Exposed (Madame X, #2)(76)

“Logan—Logan . . . oh my f*cking god, Logan . . .”

“Touch your *, Isabel. Right now, while you’re coming all over me.” He growls this into my ear.

I wrap one hand around his neck and lean back. He does the same, allowing some room between our joined bodies. His hands lift me, press my ass up and forward, and he continues to surge up into me, demonstrating incredible, breathtaking power and stamina. I reach between our bodies and touch my middle and ring fingers to my clit, just a touch at first. I groan and feel my still-undulating, clenching climax twist and ratchet higher, hotter, harder. God, this. I know exactly how to make myself come hard and fast. So I do. I find the perfect pressure, the perfect circling rhythm. Logan thrusts into me, and I’m whimpering now, sweat sliding down my temple and between my breasts.

Electricity, lighting heat; there are not enough synonyms for the power that flows through me. I come immediately, and it is as if I am being turned inside out, ripped open and spread apart and tangled up. I feel Logan beneath me and in me and around me, his teeth on my nipples and his hands on my ass and his cock inside my * and his hard body blocking out anything but him, anything but us, anything but this climax like a galaxy of stars going nova all at once.

I don’t slow or stop, and neither does he.

I didn’t know orgasms could exist thus, one after another until each explosion is part of the last, a chain of detonations. I didn’t know my mind could splinter from the magnitude of this physical and emotional experience, my soul bursting into fractal shards so the soft vulnerable essence of who I am is exposed and melted and merged with Logan’s.

Because he too is fragmenting. Coming apart. Going mad, in this moment. Letting loose all that boils within. His eyes fly open at the moment of his release, and I do not look away, I stare into his very heart as he pours himself into me. I see moisture pooling in his eyes, even as his voice is growling with predatory ferocity, even as his purely male and powerfully masculine body unleashes his orgasm. I feel him break apart.

And I am there to catch every piece and puzzle them together with mine. I kiss him as he comes.

I feel something break inside me, something hot and wet squirting out of me at the exact moment Logan cries out. It is almost embarrassingly involuntary, as if something literally broke open inside my core, drenching both of us where we are joined. I know Logan felt it.

His thighs tremble, and his knees give out. I find my feet as he crumples, and I am so desperate to remain connected to him in this moment that when he lies down on the floor right there in the hallway, I lie on top of him and take his manhood in my hand and play with it as it softens, cradle his heavy balls in my palm and caress those too. Kiss his chest and his chin, his cheek and his lips, his throat and the outer shell of his ear.

“Jesus, Isabel.” He is breathless, gasping, pouring sweat. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know anything could feel like that.”

“Me neither.”

After a few minutes, he shifts beneath me. “As much as I love having you on top of me, babe, this floor isn’t exactly the most comfortable thing to lie on.”

I slide off him, stand up, and offer him my hand. He takes it, grinning, and I put all my strength and weight into lifting him off the floor. He’s shaky still, sweating, breathing hard.

“Good thing I never skip leg day,” he says.

I am reminded, now that the adrenaline and sexual high is wearing off, that I’m sore from my own workout. “You amaze me, Logan.”

He shakes his head. “It’s you, Isabel. It’s all you.”

I’m not sure what that means. Only that the way he says it makes my heart melt all over again.

“Now we’re both all sweaty,” I say.

“And you just took a shower.” He twists on the hot water, steps in.

I step in after him. I wish I had something cute and quippy to say, but I don’t. I can only lean under the hot spray and let my hands soar over his body, let my eyes close and let him wash me. Let him scrub me, taking far more time than is really needed to get me clean. And when he’s done washing me, it’s my turn to run the bar of soap over his wet, slippery skin and take all the time in the world to simply appreciate the beauty of his body with my hands.

“We’d better get out soon,” he says, “or this is going to turn into round two.”

The water still runs hot, and I am still afire with barely sated need. He’s woken something in me, I realize. An insatiable voracity.

I lean my back against the marble under the shower head, spread my stance wide, feet far apart. Urge him to his knees. Tangle my hands in his hair and pull his face against my core, writhe my slit against his mouth and keep him buried there until I come.

Again and again and again.

There is no end to the number and the ways that this man can make me come.

And when I’m limp and panting, I let myself collapse to my knees. I remember what he said he wanted to do to me, when this all started. He’s hard, by this time. Wonderfully, gloriously hard. Swaying in front of me, wet with shower water. Wet with need. I lick the water away, swipe after swipe of my tongue up his length. Sink my mouth onto him and suck until he’s gasping, and then back away. Cup my breasts with both hands and lift them, lean against him. Fit his cock into the narrow space between them and then press them together. He thrusts, and the tip protrudes from between the taut globes, and I take it into my mouth.