Exposed (Madame X, #2)(36)
I kick off my shoes, and my feet immediately thank me. Logan is at the bedroom door, rubbing the back of his neck, and I realize that by giving me a moment to change he meant he’d leave me alone.
“You . . . um . . .” I pause to rally my nerves. “You don’t have to leave, Logan.”
He stops, his hand on the doorknob. “I’m not making any assumptions, Isabel. This whole thing happens on your time, okay?”
“You’ve already seen me naked, Logan.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m going to just assume you’re okay with me watching you change. That’s kind of intimate.”
“So is what we did in your conference room.”
A smile crosses his face. “True.” He puts his back to the bedroom door. “I’ll stay, if you want me to.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, reaching up behind my back to tug down the zipper of my dress. “I don’t really want you to leave, if I’m being honest.”
I can’t quite reach the tab of the zipper, though, without contorting. Logan crosses the room in three long strides and stands behind me. “Let me.”
His fingers touch the back of my neck, brush my hair over my shoulder, and I feel my dress loosen as he pulls the zipper down.
I expect more, but I feel him step back. “There.”
I pivot to face him. His eyes rake over me, and I cannot mistake the hunger for me that I see there. “Logan,” I start, not quite sure what I was going to say.
There’s nothing to say, I decide. I keep my eyes locked on his as I shrug my shoulders, letting the garment droop forward to hang from my arms, which are bent at the elbow, clutching my belly. I’m nervous, but I’m not going to let that get in the way. I palm my thighs, and my dress pools on the floor around my feet.
Logan’s eyes immediately devour my body, and he draws in a ragged breath. “You are so beautiful, Isabel.”
“I’m not even naked,” I say, uncomfortable with compliments.
“You don’t have to be naked to be beautiful, you know.” He takes a step toward me, and his fingers touch my waist. “You’re so sexy, just like this, in your underwear.”
My cheeks flame, and I duck my head, unable to sustain the eye contact. “Thank you.” It’s all I can summon.
I latch onto his wrist with my fingers, so he can’t escape. He doesn’t try, just flattens his palm against my spine, directly at the center of my back. He’s not touching me sexually, I notice. Avoiding any erogenous zones. For me, or for himself?
The next step, other than throwing myself at him, is to finish undressing. I swallow my fear. I know he’s not rejecting me, I know that he’s being respectful and giving me time, which I should need, considering what happened not that long ago. But all I can think of is his kiss, his mouth on mine; all I want is his touch, to come again, for him. To feel him. To make him come. I want to know what he looks like when he loses control.
I reach up behind my back and unhook the first eyelet, and then the second, and then the third. I don’t give myself time to think, I just slide my arms out of the straps and toss the bra to the floor. His nearly iridescent indigo eyes rake down from my face to my breasts, and my nipples harden under his gaze. They harden so fast they ache. I can feel my heartbeat in my chest like thundering drums, hear nothing but my pulse in my ears. Sliding my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my underwear, I shimmy them down over my hips, and it’s hard to breathe, and I don’t dare look anywhere but at the floor.
The silk and lace fall to my ankles, and I’m naked.
I’ve been naked in front of Logan once before, but that was accidental. Sort of. Whatever that was, it’s different than intentionally, purposefully removing all my clothes so Logan can look at my nude body. This is making a statement.
“Fuck . . . Isabel . . . you’re so insanely sexy it’s hard to breathe when I look at you.” His voice is a silken murmur.
I summon every ounce of courage I have. I reach for him. My index finger hooks in his belt loop and I pull him closer. His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare and his Adam’s apple bobs. I feel need, such blazing, furious, undeniable need. I am on fire with need. The tips of my breasts brush his chest, and I drag my fingernails upward between us, catching the hem of his T-shirt and lifting it up. His arms go up, and I carefully work the shirt off, tossing it aside. Shirtless now, Logan is breathtaking. As in, looking at him, I can’t breathe.
My hands are moving of their own accord. They find the loop-and-button of his jeans, slip the button free. He is motionless, staring at me, breathing heavily. My fingers clasp the tab pull of his zipper and lower it, and now his bulge spills out of the opening. My throat clogs. My breathing stops.
He just blinks at me and remains still.
I push the denim down, and Logan steps out of his pants. His underwear is gray, tight stretchy cotton molded to his body. I cannot look away from his groin, from the outline of his penis bulging and thickening as I stare at him. He inhales deeply, and his brows furrow as I reach for him one last time, slipping my index and middle fingers of each hand between the elastic and his flesh, running them around the circumference of his torso, and my fingertip brushes the crest of his erection. He flinches at this contact, and sucks his belly in. I tug down, and his shaft sways free as the fabric releases him. A lift of each foot, and Logan is naked with me.