Exposed (Madame X, #2)(66)

“So are you,” I say.

And he is. I spent a lot of time between drowsing examining his tattoos, trying to parse out the various images. Tracing the contours of his muscles with my fingers, watching him breathe.

“You need to put on a shirt. Or I need to be in a different room.” His voice is thick, low. He sits up, and I see that I’ve affected him. He twists away in an attempt to hide it, but I saw the erection in the tenting of his shorts.

“Do you have my dress somewhere?” I ask.

He stands up. “Yeah, I took it off you when I put you in bed. Thought you’d sleep better that way.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” I say, watching him. “But I don’t typically sleep in my bra. Rather uncomfortable. Maybe next time you can take that off me, too.”

He vanishes into his bedroom and returns with my dress. “I don’t know if I have the restraint for that.” He hands the garment to me. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. You want one before I do?”

I shake my head. “No. Thank you. I’m fine.”

He glances at me one last time, his gaze raking over my body with blatant desire and appreciation. And then he’s in his bathroom and I hear the shower going. It isn’t until a few minutes have passed that I remember the note he wrote himself and the questions it left me with. I decide to ask him. I prod open the door to the bathroom, smelling steam and soap. The shower has glass walls, so I can see him clearly, obscured only by a thick veil of swirling steam. His naked body is glorious, perfect, beautiful. I stare at him, watching him. He is facing the stream of water, one hand propped on the wall, the water beating down on his head and the back of his neck. He is leaned forward, spine concave.

It takes a moment to realize what he’s doing; his hand moves slowly up and down his massive erection. He’s masturbating. He doesn’t know I’m here, and I’m watching, silent, enthralled. Aroused. His eyes are closed, his jaw clenched. His posture speaks of internal torture, some great conflict. He is squeezing himself roughly, tightly. I watch, and think about how much more gentle I would be. I watch, and feel absolutely no guilt in this voyeurism. I should, but I don’t. Only pleasure. Heat billows through me, and wetness coats my core. I want to touch him. I want to peel off my underwear and slip into the shower with him, replace his hand with mine. I want to wrap my thighs around his waist and feel him inside me. Feel him take me, plunder me, ravage me. Ravish me.

I remember something he said, just outside this very bathroom: “Get dressed, X, before you discover how much self-control it’s taking to not . . . ravish you senseless.”

I want him to ravish me senseless.

But I dare not allow it. Not yet. Not with Caleb’s scent so fresh on my skin. I want Logan. Need him. Desperately need him. But I cannot have him. Not until I’ve broken Caleb’s hold on me.

God. Logan’s hand is a blur now, and his body rocks, straightens. His fist plunges around his cock, down to the root, and then back up once more. I’m mesmerized by this, watching the taut bubble of his buttocks flex as he thrusts into his fist, and the head of his cock turns almost purple with the brutal force of his grip. I couldn’t look away now even if I wanted to.

He groans, a quiet, constrained sound. And then his fist resumes its blurring pumping and he leans all his weight against the marble wall, face resting on his forearm, hips pushed forward. His body is bowed inward, spine arched. He is a vision of masculinity, all muscle and tattoos and hard flesh and angles.

I nearly come when he releases. It is a geyser of semen spouting out of him, splashing onto the marble and sluicing down the drain, washed away, and he continues his rough abuse of his member, pumping until another gush spurts out of the tip of him, and then he grips himself at the base and rubs there as a third fountain of white viscous liquid leaves him. And then he’s rubbing his palm over the head and squeezing, pumping, squeezing. Finally, he’s done.

And that’s when he looks at me.

His eyes narrow. His jaw flexes. “Isabel.”

His gaze flicks over my breasts, down. Fixes on my core. I glance down as well, and see that the silk covering my opening has darkened with dampness.

I meet his gaze unapologetically. Tilt my chin up.

And then I flee. Return to his bedroom and throw myself on the bed. God, what did I do? I watched Logan masturbate. Is he angry? I don’t know. Surprised, at the very least. Confused. He saw how aroused I was, watching him.

Oh god. Oh god. I close my eyes and I can see it still, his thick shaft in his hard fist, the head broad and plump, dark as he squeezes himself mercilessly. I can almost feel his cock in my hands, can almost feel his lips on my breasts. I moan and slide my fingers under the waist of my underwear, slip two fingers into myself. Delve into the juices and smear them against my clit. Bite my lip and let out a groan as lightning sizzles through me.

I hear the door and know he’s there. I don’t open my eyes yet. I arch up off the bed and shove away my panties. Kick them off. Spread my legs open and touch myself once more, let my fingers find a circling rhythm.

When I’ve found it, I open my eyes and stare at Logan through slitted lids. He’s leaning back against the closed bedroom door, a thick black towel wrapped around his waist, clutched closed in one hand. I don’t stop. I keep my eyes on him as I fondle my clit, slip my fingers into my slit and smear wetness over myself once more, circle, circle. I’m breathing hard, and my hips flutter. My throat closes, and then I groan involuntarily, heat tightening my muscles, tension coiling inside my belly, low.