Exposed

by Jasinda Wilder

  I do not fall back asleep, but I am able to rest, to close my eyes and relax and let a sense of peace permeate me.

  I need this man so much it hurts.

  TWELVE

  I doze through to dawn.

  At some point past sunrise, Logan wakes suddenly and immediately, blinking up at me. "Isabel?"

  I smile down at him. "Hi."

  His eyes flit over my breasts. He struggles to pull his gaze away from them. "What . . . um. What happened?"

  "I had a nightmare. Woke up and you weren't there. So I came looking for you."

  "You had a nightmare, but I ended up asleep on your lap?" He doesn't seem inclined to move off my lap, however, and this is just fine with me.

  "When I have nightmares, they usually leave me in a panic attack. I can't breathe, can't move. It's hard to even think. But when I saw you asleep here, it just . . . calmed me. Having you sleep on me like this . . . it was perfect. It was what I needed."

  "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up."

  "But you were."

  "You know what I mean." He rubs his eyes, wipes sleep out of them. His eyes constantly return to my bare breasts. "God, you're gorgeous."

  "So are you," I say.

  And he is. I spent a lot of time between drowsing examining his tattoos, trying to parse out the various images. Tracing the contours of his muscles with my fingers, watching him breathe.

  "You need to put on a shirt. Or I need to be in a different room." His voice is thick, low. He sits up, and I see that I've affected him. He twists away in an attempt to hide it, but I saw the erection in the tenting of his shorts.

  "Do you have my dress somewhere?" I ask.

  He stands up. "Yeah, I took it off you when I put you in bed. Thought you'd sleep better that way."

  "Very thoughtful of you," I say, watching him. "But I don't typically sleep in my bra. Rather uncomfortable. Maybe next time you can take that off me, too."

  He vanishes into his bedroom and returns with my dress. "I don't know if I have the restraint for that." He hands the garment to me. "I'm gonna take a quick shower. You want one before I do?"

  I shake my head. "No. Thank you. I'm fine."

  He glances at me one last time, his gaze raking over my body with blatant desire and appreciation. And then he's in his bathroom and I hear the shower going. It isn't until a few minutes have passed that I remember the note he wrote himself and the questions it left me with. I decide to ask him. I prod open the door to the bathroom, smelling steam and soap. The shower has glass walls, so I can see him clearly, obscured only by a thick veil of swirling steam. His naked body is glorious, perfect, beautiful. I stare at him, watching him. He is facing the stream of water, one hand propped on the wall, the water beating down on his head and the back of his neck. He is leaned forward, spine concave.

  It takes a moment to realize what he's doing; his hand moves slowly up and down his massive erection. He's masturbating. He doesn't know I'm here, and I'm watching, silent, enthralled. Aroused. His eyes are closed, his jaw clenched. His posture speaks of internal torture, some great conflict. He is squeezing himself roughly, tightly. I watch, and think about how much more gentle I would be. I watch, and feel absolutely no guilt in this voyeurism. I should, but I don't. Only pleasure. Heat billows through me, and wetness coats my core. I want to touch him. I want to peel off my underwear and slip into the shower with him, replace his hand with mine. I want to wrap my thighs around his waist and feel him inside me. Feel him take me, plunder me, ravage me. Ravish me.

  I remember something he said, just outside this very bathroom: "Get dressed, X, before you discover how much self-control it's taking to not . . . ravish you senseless."

  I want him to ravish me senseless.

  But I dare not allow it. Not yet. Not with Caleb's scent so fresh on my skin. I want Logan. Need him. Desperately need him. But I cannot have him. Not until I've broken Caleb's hold on me.

  God. Logan's hand is a blur now, and his body rocks, straightens. His fist plunges around his cock, down to the root, and then back up once more. I'm mesmerized by this, watching the taut bubble of his buttocks flex as he thrusts into his fist, and the head of his cock turns almost purple with the brutal force of his grip. I couldn't look away now even if I wanted to.

  He groans, a quiet, constrained sound. And then his fist resumes its blurring pumping and he leans all his weight against the marble wall, face resting on his forearm, hips pushed forward. His body is bowed inward, spine arched. He is a vision of masculinity, all muscle and tattoos and hard flesh and angles.

  I nearly come when he releases. It is a geyser of semen spouting out of him, splashing onto the marble and sluicing down the drain, washed away, and he continues his rough abuse of his member, pumping until another gush spurts out of the tip of him, and then he grips himself at the base and rubs there as a third fountain of white viscous liquid leaves him. And then he's rubbing his palm over the head and squeezing, pumping, squeezing. Finally, he's done.

  And that's when he looks at me.

  His eyes narrow. His jaw flexes. "Isabel."

  His gaze flicks over my breasts, down. Fixes on my core. I glance down as well, and see that the silk covering my opening has darkened with dampness.

  I meet his gaze unapologetically. Tilt my chin up.

  And then I flee. Return to his bedroom and throw myself on the bed. God, what did I do? I watched Logan masturbate. Is he angry? I don't know. Surprised, at the very least. Confused. He saw how aroused I was, watching him.

  Oh god. Oh god. I close my eyes and I can see it still, his thick shaft in his hard fist, the head broad and plump, dark as he squeezes himself mercilessly. I can almost feel his cock in my hands, can almost feel his lips on my breasts. I moan and slide my fingers under the waist of my underwear, slip two fingers into myself. Delve into the juices and smear them against my clit. Bite my lip and let out a groan as lightning sizzles through me.

  I hear the door and know he's there. I don't open my eyes yet. I arch up off the bed and shove away my panties. Kick them off. Spread my legs open and touch myself once more, let my fingers find a circling rhythm.

  When I've found it, I open my eyes and stare at Logan through slitted lids. He's leaning back against the closed bedroom door, a thick black towel wrapped around his waist, clutched closed in one hand. I don't stop. I keep my eyes on him as I fondle my clit, slip my fingers into my slit and smear wetness over myself once more, circle, circle. I'm breathing hard, and my hips flutter. My throat closes, and then I groan involuntarily, heat tightening my muscles, tension coiling inside my belly, low.

  The towel around Logan's waist does nothing to disguise the evidence of his renewed erection.

  What are we doing? Why?

  I have no answers, but I know I'm not going to stop. And I know he won't either. But he'll get no closer, either. If he did, this would all change in a moment. A single touch, and it'd be over. He'd be here in this bed with me. And I want that, but like he said yesterday, I want it when it's right. And this may be wrong, or maybe it's not. I don't know. I just know I like his eyes on my body, and I wish it were his hands but I know if it were we'd be here for days and days, naked and tangled up and sweaty and getting so dirty together doing all the things I've wanted with Logan for so long it hurts, it seems, and yet after we emerged blinking and sore from this bed, I'd still have questions and problems and nothing would be different and nothing would be solved.

  So I choose to wait.

  And torture both him and myself with this intimate, voyeuristic display. I'm on display for him. Heels drawn up to my buttocks, slit open wide for him, wet and gleaming with my juices, heavy breasts weighted to either side of my body. I blink and glance at him, and he's naked. Towel dropped. Cock in hand. Impossibly hard again.

  "Pinch your nipples, Isabel." His voice floats to me. I pinch my nipple between finger and thumb, and a whimper leaves me. "Harder. Make it hurt."

  I squeeze hard, and lightning sears th
rough me, and my hips lift involuntarily.

  He's jerking himself roughly.

  I meet his gaze. "Softly, Logan. Gently. Not so rough." He gentles and slows his touch. "Yes. Like that."

  "Wish it were your hand," he murmurs.

  "Or my mouth," I say.

  "Or your pussy."

  "That would be so perfect. I'd squeeze around you. I'd squeeze you so hard you wouldn't be able to pull out of me."

  "If I were in your pussy, I'd never leave. I'd bury myself so deep . . ." He's pleasuring himself slowly, gently. But not the way I'd do it.

  God, I want to touch him.

  I remember the way he felt in my hands. In my mouth. His come on my skin, on my tongue.

  I'm crazed. At the edge of my control. Ready to abandon the pretense of all this and just pounce on him like a lioness leaping for her prey.

  "Why are we doing this to ourselves, Logan?" I ask, my voice ragged, desperate.

  "Fuck if I know." He's close. His eyelids are heavy, his motions jerky and rough.

  "I need you."

  "Need you too, babe." He's grinding his teeth, his muscles are tensed, eyes narrowed and laser-focused on me.

  I'm there. On the edge, riding the crest. Falling over, watching him. "Gonna--gonna come, Logan."

  "Me too."

  I don't dare look at him now. If I look at him, I'll leave the bed and sink to my knees in front of him and take all his seed in my mouth and on my face and on my breasts. I'll jump on him and ride him until I can't walk. God, I fucking want him.

  "I want you so fucking bad too, Isabel," Logan says, and I realize I said that last part out loud.

  "Oh . . . oh god. Oh god." I'm exploding, seeing Logan in my mind, against the backdrop of my tight-shut eyes.

  And then I feel him. Am I imagining this? His mouth on my nipples, suckling them hard, flattening them, biting them, his fingers on mine, circling madly with mine?

  I don't dare open my eyes and shatter the spell, I just go with it, moan and whimper and now I'm near to crying with the bliss blasting through me, wet tongue warm on my breasts, lips smearing and stuttering across my skin.

  "Logan . . ." I whisper.

  "Ssshhhh." He's close. Too close. I need him, and if he's really here, really in this bed with me, then I'll take him. He won't stand a chance against my desperation. "Hush, baby. Let me take care of you."

  "But--"

  "Hush." And then his mouth is there, at my core, over my clit, and my fingers are buried in his thick long hair and I'm tugging at his head, jerking roughly to get more of his mouth on me, to urge him for more. More. God, more.

  I writhe against his face, and I come. So hard, I come. Stars burst in my eyes, and my breathing is ragged gasps and near-sobs of ecstasy.

  "Logan . . . god, Logan."

  I accept the inevitable. I cannot stop this. I want it. I will have it. I will have him. I can't resist. It's futile.

  Again, his tongue lashes me to orgasm. I hurt from the potency of this climax, so hard on the heels of two other furious releases. He's punishing me, I think. Making me come again, and again. I can't stop. He won't let me stop. I didn't know this was possible, to just come and come and come, like a string of dominoes knocking one into the other. His fingers delve into me and his fingers are tweaking my hardened nipples and I'm crying, crying, sobbing, with guilt and with bliss. An agony of ecstasy. He incites this in me, he's done this to me before, we've been here before.

  So close but so far.

  I jerk free of him, scoot up and away from his eager nimble devouring mouth, and his eyes follow me. I lunge for him, crash into him, my mouth smashing against his.

  "Erase it all, Logan," I whisper, my breath merging with his. "Erase everything. Please. Make it all go away. Take it all away."

  "I can't, baby," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I can't change anything."

  "Yes, you can. You've changed me."

  I have to have him. I have to feel him. I can't do this anymore, this futile childish pretending that we're not going to have sex, this notion that we can edge closer and closer and not really go all the way.

  We're kneeling on the bed, in the center, up on our knees, wrapped up, mouths crashing and slashing and mashing, his arms around me, fingers dimpling my spine and scraping lower to grab my ass with fierce strength, and I'm up against him, breasts flattened against the hard wall of his chest. I feel his cock between us, a thick hard hot ridge against my belly. I grip a tangled fistful of his blond hair and force him closer and reach between us to clutch his erection and smear the messy leaking fluid on my palm and down his length. He moans, and I eat that sound. I taste and swallow it, and stroke him again and suck down his breath and devour his sigh.

  I lean into him, and he falls to his back. "Isabel--"

  "I can't--Logan, I'm dying without this. I'm dying without you." I whimper this admission to his jaw near his ear, and then I kiss where the words were.

  His legs flail on the bed, and I know he feels the desperation too. He's fighting this, fighting himself, fighting me. I'm fighting it all too, but we're both losing.

  I'm on him, straddling him, knees in the mattress beside the trim wedge of his hips, my ass in the air, need oozing out of my core. I angle, and his erection nudges my opening.

  "Isabel, oh fuck, Isabel. Is. God, goddamn it." He is a tortured soul. He can't resist now, either. "God . . . damn it."

  We are doomed to this sin together. Slaved to this, chained to this.

  "Look at me, Logan," I beg. He wrenches his eyes open, fiery indigo spearing into my soul. "Don't you dare look away."

  We both know why we're not supposed to do this. Why it feels wrong, even though it feels so right.

  I was just with Caleb.

  I force the reminder upon myself. It shows in my eyes, I'm sure, and Logan sees it.

  "I'm with you, baby." His gaze is bold and strong and unwavering.

  We are frozen in this moment, him about to pierce me so perfectly, our eyes locked. Tensed, taut. Neither of us looks away.

  My hands are flattened on his chest, my hair loose and draping in a thick inky black curtain, and now it blocks out the whole world as I lean down and kiss him.

  Oh, heaven, the beauty of the kiss is endless and wild. It makes my heart soar to tangle my tongue against his and to taste my essence on his lips and lick it away; it makes my soul sing to feel the raging need in the power of his mouth on mine, makes my entire being vibrate with pure and ecstatic joy to give myself over to this, to him, to us.

  I don't give him a warning. I don't give myself a warning.

  I sink down on him as we kiss, plunge my tongue into the warmth of his mouth as he surges up into me and fills me and spreads me to stretching aching burning beautiful fullness. I can't help but weep at the glory of this.

  "Oh my god, Logan, Logan . . ." I sob.

  "Fuck, oh my fucking god in heaven," he breathes, and his hands fly to my hips, soar over my ass, my thighs, my back, scouring every inch of my flesh he can reach, "Isabel, my Isabel, god, you feel so fucking perfect."

  There is nothing but this. I am impaled by him, seated fully upon him. I can't move. I can breathe, for once in my life I feel like I can finally breathe. He is my breath. He fills me to stretching and I am mad with delirium from it. It burns, the way he fills me. There is nothing like it, has never been anything to match the utter perfection of his body inside me. We are mated, made for each other.

  "Isabel . . ." he groans.

  And I remember he was so close to coming before, when he was on the other side of the room; he's held it back, and now he has to be in pain from the need to release, the need to move.

  "I can't hold back much longer," he whispers, his grip on my body slipping and shifting from hips to buttocks to waist, as if he can't decide where he wants to touch me hold me feel me more.

  "Don't hold back. Never hold back. Give me all of you, Logan."

  I drive my body down his, letting the aching tips of my bre
asts trail down his chest. My hips flex until my thighs are flush with my torso, and he's crushed so deep into me it almost hurts. My lips touch his chest. My tongue flutters over his nipple. I nip at his throat. Cup his face in my palms and kiss his chin and the corner of his mouth and I lick his upper lip, taste the sweat there.

  "Make love to me, Logan." I say it out loud, not whispering it, not hiding the crazed needy desperation in my voice, not hiding the pain and the conflict and the self-loathing.

  I glide up his body, slipping him out of me almost all the way, and I don't pause, don't wait for his response; I pull his face to mine and kiss his mouth with all the starvation-fervor I possess, and I sink down on him. He groans into our kiss and thrusts up, and our hip bones collide like ships crashing prow to prow. His hands grip hard into the meat of my ass, a double handful of my buttocks, and he pulls me against him, even though I'm as fully seated on him as I can get, but we both need more, need him deeper.

  I plant my feet against the outside of his thighs and let my weight rest on his chest, and I cling to his shoulders for balance, and I pull back, like a rubber band stretched to its apex, and then I crash down on him and I scream his name--"LOGAN!"--like a curse, like a blessing, like a prayer, like a benediction, and his voice is raised as well, raised with mine, shouting with me. He takes control then, without flipping me or switching positions. He takes my hips where they crease to meet thigh and plunges me down and pushes me up and sets the rhythm. He's shiny with sweat, a glistening sheen on his tan skin. His eyes bore into mine. We do not look away. I stare into him as he thrusts up to fill me, and my eyelids flutter with pleasure when he slides out but I do not close them, do not look away.

  Sustained eye contact with another person is very hard. The mind, the soul, they want to look away after a while. To meet someone's gaze without looking away, without flinching, even allowing natural blinks, to just stare into them and receive the stare in return, it is nearly impossible.

  Because it is too intimate. It is to bare one's very soul, one's vulnerable heart.