Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(78)
I watch her pull her lower lip between her teeth, thinking this over before she whispers, “Okay. I could touch you, too?”
“Me first.” I smile into a kiss to her neck, and inch my fingers under the waistband of her underwear. My hand moves slowly over her pubic bone, farther down . . . and she hisses when I spread her, sliding over her clit and lower and—
“Fuck,” I gasp, pressing my forehead to hers. “Fuck, you are—”
“I know. I know.” She slides her hand around the back of my neck, pulling me down, closing her eyes, working her mouth over mine, working my mouth open. But I want to see her while I do this. Want to witness everything. I give her one kiss and then move back, watching her face as I pull the slickness up and over her clit, circling,
around
around
around
and her eyes fall half closed, jaw goes slack, hips arch into my hand.
“Is that nice?”
She exhales a quiet, “Yeah.”
I pull my hand out of her underwear. Her eyes shoot open and she reaches blindly for my arm. “Don’t. Don’t—”
“Shh.” I kiss her. “Trust me.” Showing her my intentions, I slide her underwear down her hips and off her legs.
Relief coats her expression, and she laughs a little, stretching to kiss me.
I run my hand over her stomach. Her knees are bent, legs parted slightly. Just enough for my hand, but not for my full attention.
“Spread your legs.”
She hesitates, and I kiss her, saying again, “Spread your legs. Wide. Please. I want to be able to see.”
With a blush, she lowers her knees to the sides, focusing on my face as I reach forward, touching her.
Something in my chest seems to drop, pulled by a weight in my stomach that makes me feel wild and breathless as I look at her, so open for me. I tease her, slow at first, exploring, telling her I’m patient in every way she needs me to be, but when she reaches for me, running her hands over my bare chest and down, I know she needs more. Faster.
Steady, steady friction.
She whimpers, tugging at the back of my neck, wanting my mouth on hers but I shake my head, telling her I need to watch, I want her to just feel my hand. In truth, I want her wild and a little unhinged, I like the way she finally seems to be all in, needing my weight over her and my kiss on her mouth. I want her begging for my tongue and my cock and my fingers.
She growls a little in frustration but the way she holds her breath when I speed up, her tight gasp when I slide two fingers into her—it’s everything. The entire time, she watches my face; I can only feel it, because I’m watching my hand on her, reeling over the way my fingers come out soaked, the way her skin flushes, the way her legs shake as she gets close, hips arching from the bed and into my hand as she starts to tighten, coming with a long, sharp cry of relief.
She shivers under my touch when I pull my fingers out, and run them up and down the soft, wet skin.
Her eyes are closed, arms bent beside her head and fingers curled in her hair.
“You alive, Logan?”
“No.” She giggles and I bend, drawing the tip of my tongue over her dimple. I’ve wanted to do that forever.
My mouth moves over hers and she opens to me, soft and warm, taking my tongue, my sounds. I want to claw my way out of my skin and into hers somehow, in love, in desperation for more of this. I still don’t want to f*ck again yet, but my body screams at my brain.
Her eyes come open and she smiles when she realizes I’ve been watching her as she kisses me.
“Can I . . . ?” she asks, lightly skirting her hand down my stomach. To my belt. I watch as she unfastens it, pushes it aside.
I let out a shaking “Yeah,” adding a very breathless “Yeah, okay.”
London laughs at my oddly desperate restraint, and I can’t blame her. But I mean, f*ck. I don’t want to say no. I can’t say no. Not with her naked next to me. Not with the feel of her clenching still echoing down my fingers. If she doesn’t touch me, I’m just going to lock myself in the bathroom and jerk off.
She works the zipper down, watching her own hands coax the fabric of my dress pants open. It kills me, it really does. She pushes my pants down and I kick them off before returning to her. Her shoulder lifts and then pushes down as she digs into my boxers, finally looking up at my face. “Come here.”
She means the part of me she’s taking into her hand, the part she’s remembering with her fingertips. And f*ck, I don’t know why it’s so hot that she’s said that, that she didn’t mean for me to come closer, to kiss her, but it is. It’s sweet, and reassuring, and sexy, and I want to let the words burst free—I f*cking love you—because it’s exactly what I feel watching her do this, but it seems like the worst time to say it again.
It’s ironic, but I’m stubbornly monogamous, I realize this now. When I commit, I go deep, unable to even imagine letting someone do to me what London is doing now. She’s just touching my dick, but it’s hers. Every cell in my body belongs to her. Even the tiny image of Mia in my thoughts as I test out this impulse—the nanosecond flash of being with her instead of London right now—is wrong enough for me to want to drown it with the feel of London’s mouth on mine, the pleasure of soft, deep kisses as her hand moves up and down—at first reacquainting and then with intent: firmer, faster, her focus just where I need it. I moan into her mouth and she pulls back.