Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(11)

Finally, she slides me lower. I sense the dip, the invitation, and ease my way inside.

She holds her breath but doesn’t make a sound. I want to roar. She’s warm—crazy warm—and wetter now. I have to ease in and out, an inch at a time because she’s small, and I worry I’m hurting her but her hands find my ass and she pulls me forward, rocking with me to get me deeper, more, all the way.

I groan when I’m finally there, but she’s quiet. She’s so quiet even with the clench of her all around me; with the way I’m squeezed inside her, how can she not make a single sound? I’m all the way in, grinding to get the feel of her, mouth on her neck, her tits. I feel unleashed, ravenous.

I could lose myself. I could f*ck hard.

But, God, when she rolls her hips under me I know I could also f*ck slow.

Whatever the hell she wants, it’s so good and her tits pressed to my chest make me rub against her, skin to skin.

“It’s okay?” I ask, quietly checking in.

She nods, swallowing. “It’s good.”

I groan, pulling back and then moving back into her.

The slow drag out, long easing in.

So good.

She smells good, too.

Hands all over my back, up my neck.

Logan’s quiet, but it feels good for her, I can tell. I sense it in the way her fingers tangle in my hair, the rolling of her hips and tightening of her nipples. She’s had good sex before; she knows what her body wants. She wants deep, she wants me pressed right up against her and grinding. She’s not getting shy now that we’re getting down to it. No, she’s taking and taking and taking.

Women sometimes talk. Either that or I do. But here we’re just breathing; there’s only the sound of inhales, forceful exhales, and the shifting of our bodies together. And then the involuntary gasps we both make when I start moving faster, and harder. Her breasts move beneath me, hips rise from the couch. She rides me from below, showing me the speed, the pattern she needs.

That she remains so quiet means her orgasm comes as a total shock to me; it comes like the crashing of a wave and when I hear the noise she makes—a tight, relieved cry—I am completely frantic: I need to hear it again, and longer.

I ride it out for her until she seems to deflate under me in relief, but then I’m rolling onto the floor, carrying her with me so that she straddles my hips.

“Take,” I whisper, hoping she understands. I want to give her every drop of relief tonight.

The way her eyes shine when she looks at me tells me she needs this. She loves sex. I mean, holy hell, why a woman with this degree of experience and sensuality doesn’t f*ck whenever she wants is beyond me. She rolls her hips, starting to ride me, and then she’s off on a new tear, working herself closer to that tipping point again. Her skin grows shiny with sweat, fingers press sharply into my chest, up my neck, gripping me. Almost threatening. It’s got to be better this second time, her body says. Bigger. Longer. Harder.

“Oh, shit,” she says on an exhale and there—f*ck—there it is. Wild and tight and wet, so f*cking wet she’s all around me pushing herself farther onto my cock. I groan, fighting the way my body wants to give in, wants to come so hard I’ll see stars.

But I know we’re not done here.

I find myself staring at the smooth arch of her throat, the grace of her straight collarbone as she rides me slower now, coming down. I study the quick rise and fall of her breasts as she gasps for air. She’s completely given herself over to it. To me. For this perfect moment she trusts me.

She’s beautiful, smart, and a little defensive, but even so, she’s here, letting me feel her. I want to deserve this. And I worry I’m going to come hard and wild, and still be left unsatisfied because the tiny taste she’s giving me isn’t going to be enough.

“You’re good?” I manage, running my hands up her waist and higher, cupping her breasts.

She lifts her head with effort, eyes hungry. “I want you behind me,” she says.

Without a word, I lift her off me, help her onto her knees, and then slide back in, unable to keep from groaning, low and long.

I’m obsessed with the muscular lines in her back, the way her clit feels under the slide of my fingers. I’m obsessed with the way she moves no matter what position she’s in, with the sound she makes when she comes.

I know when this is over I’ll drive her home—because she won’t want to stay. But right now, the sex is good—it’s so good—and every time she turns her brain off long enough for her body to take over and collapse into orgasm, I feel some tiny shell chip away.

I want to see her tender pieces.

Fuck. It’s been forever since I wanted tender.



* * *



“WHERE’D YOU DISAPPEAR to last night?” Dylan asks.

I close the car door and lock it behind us remotely. “Went home with someone. What did you guys do?”

“Went back to Dan’s.” Dylan pulls the door open to Fred’s. “I don’t know how to describe the weed he had other than to say it made Jenny bark like a dog.”

I follow him in, not sure I heard his answer correctly over a hundred people yelling, and the loud, pounding music: “Did you say Jenny barked like a dog?”

He nods, his wild blond hair bobbing with the movement, and leads us to the bar. My chest tightens when I see Logan there, working. She looks hot: hair piled high and messy on her head, arms bare in a white tank top that shows off the shape of her perfect tits, a face free of makeup save for her shiny mouth. I feel like an odd mix of idiot and * for not anticipating that she might be here tonight.