Hell, heaven, whatever this is, I know it’s something I’ll never come back from. I know I’ll never want to. In my wildest, kinkiest dreams about him, it’s never been this good.
While he yanks back at my hair and then holds me down in place, he slips his other hand under my stomach, his fingers finding my clit.
I’m so wet, slick and ready for him, it doesn’t take long for him to push me to the edge. I feel just as I did when I was surfing, at that terrifying moment when you know you’re going over. But the waves here are completely different. They promise to make me anew.
He is merciless, grunting hard with each thrust, this rough, animalistic noise that gets louder and louder the closer he gets to coming. It’s such a fucking beautiful noise that it causes the heat to build in my core, coaxing the last bit of fire I have left.
I don’t even have time to tell him I’m coming. It just happens, quick and swift, and I’m swept away, tumbling and turning, over and over as the orgasm churns through me. It’s an undertow, it’s a rip, it has me in its clutches and I never want it to let me go. My body quakes and shudders from head to toe as I pulse around him. I am light and heavy and my heart has wings. I never want to feel anything but this, never want anyone else but him.
“Veronica,” he groans out my name and then I feel him as he comes, the pressure in my hair, the slamming of his hips into my ass. The sounds coming out of his mouth are crude and I’d give anything to watch his face as he empties into me. “Yes. God, yes.”
His thrusts slow down, his hand in my hair slowly letting go, releasing the pressure from my head. He’s breathing hard, his hulking body hovering over me. Drops of sweat fall onto my back, making me shudder.
Then, as the orgasm starts to slide away into the background, the reality of what we’d just done hits me, like those sneaker waves that get you when you’re trying to get back on the beach.
Logan Shephard just fucked me on his rug. From behind. My head pressed—no, held—to the ground. He fucked me like I’d never been fucked before and I’m starting to think I need a new word to describe that because “fuck” just isn’t enough.
And you didn’t use a condom, I remind myself. I’m lucky I’m on the pill, though I should be more careful next time.
Next time. What a crazy thought. Part of me can’t assume there will be a next time. The other part of me thinks that’s all there is. Next time. There has to be. Sex can’t be that good and only happen once. It’s an insult to the act of sex itself.
Meanwhile, as my brain starts to come to grips with everything, Logan is still breathing heavily and his hand slowly trails down my head, over my neck and down my spine.
“Veronica,” he whispers, grabbing my waist.
“Yeah,” I say.
He slowly pulls out, cum dripping onto my thighs, and exhales loudly. “God, you’re everything I dreamed you would be.”
I can’t help but smile. “So you’ve been dreaming about me?”
“Every day, Freckles. Every bloody day.” He sighs and runs his hand back up my spine. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.” He touches my hair gingerly. “I do love your hair.”
More smiling. I’m kind of glad he can’t see my face right now because I know I have the look of a teenager with the world’s biggest crush. Heart eyes have nothing on me.
“Nah,” I tell him. “Maybe a bit of rug burn, but it’s worth it.” I turn around to look at him, his eyes glazed and sated, cheeks flushed. I’ve never seen him like this before. He looks vulnerable. He’s beautiful.
We stare at each other for a few beats before I try to get to my knees and pull down my dress. He reaches out and stops me, his hand on my wrist.
“Take it off,” he says.
I blink at him, give him a crooked smile. “The dress?”
“Off.”
For some reason I expected this to be the part of the night where we put our clothes back on. I can see I’m wrong. I quickly oblige, lifting the dress over my head, glad I hadn’t worn a bra. If I had, there’s a chance it would be lying on the rug ripped in half like my underwear. And a good bra isn’t cheap.
Of course my mind is thinking about this because it’s having a hard time coming to terms, once again, that I slept with Logan. I know that all those worries, all that guilt I carry in my heart, is waiting to come loose.
Luckily, Logan himself is a brilliant distraction.
“Get on the couch,” he says, nodding toward the tan couch in the living room.
I’m not really sure what to expect but I get up and walk, very naked, very awkward, over to the couch. I mean, I’ve lost a bit of weight since coming here but I still have my cellulite (though a bit more disguised because of my tan), I still have my jiggly thighs and butt and padded hips, and I’m walking completely exposed. Which is something I have never done before, not even for Erik. I can feel Logan’s eyes on every inch of my body as I go and it takes a lot of willpower to not cover myself up and run for the hills.