Exposed (Madame X, #2)(37)

We are naked together.

I feel giddy, and terrified.

I have to touch him. My palms roam across his chest, down his sides, and carve around to clutch his buttocks. Pull him closer. He lets out a breath, palms my hip, and then his lips touch my shoulder.

“Logan,” I breathe. It is a plea, and he knows it.

His mouth descends, crossing my breastbone, and he bends, kissing the slope of my right breast. Strong fingers trail up from my hip, and he cups my breast from beneath and lifts it to his mouth. His touch is gentle, his mouth warm and wet. I moan at the feel of my nipple being flattened in his mouth, the feel of his tongue flicking over it, striking a chord of desire within me. Stoking the flames.

Just as I’m about to reach for his erection, he backs away. His gaze glints, gleams.

“Lie down on the bed, Isabel.” His voice is soft, as warm as it always is, yet now insistent as well.

I back up. My bottom bumps up against the mattress, and I lift myself up onto it. Lie back. Shimmy backward so my head is on the pillow. Breathe hard, my breasts rising and falling, swaying, shaking with each breath. My nipples hurt. My core aches. I am drenched. I do not mean to, but I find myself posing for Logan. One hand threaded through my thick black hair, one foot planted, knee up, thighs touching to block his view of my privates, my other arm barred across my chest.

He, naked, hard, just stands and stares at me for a moment, and I stare back.

He is glorious.

Tattoos, a jumble of images, sleeve his arms from shoulder to elbow. His hair is loose and wavy, curling at the ends, hanging down his shoulders. His body is a warrior’s body, whipcord lean, hard as diamonds and sharp as a blade, every muscle defined as if etched by a razor into marble. His manhood is . . . I bite my lower lip as I stare at it. Longer than it has any right to be, thicker than I’d expected, a very subtle inward curve to it. I want to touch him, wrap my fingers around him and put my mouth on him and feel him against my tongue, taste his skin; I want to guide him to me and feel him penetrate me.

I want him. I want him.

I let my knees spread apart, and he growls.

Climbs onto the bed. Kneels between my thighs, leans over me, one palm in the mattress beside my face, the other burying in my hair. His lips brush mine, a tease.

Not a kiss, yet, but a tease.

A lick of his tongue, flicking against my lower lip, where I’d bitten it.

I remember putting a glass of whisky to my lips, putting my mouth where his had been. I remember the taste of the whisky against my tongue, the burn on my throat, the way I wanted it to be his mouth on mine.

His fingers spear through my hair and scrape downward to cup the back of my head, and he lifts me up, brings my mouth to his,

and kisses me,

and kisses me,

and does not stop for an eternity.

Not until we are both breathless and his tongue has tasted every corner of my mouth, has licked across both of my lips, has slashed against my tongue, not until I cannot help but pull away just so I can breathe.

That is when he leans back, slides his palms over my shoulders, down to the slopes of my breasts. Cups their weight. Thumbs both of my nipples at once. Bends, kisses the skin between my breasts.

“You deserve to be worshipped, Isabel,” he says. “You deserve to be shown how perfect you are.”





NINE


I have to blink back a surprised wash of intense emotion: wonder, embarrassment, need, tenderness, raw lust.

I find my voice, and my own words surprise me. “Then worship me, Logan. Show me.”

He licks my nipple and plunges a middle finger into my cleft. “I’m going to.” A curl, a come-here motion with his finger, and I cannot stop a moan. “Be loud for me, Isabel. I want to hear every sound you make.”

Mouth latched onto my nipple, one hand between my thighs, he cups my breast with his other. Sucks, swirls his tongue around my nipple. And then pulls away. His finger slides out of my opening and brings my essence with it, smearing it onto my clitoris. I ache, oh I ache. I’m going to come again. Soon, and hard.

As he finds a circling rhythm, slow and soft touches of two fingers against my throbbing clit, he alternates kissing and suckling both of my breasts, one and the other, one and the other. Tension coils inside me, centered low in my belly. I tighten. Curl up, knees rising, and he does not speed up his rhythmic touching of my most sensitive flesh. I am moaning, I realize. Nonstop. Aching. Needing. Feeling his touch and needing more.

“Can I taste you, Isabel?” Logan asks.

“Please, Logan.”

“Please what? Tell me what you want, sweetheart, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Taste me. Make me come. Touch me. Let me touch you.”

He kisses his way down my body. Sternum. Belly. Hip. Thigh. Over and over, he kisses my body, not missing anywhere. He lifts my left leg and kisses the back of my knee, and I whimper at the soft warm touch of lips there, and then he’s flicking his tongue and sliding his mouth over my thigh, and I moan. A single flick of his tongue over my nether lips, and I’m writhing, gasping. But he doesn’t give me what I need, not yet. He transfers his kisses to my other thigh, kissing downward now, to my calf, lips feathering over my ankle.

“Logan . . .” I gasp.

“I know, honey. But I told you that you deserve to be worshipped. Let me worship you.” And he kisses the top of my foot.