Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(31)

“London.”

“Shhhh.”

“God. You’re so hot.”

I move over him, slowly. “Shhhh.”

“What?” he says, running his hands down my ribs and stopping at my stomach. “You expect me to be quiet right now?”

“You talk too much,” I say, laughing into his mouth.

It’s like he has some sort of superpower and already knows exactly how I like to be kissed. Open mouth, soft at first with just a hint of tongue. Biting kisses that move from teasing to frantic in the span of a few seconds. He pulls away for a breath just when I want him to, sometimes blinking up to catch my eyes or even just to look at my mouth. He kisses me like he still can’t believe he’s doing it.

I adjust the position of my knees and we both gasp as I bottom out, my ass coming to rest on his thighs. He’s so deep like this. “Oh my God,” I say, and press my forehead to his shoulder while I catch my breath.

His palms smooth down to my waist and he presses his thumbs into my hip bones. “I want you in my bed,” he says through a grunt, moving me, rocking me faster and then slow again. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and down his chest and I can feel the tips of each individual finger where he grips me. “I want to see you better, spread you out under me. I like the way you look. I like the way you smell. And f*ck, Logan, I love the way you feel.”

“Such a poet.”

“You want poetry? I could write a f*cking sonnet about the way your tits are bouncing right now. I want to burn the way they look into my brain.”

He leans in to bite me, and I can’t help laughing again. “You are such a boy.”

“Because I like the way you look naked?”

“Among other things,” I tell him, kissing his lips. “Shh. You’re distracting me.”

“I’m trying to have a moment here.”

“With my breasts?”

“Your breasts.” He sits up, nips at my neck before sucking gently. “Your neck, your mouth, your whole body.” His lips trail closer to mine, brushing across. “You.”

We kiss for long minutes and my movements narrow into small rocks forward and back, just feeling him inside me. I try to keep it together, try not to moan into his mouth or cry out when he reaches down and his thumb starts moving in practiced circles over my clit. I’m trying to keep this about sex, but the way he’s looking at me, the way he feels—it’s no longer that simple.

I dig my hands into all that thick hair, steering his mouth back to my breast and watching as he captures my nipple with his tongue. He bares his teeth, sliding them over the sensitive skin and I cry out, feeling him twitch inside me

“You like that.” It isn’t a question, it sounds like a revelation, like relief.

I nod, breath trapped in my throat and eyes locked on his expression of hope, like he wants to please me. Like it means everything to him right now.

“Can you feel it all the way down to your clit when I suck you here?”

I nod again, gasping at the tightening in my belly when he licks and sucks harder, growling around my skin.

His cheeks are pink and he’s flushed all the way down his neck. He’s watching me, watching us, the way we move together and the place where our bodies connect. I follow his gaze and look down between us, the way the muscles of his flat stomach clench, where the beads of sweat have collected in the hollow of his collarbones. I circle my hips and he groans, tightening his grip where he holds me.

“Jesus Christ. Do that again,” he says, and I do, moving over him and using the back of the couch for leverage. I could get drunk on his sounds, the moans and whimpers when he thinks he might be getting close, the shaky breaths when he holds off to wait for me.

Luke smacks a hand against the cushion before he throws his head back. “I’m so . . . I’m . . .” he says between short lungfuls of air. His fingers return to my clit with renewed enthusiasm, and he looks up at me. “Like this?”

I can only nod, eyes closed as I try and chase down this feeling, like a cord has been wrapped around my spine, connected to my nipples and where he fits inside me. It tightens with each rock of my hips, each thrust of his.

Tighter.

Tighter.

“Oh, God,” I say, the feeling spreading outward.

Tighter.

Luke pulls me down so our foreheads meet and it’s so intimate, I’m not sure whether I want to wrap my arms around him, or push away.

He changes the tempo of our movements and I want to scream but he’s suddenly so deep and I’m so close . . .

“Fuck, I can feel it. I feel it,” he says, eyes suddenly wide. “Yes. London.”

It’s like my muscles stop working as my orgasm twists through me. My skin is too hot but covered in goose bumps, my nipples hard and just shy of sore. I can’t think. Luke must sense the moment it happens because he takes over, grip tightening to the point of pain. He presses up into me, hard and fast and over and over until he’s coming with a long, helpless groan against my shoulder. When the haze finally recedes, I open my eyes to find him stretched out beneath me, arms splayed across the back of the couch, chest rising and falling and his torso slick with sweat.

I feel like I’ve just been on a run with Harlow, the kind where she makes us keep going and going until I can’t feel my legs and even my fingers are numb. My muscles feel wrung-out and my heart is pounding in my chest, echoing in my ears. I can’t catch my breath.