.
He thrusts in hard then pulls out completely. My pussy hangs wide open, wet, but empty. I crane my head up eyes wide wondering what happened. But he immediately plunges back in hard. Then repeats this again, and again. Each time he enters stars and white light flash across my innervision.
"Are you close, sweetheart?" His thumb finds my clit, and he teases it in tight strokes. "Come for me again, Hannah. I want to feel you fall apart around my cock."
Sparks of pleasure skitter down my legs, and I burst into a million pieces. Heat sweeps through me, radiating ecstasy outward.
Every single part of me tingles with bliss.
Logan follows seconds later, groaning into my neck as he thickens and pulses inside me, flooding me with thick ropesof his cum. I feel every spurt, every throb, my thighs tremble around him.
The cave suddenly feels intimate in a way it didn't before, like we've claimed it somehow. Like, it's home.
"We should probably head back before someone calls the cops after those sounds I made," I finally say, even though moving is the last thing I want to do.
He laughs, pulling back to look at me. "You're right. I promised you dinner, and I keep my promises."
Getting dressed ishilarious after the intensity of what just happened. We untangle our clothes, hold the rock walls, and prop each other up while trying to fit our feet into uncooperative openings. My clothes stick to damp skin, and let's just say, sand is everywhere. Our fuzzy, dopamine-drenched brains don't help, either.
"Vespa's going to be interesting," he says, eyeing my still-unsteady legs.
"I'll manage."
The ride to his house passes in a comfortable haze. My arms circle his waist, chest pressed to his back, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm not thinking about anything beyond this moment. The wind whips my hair back, the ocean stretches endlessly beside us, and Logan's body is warm and solid between my thighs.
I could get used to this.
The thought appears before I can stop it, and I push it aside immediately. I'm on vacation. This is fun. That's all it needs to be.
His beach house sits back from the water but close enough that I can hear waves breaking against the shore. It's smaller than I expected—one story with a wide porch that wraps around the front, painted white with blue shutters that have actually seen weather.
"This is it," Logan says, cutting the engine. "Home, sweet home."
I follow him up the steps and through the front door, and stop short in the doorway. The inside is nothing like the bachelor pad I was expecting. The living room flows into the kitchen with no walls between them, and big windows let in late-afternoon light.
There's a surfboard propped against one wall, books scattered on a coffee table, a couch with pillows that look like they've been slept on.
"You want something to drink?" Logan asks, already moving toward the refrigerator.
"Water's good."
He hands me a glass and starts pulling things from the refrigerator—vegetables, herbs, something wrapped in butcher paper. "Hope you like fish. Caught it this morning before I picked you up."
"You fish, too?"
"Island life. You learn to do a little of everything. Plus, fresh is always better than whatever they ship in on the supply boat."
I perch on a stool at the counter and watch him work. He rinses the fish, pats it dry, and starts chopping vegetables.
"So what's the plan when your week is up?" he asks, not looking up from the cutting board. "Back to the fluorescent lights and spreadsheets?"
"That's the plan." The words taste bitter. I'm so not looking forward to going back. "Same job, same commute, same cubicle with the flickering overhead light that drives me slowly insane."
"Sounds awful."
"It is awful. But it's also steady and practical and all those things I'm supposed to want." I take a sip of water, watching him slide chopped onions into a hot pan. They sizzle, filling the air with something that makes my mouth water. "The thing is, I actually like numbers. I like the work itself. It's everything else I hate—the office politics, the backstabbing, the way my boss treats me like I'm disposable."
