Exposed (Madame X, #2)(31)

I crave completion, of a kind only Logan can provide.

He feathers his mouth against mine, a teasing brush of lips against lips, heat of breath on tasting tongue.

“That will happen,” he whispers.

“Oh,” I murmur.

“Yeah, oh.” His fingers are tangled in my hair, applying gentle delicious pressure to my scalp, keeping my face tilted to his. “And now I can’t stop.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“I have to,” he says. “Or there won’t be any stopping at all.”

“Logan . . .”

“I want you. I need you. But Isabel, you deserve better—we deserve better—than on a couch in my conference room, with a dozen people on the other side of the wall.”

I ache. “You’re right.”

His erection is a thick presence between us, pressing into my belly.

I can’t help but to writhe against him, to clutch his strong neck and seek more of him, to touch my lips to the edge of his jaw, inhale his scent and revel in the rough sandpaper of his stubble against my lips and sensitive skin.

He groans, a low rumble in his chest. I feel his palm cup my back, fingers dimpling across my spine, and now his touch slides lower. Lower. I don’t dare breathe for the anticipation, waiting with aching lungs and thighs pressed tight together in a vain attempt to curb the pressure in my core. I wait, and exhale in delight as his palm ascends to follow the curve of my bottom. He murmurs wordlessly as his palm moves over the mounded taut muscle and squeezes.

“Jesus, Isabel.” His voice sounds broken. “Your ass is amazing.”

That compliment, those four words from this man, it means everything to me. I want to be the crux of his desire.

His other hand leaves my hair and steals down my spine to caress the other side of my bottom, so now both of his powerful hands are cupping my backside.

I have no coherent response to his statement, so I only writhe against him, kiss his cheekbone, clutch the back of his head with both hands and seek his mouth.

We kiss, and I know the taste and texture and glory of heaven.

Somehow, in my writhing, the hem of my dress rises. Rides higher. And then Logan’s fingers tug the material up and his touch is against the bare skin of my bottom where it is revealed in the cut of my underwear, which is little more than a strap of lace across the upper swell of my backside and a triangle of silk over my core.

I press my knee into the couch, lifting my leg higher. Opening for him. Encouraging his touch to explore.

“How am I supposed to resist you when you do shit like that, Isabel?” The way he says my name feels like a verbal caress, as if his saying my name, those three chosen syllables, is a validation, an act of love.

His cupping hands carve lower, so his fingers tease the edges of my thighs, drifting lower and closer to my center. I can’t breathe, oh god, I can’t breathe, my lungs are seized and the only breath I can find is his. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, because I am dying from the ache within, the need burning like the seed of a star, the desire igniting like a nascent supernova.

“Don’t resist, Logan,” I whisper, belatedly.

He does not resist.

He exhales, the heat of his sigh bathing my lips. Fingers dare, traipse, delve. I bury my face into his throat and cling madly tightly fiercely to the column of his neck and the hard curve of his head, and push my knee higher. Fingertips, three of them I feel, dancing over the thin strip of silk, tugging it aside.

One finger, sliding into my cleft. I whimper against his skin. Quietly, desperately. That finger, thick and wonderfully rough, glides deep through wetness and through heat. Draws my essence across tender pink flesh and smears it over the throbbing bud of my clitoris. Pleasure jolts through me with such sudden ferocity that I involuntarily bite him, and he grunts.

“Sorry,” I whisper, kiss the flesh where my teeth left indents. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Kitten’s got teeth,” Logan murmurs.

“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.