Exposed (Madame X, #2)(73)

“I—” A million thoughts batter at the insides of my head, each clamoring for expression. “I want to do it myself.”

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

I swallow hard. Do I?

“Yes,” I say.

Logan seems to sag with relief after that single syllable. As if he knows how huge that is for me to admit. “Then let’s head out. I have a plan.”

“But my hair?”

He smiles at me. “Just trust me, Isabel. I’ll take care of you.”

Then, suddenly, we are both aware that I am standing in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around my torso. The end is tucked in at my cleavage, and now I have to clutch the thick cotton to keep it from falling open. And a glance behind tells me that he is nearly naked as well, wearing only a pair of loose shorts that hang at his hips, showing his sharp hip bones and the V-shaped indent of muscle low on his abdomen, teasing me with an almost-glimpse of his privates.

Our gazes lock in the mirror. My heart thrums. My gut tenses. My thighs clench, and heat rushes through me. Digit by digit, my fingers loosen their grip on the towel. This is déjà vu: me in a towel, Logan shirtless. This time, however, I know what lies beneath his shorts, and how it feels.

I release the towel, an intentional gambit. Stand naked in front of him. My breasts ache, my nipples harden. My flesh pebbles, tingles.

“Jesus, Isabel.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Just you. You are, literally, perfect.” His hands rest on the upper swell of my hips. “I’m standing here, staring at you, and I find it hard to believe that I get to touch you. That I get to kiss you. Make love to you. That I get to even look at you.”

Palms skate lower to cup my bottom, graze over the backs of my thighs, circle around front. I cease breathing as his touch drifts upward then. Misses my core by millimeters, carves over my hip bones to my belly. Up, cresting my diaphragm, and then his hands are full of my breasts, lifting them, kneading their softness and hefting their weight, and I’m not breathing still because his thumbs brush almost idly over my nipples. I have to gasp then, because he tweaks and twiddles my nipples until I’m thrusting my chest into his hands, and lightning seems tied by a live wire from my erect nipples to my core, each touch sending blazes of heat and lust coruscating through me.

“Your tits, Isabel. Fuck, they’re so goddamn incredible. I can’t . . . I can’t get enough of your tits. All of you, but especially your tits.” He squeezes them, almost roughly. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to f*ck your tits?”

The sudden and unexpected vulgarity has me panting with need. I love his dirty words. Even if it’s hard for me to speak that way, I love hearing it. “I would say . . .” I have to swallow my embarrassment. “I would tell you to do it.”

“You would?”

I lick my lips, because they’ve gone dry with need. All the liquid in my system has gathered between my thighs. “Yes. Do it, Logan.”

I spin in place. My eyes lock on his groin, on his erection outlined in his shorts, and it’s so large and prominent it’s nearly protruding from the elastic waistband. I reach out, slide a forefinger under the waistband and tug it away from his body. Expose him, inch by inch. Tug the silky, stretchy material away, tug it lower and lower. Until his entire massive erection is bared for me. Testicles tight and heavy, dark, nestled at the junction of his thighs. He leans down, lifts my breasts—lifts my tits . . . I like that word, the dirtiness of it, the lustful juvenility of it—and mouths my nipple. I watch, stare down at him, at his loose, tangled hair and my dark Spanish skin splashed by the golden of his fingers and the pink of his lips. Watch him capture my nipple with his lips and tug it away.

God, his mouth.

I bury my hands in his hair and bring him up to my face, take his mouth with mine. Demand his tongue. Devour his breath. When we cannot either of us breathe, I release him, and then we both watch as I finish baring him. He toes away the shorts, and we are nude together. Dark flesh and golden occupying the same space. I cradle his heavy testicles in my palm, and his breath catches. He watches me now, as I fondle him. Caress him. This is not to bring him to climax, but to show affection. It’s for me, selfishly. To feel him, to memorize the sensation of being able to touch as much as I want, to absorb the beauty of his body and know that I can have him, that he is for me. I spread my fingers around him, and my hand seems so small, so tiny, so delicate against the size and thickness and iron-hard rigidity of his member. My fingers do not meet when I wrap them around him, thus. I curl one hand around him, place my other above it, and there is ample flesh above my fingers and below them. I plunge my hands down, and he lets out an involuntary-sounding moan.

“Isabel, f*ck. What are you doing to me?”

“I’m just touching you, Logan.”

“You touch me . . . I don’t know how to put it.” He pauses to think, and to watch as my fists slide up and down his length. “You touch me as if you’ve never touched anyone before. Like you might never get to again.”

I wish I knew how to express the truth to him. I contemplate the most tactful wording, how to put this in a way that won’t require using a certain mood-killing name. “That is . . . pretty much exactly the truth, Logan. I’ve never had an opportunity to just . . . touch. Experience. Feel. To just . . . enjoy. And my life being what it is, I really do not know what the future holds. For me, for us . . . so I just want to savor every moment.” I sink to my knees in front of him. “I want to taste you, and remember the way you taste forever. I want everything with you.”