Exposed (Madame X, #2)(38)

Now his mouth travels back toward my core, over the top of my thigh, lips landing on the crease where hip meets leg, such an erogenous spot. Inward. To the mound just above my privates. To the very top of my core, and his tongue laps out, licks the very crest of my core, where my labia meet.

“Oh god. Logan, yes. Please. Please.” I am breathless, gasping each word. Begging. He makes me beg, just by the way he touches me, kisses me.

He fits two fingers into my opening, slides them deep. Curls them, withdraws, inserts. Starts a thrusting rhythm. His tongue lashes against my clit, and I writhe into his tongue, into his tongue, into his fingers. Move against him shamelessly. Bury my fingers in my hair, grip it, lift my hips.

“Can you come?” he murmurs.

“So close.”

“How close?”

I can only whimper wordlessly and arch off the bed and grind against his mouth and fingers. His mouth covers my core now, and he sucks my clitoris between his lips and creates a suction, flicking it with his tongue, sliding his fingers in and out, in and out, and his free hand reaches up to pinch my nipple.

“Now, Isabel. Come for me, right now. Let me feel you squeeze around my fingers, baby. Let me feel you come so hard you can’t breathe.” His words are the catalyst I need. “Ride my fingers, ride my mouth. Take it from me.”

I gasp, and lights flash behind my squeezed-shut eyes. The tension in my belly breaks apart, and I’m crying out loud. I bear down, clenching around his fingers with all the force I can muster, and then all control is gone as he matches my desperate rhythm with his mouth, with his tongue, with his fingers, taking me to the upper reaches of my climax and pushing me past it, to a place I didn’t know existed.

“Yeah, that’s right, just like that. Scream for me. Come for me.” He whispers against my flesh. “You are so f*cking beautiful, Isabel, so sexy, so f*cking sexy.”

I come down, and he’s kneeling upright. Watching me. I’m sweaty, gasping. My breasts sway with my heaving breaths, and he watches their motion openly.

I’m still shaking, trembling from the force of my orgasm.

“I want to touch you now, Logan.” I sit up. Reach for him.

He moves closer to me, kneels astride me. Gazes down at me. His erection is in front of my face, his hands on my shoulders. “Touch me then.”

I tear my eyes from his and allow my gaze to roam his body, tracing the wild profusion of his tattooed arms. There are pinup girls, playing cards, crossed assault rifles, Old English–style lettering, sparrows, spiders, skulls, handguns, characters that must be from movies, masks, all woven together and growing out of a tree trunk whose roots spread around his biceps and the crease of his elbow.

I look down then, down to his erection.

I wrap one hand around it, slide my palm down the soft flesh to the base, and then circle my other hand around him, spanning most of his length, although a bit of the head protrudes above my upper hand. I lick him there, flatten my tongue over the tip of him. He groans, and his grip tightens on my shoulders. I glide my palms up, and then down. Let go with one hand and stroke his length from tip to base, over and over, learning the feel of him, the way he fills my fist, the way his skin slides and stretches. How he moans, what makes him grunt. I squeeze gently, and he gasps. I have nothing within me but desire. Need. I want all of him.

I wrap my lips around him, fit my lips to the groove under the bulbous head. He moans, a long, sustained growl. “Isabel. Don’t.”

“I want to.”

He pulls back, sinks to sit on his heels. “Let me taste you again.”

I shake my head. “I want you, Logan. I want to touch you. I want to make you feel good. I want this.”

“But what happened—”

“Had nothing to do with you. Has nothing to do with how much I want you.” I lean into him, kiss his mouth. “Lie down and let me worship you too, Logan.”

He moves to his back, pillowing one hand beneath his head, reaching for me with the other. “I want this to be about you, Isabel.”

“It is. This is what I want.”

I take my time then. I start at his sharp, high cheekbones, kissing each one, and then kiss his mouth, lick his lower lip, the upper. Take his tongue into my mouth and suckle it. Kiss his throat. His chest. Flick my tongue over each of his nipples, run it along the grooves under his pectoral muscles, through the ridges of his rippling abs. Down, down. To his hips. Palm his hips, flatten my hands on his belly. Run them up, smooth them back down to his thighs. Kiss down one, as he did mine. Proving to him that his body is as beautiful to me as mine is to him. I memorize him. The taste of him. The sight of him, stretched out beneath me, his lean body hard and radiating lust, oozing masculine sex appeal. I take him in my hand, caress his shaft. Take my time with that too, enjoying the feel of him in my hand more than I have ever enjoyed anything in my life. More than junk food, more than freedom, more than antique books, just touching him and kissing him is better than anything I’ve ever known.

I am overwhelmed, so full of joy and exuberance and gratitude and raw fierce lust that I cannot contain it. I sink my mouth around him, sudden and fast. Take him deep into my mouth, opening my throat and tasting him on my tongue. He groans, shudders. I back away and replace mouth with fist, smearing my saliva on him. Stroke him. Faster and faster.

Feel him tremble under me, feel his moans in his chest, hear them echo in the bedroom.