Exposed (Madame X, #2)(40)

So good.

I’m still touching myself too, and I’m reaching climax as well, but that’s subsumed beneath the tsunami of ecstasy I feel watching him.

Sweat dots his upper lip, his forehead. Shines on his chest. His hands are on my thighs for balance as he thrusts up into my fist, seeking more.

“Oh . . . Oh f*ck. Isabel . . .” His voice is ragged, guttural.

I pull him closer, and he rises up, plants a knee on either side of my body, and now I can taste him and touch him at the same time. I take him into my mouth and stroke him at the root and finger my clit and groan, and he gasps. I feel him tense, feel his body tighten.

“I’m coming, Is . . .” he groans.

“Mmmmmmm.” It’s all I can manage, because I’m writhing with my own climax and because I’m too carried away with his to form words, and because I’ve got his cock filling my mouth.

He thrusts, and I like it.

I taste him.

But I want to watch.

I back away and he’s kneeling upright, grasping the headboard of the bed while I’m lying down. I stare up at him, and his eyes fly open to meet mine. I finger myself and feel climax rip through me, and it’s a hot knife slicing me apart.

I’m bucking and writhing, coming, coming, coming, moaning, whimpering.

And then Logan comes.

He grunts, and his seed gushes out of him. I watch it spurt between my fingers and slide over my knuckles and splash onto my breasts. He watches this as well, and groans, thrusts hard into my hand, and I lean up and take him into my mouth and suckle as he grunts a curse, thrusting into my mouth.

Orgasming still, now shooting his come onto my tongue.

I taste his essence, smoky and thick and salty, and I like it.

He’s got more, and I want to watch him come some more.

So I let him fall out of my mouth and caress his length, plunge my fist to his base and pump him hard, and another jet of semen shoots out of him and onto my breasts in a white-hot sticky line on my skin.

So much come, and looking up at him, watching him thrust, I see that he’s not yet done.

I mouth his cock and taste skin and semen, take him deep and suck and stroke his root and cup his testicles and touch him and suck him and take the come that lands on my tongue and swallow it and suckle him yet more.

I let him fall free one last time and he sags, and a droplet leaks out of him; with his eyes on mine, I lean forward, extend my tongue, and lick it away.

“Jesus, Isabel,” he growls.

“You taste amazing, Logan.”

I have my hand around him, still, and don’t want to let go.

He’s lowering himself to lie down, though, so I have to let go. A moment of silence then, wild and fraught, as we lie side by side.

He gets up, leaves without explanation. I hear water running, and he returns with a washcloth. I reach for it, but he just shakes his head, takes my hand in his, and gently, tenderly washes his sticky, drying come off my fingers. And then he folds the washcloth and wipes, cleaning me in gentle strokes of the warm cloth, perhaps with a little extra attention for my breasts, holding each one in turn and making sure they are both wiped clean. He leaves once more, tosses the washcloth into the bathtub, and returns to the bed, sliding under the blankets beside me.

I remain where I am, lying next to him, a couple of inches of space between us.

I have no clue what comes next. I want more. I want him. I want us. But I don’t know what he wants and I don’t know how to ask, and I don’t know what normal people do in circumstances like these.

He looks at me. “What are you still doing way over there?”

I frown, puzzled. “Way over where? I’m right beside you.”

“Exactly. Too far away.”

His arm scoops under me, and I’m rolled into him, my face pressed against his chest. I’m on his left side, and I can hear his heart beating: thrumthrum-thrumthrum-thrumthrum; a timpani, hammering under my ear. His arm tightens, pulls me closer yet. Lifts me, settles me bodily on top of him so I’m half on him, half on the bed. He cradles me, his arm a taut band over my shoulder, across my back, his big wide rough palm cupping a globe of my bottom. My thigh lies over his. My hand nestles on his chest.

“Better,” he says.

I can’t breathe.

This is too much. This is too right.

I don’t deserve this. This is too much happiness, too much perfectness, too much wonderment, too too too much. Ecstasy has me seized in crushing talons, making it hard to breathe. I’m near tears.

He’s holding me.

Just holding me.

I listen to his heartbeat and try to settle myself, try to calm my frantic heart.

And of course, Logan is tuned in to my plight. “Isabel, honey. You’re shaking like a leaf. What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“Bzzzzzt,” he says, a sound like a buzzer. “Wrong answer. Try again.”

“It’s too much.”

“What is?”

“This.” I pat his chest. “Us. You holding me. I don’t know how to—it’s too good. I like it too much. I want it too much.”

“How can something be too good?”

“It just is. I don’t know.” I am so emotional, suddenly. Gripped by something so intense I cannot fathom its scope. I am near tears and can’t seem to stop them, even though the last thing I want is to cry after such a sensual, sexual, incredible experience.