Exposed (Madame X, #2)(68)

“I can’t, baby,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “I can’t change anything.”

“Yes, you can. You’ve changed me.”

I have to have him. I have to feel him. I can’t do this anymore, this futile childish pretending that we’re not going to have sex, this notion that we can edge closer and closer and not really go all the way.

We’re kneeling on the bed, in the center, up on our knees, wrapped up, mouths crashing and slashing and mashing, his arms around me, fingers dimpling my spine and scraping lower to grab my ass with fierce strength, and I’m up against him, breasts flattened against the hard wall of his chest. I feel his cock between us, a thick hard hot ridge against my belly. I grip a tangled fistful of his blond hair and force him closer and reach between us to clutch his erection and smear the messy leaking fluid on my palm and down his length. He moans, and I eat that sound. I taste and swallow it, and stroke him again and suck down his breath and devour his sigh.

I lean into him, and he falls to his back. “Isabel—”

“I can’t—Logan, I’m dying without this. I’m dying without you.” I whimper this admission to his jaw near his ear, and then I kiss where the words were.

His legs flail on the bed, and I know he feels the desperation too. He’s fighting this, fighting himself, fighting me. I’m fighting it all too, but we’re both losing.

I’m on him, straddling him, knees in the mattress beside the trim wedge of his hips, my ass in the air, need oozing out of my core. I angle, and his erection nudges my opening.

“Isabel, oh f*ck, Isabel. Is. God, goddamn it.” He is a tortured soul. He can’t resist now, either. “God . . . damn it.”

We are doomed to this sin together. Slaved to this, chained to this.

“Look at me, Logan,” I beg. He wrenches his eyes open, fiery indigo spearing into my soul. “Don’t you dare look away.”

We both know why we’re not supposed to do this. Why it feels wrong, even though it feels so right.

I was just with Caleb.

I force the reminder upon myself. It shows in my eyes, I’m sure, and Logan sees it.

“I’m with you, baby.” His gaze is bold and strong and unwavering.

We are frozen in this moment, him about to pierce me so perfectly, our eyes locked. Tensed, taut. Neither of us looks away.

My hands are flattened on his chest, my hair loose and draping in a thick inky black curtain, and now it blocks out the whole world as I lean down and kiss him.

Oh, heaven, the beauty of the kiss is endless and wild. It makes my heart soar to tangle my tongue against his and to taste my essence on his lips and lick it away; it makes my soul sing to feel the raging need in the power of his mouth on mine, makes my entire being vibrate with pure and ecstatic joy to give myself over to this, to him, to us.

I don’t give him a warning. I don’t give myself a warning.

I sink down on him as we kiss, plunge my tongue into the warmth of his mouth as he surges up into me and fills me and spreads me to stretching aching burning beautiful fullness. I can’t help but weep at the glory of this.

“Oh my god, Logan, Logan . . .” I sob.

“Fuck, oh my f*cking god in heaven,” he breathes, and his hands fly to my hips, soar over my ass, my thighs, my back, scouring every inch of my flesh he can reach, “Isabel, my Isabel, god, you feel so f*cking perfect.”

There is nothing but this. I am impaled by him, seated fully upon him. I can’t move. I can breathe, for once in my life I feel like I can finally breathe. He is my breath. He fills me to stretching and I am mad with delirium from it. It burns, the way he fills me. There is nothing like it, has never been anything to match the utter perfection of his body inside me. We are mated, made for each other.

“Isabel . . .” he groans.

And I remember he was so close to coming before, when he was on the other side of the room; he’s held it back, and now he has to be in pain from the need to release, the need to move.

“I can’t hold back much longer,” he whispers, his grip on my body slipping and shifting from hips to buttocks to waist, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch me hold me feel me more.

“Don’t hold back. Never hold back. Give me all of you, Logan.”

I drive my body down his, letting the aching tips of my breasts trail down his chest. My hips flex until my thighs are flush with my torso, and he’s crushed so deep into me it almost hurts. My lips touch his chest. My tongue flutters over his nipple. I nip at his throat. Cup his face in my palms and kiss his chin and the corner of his mouth and I lick his upper lip, taste the sweat there.

“Make love to me, Logan.” I say it out loud, not whispering it, not hiding the crazed needy desperation in my voice, not hiding the pain and the conflict and the self-loathing.

I glide up his body, slipping him out of me almost all the way, and I don’t pause, don’t wait for his response; I pull his face to mine and kiss his mouth with all the starvation-fervor I possess, and I sink down on him. He groans into our kiss and thrusts up, and our hip bones collide like ships crashing prow to prow. His hands grip hard into the meat of my ass, a double handful of my buttocks, and he pulls me against him, even though I’m as fully seated on him as I can get, but we both need more, need him deeper.

I plant my feet against the outside of his thighs and let my weight rest on his chest, and I cling to his shoulders for balance, and I pull back, like a rubber band stretched to its apex, and then I crash down on him and I scream his name—“LOGAN!”—like a curse, like a blessing, like a prayer, like a benediction, and his voice is raised as well, raised with mine, shouting with me. He takes control then, without flipping me or switching positions. He takes my hips where they crease to meet thigh and plunges me down and pushes me up and sets the rhythm. He’s shiny with sweat, a glistening sheen on his tan skin. His eyes bore into mine. We do not look away. I stare into him as he thrusts up to fill me, and my eyelids flutter with pleasure when he slides out but I do not close them, do not look away.