Exposed (Madame X, #2)(41)

But I sniffle, and I hate myself for it.

“Hey, hey.” He touches my chin, tilts my face up to look at him. “Is this good tears or bad tears?”

I can only shrug. “I don’t know. Not bad. That was so incredible, and now this.”

“Just let me hold you. It’s okay,” he breathes. “You can cry. It’s okay. Whatever you need, it’s okay. Just let me hold you.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how to what?” His lips brush mine, not a kiss, but a reminder of a kiss, a promise of a kiss to come.

“To let you hold me. This is all so new for me.”

He knows exactly what I mean, and he doesn’t like it. But he doesn’t say anything. Just tightens his arm around me, kneads his fingers into the muscle of my buttock, caresses it, reaches down to clutch one of the globes, smooths his hand over both, as if he just can’t get enough of touching my bottom.

And then he reaches out to the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed, opens it, pulls out a long black remote, and turns on the TV. Searches through something called Netflix and finds a movie. The one he’s told me about, What About Bob?

Naked, emotional, being held like I’ve never experienced before, the taste of his essence still in my mouth, his hands on my backside, his chest under my ear, we watch a movie together.

It’s silly, funny, ridiculous, cheesy, and wonderful.

When it’s over, he scoots off the bed. “Stay here.”

He doesn’t explain what he’s doing, so I remain where I am. He returns with four bottles of beer in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. He arranges the pillows behind our backs, and we sit up together, a thin sheet across our laps. He hands me a bottle of beer, sets the bag of chips in the space between my thigh and his, and brings up another movie.

P.S. I Love You, it’s called.

We drink our beer, and eat the greasy, unhealthy, and incredibly delicious chips.

And I cry.

Sob, actually.

So sweet, so sad, so romantic. I swoon, and push the bag of chips away and snuggle closer to Logan, and he wraps his arm around me again. This time, his palm finds my thigh, clutching it possessively, stroking now and then lower or higher, making me wonder in the back of my mind if he plans to touch me again, if he’ll steal his touch inward. I don’t quite tense, but I want to.

I’ve lost track of time, and I don’t care. I’m not tired at all. The sky is dark outside, and the world is quiet.

That’s not true, though; the world isn’t quiet, because there is no world. There is only this bubble of purity and perfectness and wonder, this bed, this man. Our skin, my scent on him, his smell on me. His taste in my mouth, a lingering memory of kisses shared. There is only this, and this is all I ever want. I beg the universe to let this last forever.

He fetches us each one more beer, and a carton of strawberries, which we eat by pinching the green leaves and biting beneath them.

I’m dizzy, a little drunk, and wildly happy.

He turns on The Day After Tomorrow, an apocalypse-scenario movie, and I like this one, too. It’s easy to watch, easy to relax into and not think about anything.

Except the man cradling me in his strong arms.

I’ve slunk lower in the bed, so my head is on his chest, my beer finished, and I don’t want any more. I just want to be here, watching movies with Logan, holding him and being held. My arm is across his hips. His fingers trace circles on my back, dare to my hip, dance over my bottom, slide up my spine, and steal lower again.

I find my hand skating over his stomach, under the flat sheet covering us. Seeking skin.

And then, with a glance up at him, I dare to touch him first. He smiles down at me, grips my backside, kneads it, teases a touch almost-but-not-quite between the cheeks, making me squirm and gasp. I have one hand around the hardening thickness of his cock, and I watch as it straightens, thickens, burgeons fully erect in my hand.

I don’t know what I want to do to him first. Everything. I want it all, and I want it now. I want to just hold him like this in my hand, to stroke him with my fingers until he comes over my knuckles and into my palm. I want to wrap my mouth around him and suck him until he’s exploding onto my tongue again. I want to lie beneath him and beg him to masturbate onto my breasts and onto my face. I want to climb astride him and put him into my core and ride him until we’re both spent and gasping.

I want all of that, and I don’t know where to start.

I just know I ache for needing him, for wanting his touch, that I’m desperate to watch and feel him explode because I can make him feel better than he’s ever felt.

“Logan,” I breathe. “I want everything with you.”

“I know,” he says. “I want it all with you, too. I want to f*ck you and love you and taste you and come on your tits. I want to lick your * until you’re begging me for more. I want to feel you shiver beneath me as we come together.”

I’m stroking him, long slow slides of my fingers around his cock. Watching the way my fingers splay around his flesh. Watching his skin move. Watching his hardness grow harder. I want him inside me.

He slides a finger into me, an unexpected but gentle touch, exploring my wet warmth. He strokes inside me, adds a second finger. Thrusts gently. Adds a third, the three fingers bunched together to fill me. His fingers slide in and out of me, and I have to close my eyes, because I’m focused on the feeling, utterly swept away by the feel of his touch within me. He drags my wetness over my clitoris and smears it in circles, and I moan, and he delves his fingers back into me.