Exposed (Madame X, #2)(75)
“It’s burned into my brain,” he says. “I was so close to just . . . taking you. A flick of my fingers and my jeans would have been off, and I’d have been inside you.”
“That’s what I want, Logan.”
His eyes bore into mine, and I can almost sense his erection burgeoning. I don’t look down to see it, but I can just . . . sense it. I wait for him. He pushes his body against mine, but instead of stopping when we’re flush, he keeps pushing. Until I’m forced to step backward. God, yes. His cock is thick and full. Digs into my belly. Warm, and soft, yet so hard. He keeps walking, and I’m pushed backward another step, until the cold plaster of the wall touches my shoulder blades and buttocks. My head thumps gently. His hand finds mine, right on left, fingers tangling. Left on right, palms mating. He lifts my hands over my head, presses the backs of my hands against the wall. He dips at the knees, feathers a whisper-soft kiss against my lips, another, and a third, and then he bites my upper lip until it hurts. I gasp, and he nips my lower lip. Pulls back, and I lean in to seek a kiss, but he dodges, grins at my mewl of frustration. When I think he won’t kiss me, he does, surging closer and claiming my mouth with sudden ferocity. Yet once I find the rhythm of the kiss and sink into it, he pulls back. Bends at the knee, nudges the plump softness of his cock against the juncture of my thighs. I spread them apart, gasping with willing need. He stares into my eyes, hesitates a beat, and then gives a roll of his hips. I feel him punch against me, glans rubbing deliciously against labia. I pant, wanting him in me.
“God, Logan,” I breathe.
“How do you want it, Isabel?”
He keeps my hands pinned over my head; our fingers are mated, turning this intimate and loving rather than controlling. I am alive with excitement, wired with need. He rubs his chest against mine, and his chest hair scratches my sensitive skin, my nipples stuttering against his pectorals. Rubs his belly against mine, his cock an iron bolt between our bodies. Kisses my throat, and I tilt my head up to welcome more of that, which he gives me, lips on my throat, just under my jaw, down the outside of my neck, over the pulsing hollow at the base. He bites my earlobe and works his hips, and I feel his erection find my slit. I gasp, lean my shoulder blades against the wall, and widen my stance.
“You want it like this?” He slides into me with exquisite gentility, masterful slowness. Once, twice. So slow, so tender. “Or . . . like this?”
He pulls out. Straightens. Palms my cheeks and kisses me, desperately, fiercely, unendingly. I cannot breathe for the demanding eroticism of the kiss, the way he owns my mouth and dominates my breath and takes over my entire soul and mind and body with just his mouth, his lips and tongue.
I am abruptly airborne. There is no warning, no transition. Just a release of my hands, and his palms under my buttocks and my legs winding automatically around his trim waist.
“FUCK!” I scream. The vulgar epithet is ripped out of me.
He is in me, crashing into me. The moment I left the ground, his cock slammed up into me with sudden power and I was left utterly breathless at the sudden onslaught, his erection stretching me to a sweet burn. He lifts me again, and then lowers me. This time, it is gentle. A reminder, I think.
“Like this?” he asks. Demanding an answer.
“No,” I whisper.
His teeth nip and pluck at my skin, biting the flesh on the slope of my breast, at the side of my neck, worrying my nipple with searing roughness. He grips my buttocks in his hands and spreads me apart and lifts me up and lowers me, once more, gently. Thrusting into me, gently.
He slams his mouth onto mine with a sharp slash of teeth on lip and his tongue slashes mine and he . . .
There is no other word for it:
He f*cks me.
His hips flex and his cock pounds into me roughly. His hands grip my ass with bruising force, splaying me wide so he can f*ck deeper. And then his mouth leaves mine and finds my breasts. My tits. He laves them, licks them, not just my nipples but the slope and the undersides and my areolae, licking and kissing. All the while, he plunders me roughly, almost savagely.
“Like this?” he asks, his voice dark and guttural. Rougher than it has ever been.
“Yes, Logan, god yes.” I cling to his neck, his shoulders. “Don’t stop. Keep—keep f*cking me just like this.” I feel a bolt of embarrassment when that slips out of me, but then Logan makes a low grumbling growl and suckles my nipple harder and his cock drives into me harder, and I feel a blast of pride.
Oh, so perfect. This. I bury my hands in his hair, grip it tight and hold on. I ride him. I let myself go. Lean back to brace against the wall and moan wantonly, drive my hips against his, seek more and more and more. Ride him furiously, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging his mouth against my tits, encouraging him to suck and bite and lick them yet more. When his teeth pinch sharply at my nipple, I yelp breathily, and he does it again, taking my nonverbal encouragement for what it is.
I savor each fragment of sensation: his mouth wild on my tits, his cock sliding into me, stretching me, his hands clenching my buttocks so hard I’ll have marks later—which I’ll treasure, I must be sure to tell him—lifting me up and lowering me down, doing so harder and harder with each thrust, until my clit is bumping against his base just so, and I’m crying out nonstop, whimpering in his ear, sobbing my ecstasy to the ceiling.
There is no stopping my orgasm. It is a freight train barreling through me, the earth splitting open under me. I cannot tamp the scream that erupts. I writhe on him, grip his hair so hard I know it must hurt but he only growls like the wolf he is, hard and lean and primal and fierce.