Exposed (Madame X, #2)(32)
The more he touches me, the wilder my hips become. I bury my face in his flesh and moan ceaselessly, muffling the sound in him. At some point, the aimless thrash of my hips becomes a grinding, and god, finally, he fills me with three fingers and I grind against them, ride them.
Wantonly, I seek my release on his hand.
“Oh god, Logan . . .” I moan, and it is not a quiet sound.
“Sssshhhhh, baby. Hush. Bite me if you need to.”
My teeth find the round part of his shoulder and sink in, and I taste salt flesh and flick my tongue across it, and the taste of him, the feel of his flesh and muscle under my mouth drives me even more wild. My entire body is rocking downward, pushing my core onto his fingers, driving the building tsunami of my orgasm to manic threshold.
I whimper, teeth locked onto Logan, and grind hard and fast around his fingers, which he thrusts into me.
And then, as I am close to losing it, he pulls them out and smashes them against my clit and I involuntarily arch my back, biting down on my scream so hard my molars ache. Logan’s mouth finds mine, his tongue parts my lips, and he swallows my moans as I come apart. Heat blasts though me, lightning strikes my core and sizzles up throughout my body, curling my toes and causing my stomach to tense and my thighs to quiver, and I can only ride his touch with everything I possess, screaming into his breath, trying to quiet myself and failing.
“God, Isabel, baby, you come so beautifully,” Logan murmurs. “I can’t wait to watch you writhe like this naked for me, I can’t wait to make you scream out loud.”
His voice is catalytic, and I don’t know if I come again, or if it’s another wave of the first, but I am seized anew and his fingers are whirling faster than thought around my clitoris.
Finally, I am seeing stars, the orgasm fades, and I am left limp and wrung out, gasping. “Logan, my god Logan.” The way I say that, it is ambiguous. It could mean that Logan is my god, that he has consumed my world and my belief, or it could just be a rushed-together colloquialism.
I am fully clothed, and so is he, and I’ve just come harder than ever before, harder than I thought possible.
Logan grabs the back of my knees and tugs them tight against his body, pulls me closer, and then rocks up and forward so I am flipped to land on my back. His eyes are hot, blazing, fierce, wild. His chest heaves, as if his control is hanging by the thinnest thread. He leans over me, his hair coming loose from the ponytail, blond curls and waves hanging over his shoulder. He dips down, kisses me. Deeply, thoroughly, so I am left utterly breathless and in no doubt as to his intentions.
Leaning back on his knees, he lifts his fingers to his mouth. I can only stare in amazement and confusion and crazed heated desire as he fits his index finger—the one that was just inside me—into his mouth and sucks my juices off. He repeats this with each finger that was inside me, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Really, Logan?”
He grins. “Really, Isabel. You taste amazing. I can’t wait to have my mouth all over you.”
I exhale shakily. “What do I taste like?” I hear myself ask, and it’s a question I’ve long wondered but never had the courage to ask.
In previous encounters, questions and talking in general were . . . discouraged. My voice was heard only when I was commanded to raise it.
Logan doesn’t answer, at least not in words. He pulls aside my underwear, slides a finger into me, smears my essence, and then brings that digit to my mouth. I smell musk, a sharp smell with a tang to it. And his finger moves between my lips, mirroring the way he just touched me down below. I taste his skin faintly and myself strongly.
“That’s what you taste like,” he says, then rises to his feet. His hands grasp mine and he hauls me upright. “Time to go.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, even though I know.
“My place.”
I can’t help but glance down at the front of his jeans, which are visibly tented. I move toward him, wrap my arms around his neck, and then let a palm trail down his chest to the waist of his jeans. “Let me help you, first.”
He grabs my wrist, gently but firmly, and pulls my hand away. “I don’t think so, Isabel.” He tugs me sharply so I land flush against his chest. “All I care about is making you feel good. I could, and nearly did, come in my pants just watching you. When I’ve got you naked in my bed, I’ll get mine, trust me.”
“Doesn’t that ache? To stay hard like that?”
He shrugs. “A little. It’ll fade, and I’ll be none the worse for wear.”
“I want you to feel good too, Logan.”
His lips touch my throat, under my jaw, the corner of my mouth. “I will.” He puts his mouth to my ear and whispers. “I want you so bad, Isabel, so bad it hurts. But I also value our privacy enough that I’ll wait until I’ve got you alone at my house to let this go any further. If you touch me, any remaining vestige of control I might have will be gone.”
I’m frustrated, because my need for him is spiraling out of control. I want his flesh, I want to touch his hardness, taste him, feel him. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Nothing matters but him.
Nothing matters but us.
This is about us, too. Not just him, not just me, but the both of us as a single entity, and that fact in itself is drunk-making.
He takes my hand, threads his fingers through mine. Leads me out of the conference room. It’s night, but what time I don’t know. The lights are dimmed low so the TVs provide most of the light in the office space. Pretty much everyone is still present, although all of them except three people are asleep on couches and curled up in beanbags. The three left awake glance at us as we exit the conference room hand in hand, and all three keep their expressions carefully blank and return a bit too studiously to the documents they’re poring over.