“Are you okay?” His voice is husky, laced with concern.
“Yes,” I say again.
Heat unfurls in my core, and my clit pulses in time to my rapid heartbeat. Logan eases in half an inch, where he meets resistance. It’s a foreign sensation, but not unpleasant. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and the tendons of his neck strain, as if he’s fighting for control.
Anticipation that borders on dread lodges in my chest. It’s probably the worst possible comparison to draw right now, but this reminds me of the first time my mom took me to the salon to get my legs waxed. Lying there while the hot wax was applied to my skin, watching the esthetician grip the corner of the warm strip, anticipating the pain as I waited for her to rip it off.
“I think we need to Band-Aid this,” I blurt out. “Forget slow. Just do it fast.”
He chokes out a laugh. “I don’t want to hurt you.” In fact, he’s stopped moving altogether, his erection neither plunging nor retreating. Just…there.
“What’s the matter, Johnny? Scared?”
Defiance flares in his eyes. “Mocking a guy isn’t gonna get you laid, baby.”
“Stalling isn’t going to, either.” I grin up at him. “Come on, baby. Deflower me.”
Logan keeps one hand on my hip, but lifts the other to my mouth, giving my lower lip a chastising pinch. “Don’t rush me, woman.” His gaze softens as he sweeps it over my face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes—”
That one measly syllable barely leaves my mouth before he plunges deep. I gasp, the jolt of pain taking me by surprise.
He’s all the way inside, and from the tight stretch of his features, I know he’s forcing himself to remain still.
“You with me?” he murmurs.
I nod. The pain is already abating. I tentatively move my hips, and his eyes roll to the top of his head. “Jesus Christ,” he croaks.
God, why isn’t he moving? I feel so completely full, yet oddly empty.
He once again checks in on my mental, emotional and physical state. “How’re you doing?”
I roll my eyes. “Great. How about you?”
“I’m dying here.” Finally, finally, he does something other than lie motionless on top of me. His erection inches out, just slightly, then glides back in.
Pleasure shoots through me. “Oh, do that again.”
“You sure? I’m trying to give you time to adjust.”
“I’m good. I swear.”
His mouth finds mine in a sweet, tender kiss, and then his hips begin to move. Thrusting and retreating in a lazy rhythm that draws a shaky noise from my throat. I hold on tight, digging my fingers into his strong back.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he rasps.
I do, and the angle changes immediately, deeper contact, locking our bodies tighter than before. He fills me, over and over again, each long stroke intensifying the ache inside me, until every square inch of skin is hot and tight and screaming for relief. I need more. My clit is swollen, throbbing. I reach between us and rub it, and the extra stimulation is glorious.
Logan’s elbows rest on either side of my head as he increases the pace, his hips snapping forward, his lips latched on mine as if he can’t bear not kissing me. When he hits a spot deep inside, the tension explodes in an orgasm so intense I don’t even make a sound. I arch my spine and slam my eyes shut, my breath stuck in my throat, my lips glued to his.
“Oh fuck.” He slams in one last time. His back, damp with sweat, trembles beneath my palms as he grunts in release.
His heart hammers against my breasts, and I feel almost smug, because I did this to him. I made him curse and groan and wobble as if the world beneath his feet had vanished. I made him come apart.
And he did the same damn thing to me.
Afterward, we lie on our sides, facing each other. I’m limp and sated, too lazy to move. But not too lazy to admire the beautiful male body stretched out next to me. He’s long and powerful, not a shred of fat on him, just thick muscle stretched tight against bone. His arms are deliciously ripped, his thighs massive.
“You’re huge,” I remark.
“You calling me pudgy?” he demands, but he’s smiling as he says it.
“Don’t worry, I like being in bed with a big, manly hockey player.” I lazily stroke his biceps. “But seriously, you’re huge. Big chest, big legs, big hands—”
“Big dick,” he supplies. “Don’t forget about the big dick.”
“You mean this teeny thing?” My fingers travel to his groin, running over his satin-smooth hardness. I have no idea how he’s still hard after what we just did. “Hold on,” I tell him. “Let me find a magnifying glass so I can get a better look.”
“Shut your mouth, woman.” Laughing, he flips me over so I’m pinned under the muscular body I was just admiring. He leans in to kiss my neck—nope, the jerk doesn’t kiss it. He blows a loud raspberry that makes me shriek in delight. “What were you saying about my dick?”
“Nothing,” I squeal. “It’s the perfect size for my needs.”
He snickers, then rolls over so we’re face-to-face again and slips one leg between both of mine. “I haven’t done this before,” he admits. “You know, lie around naked with a girl, just talking.”
“I haven’t done the naked part, but my high school boyfriend and I did the lying around talking thing all the time.”
“What’d you talk about?”
“Everything. School. Life. TV shows. Whatever came to mind.”
“Why’d you guys break up?”
“Brandon got a scholarship to UCLA, I got one to Briar, and we didn’t want to have a long-distance relationship. Those never work out.”
“They do sometimes,” he disagrees.
“I guess. But neither of us wanted to even try, so…” I sigh. “So evidently we didn’t have a romance for the ages.”
“How come you never had sex?” Logan asks curiously.
“I don’t know. Just didn’t happen. And it didn’t help that we hardly ever got to be alone. My dad had a strict rule about me leaving my bedroom door open, and Brandon’s parents were even stricter. We weren’t even allowed to hang out upstairs. It had to be in the living room, with his mother spying on us from the kitchen.”
He wrinkles his forehead. “I find it hard to believe that you couldn’t find some alone time in—how long were you together?”
“Six months. And yeah, obviously there were times, but like I said, it just didn’t happen.”
One large hand covers my breast, squeezing gently. “Are you saying he seriously never tried to get a piece of this? Maybe he was gay?”
“Trust me, he wasn’t. He’s actually married now.”
Logan’s jaw falls open. “Really? Was he older than you?”
“Nope, same age. Apparently he fell head over heels in love with some girl on the first day of college, and they got married this summer. His mother told my dad all about it.”
I shiver when the pad of his thumb grazes my nipple, but he doesn’t seem to be starting anything up. His cheek rests against the pillow, his features relaxed as he absently caresses me.
“Did you have a girlfriend in high school?” I ask.
He waggles his eyebrows. “I had many.”
“Oooh, what a stud.”
“There were two serious girlfriends, though. The first one was in freshman year. I lost my virginity to her.”
“How old were you? Fifteen?”
“Fourteen.” He winks at me. “I started early. That’s why I’m so good at it.”
I roll my eyes. “And so humble, too.” I stop to think about it. “Fourteen seems way too young to be having sex.”
“I don’t know if you could even call what we did sex,” he answers with a snort. “The first time lasted about three seconds, if that. Seriously, I got in, came, got out. The times after that, it was ten seconds. If that. I was such a horndog I couldn’t control myself when she took her clothes off.”
“What about the second girlfriend?”
“That’s when I was a junior. We dated for about a year. She was a great girl, kind of spoiled, but I didn’t mind because I liked spoiling her.” He frowns. “She cheated on me with an older guy. Actually, I think he went to Briar.”
“Aw, I’m sorry.”
“Broke my fucking heart.” He gives an exaggerated groan of pain, then takes my hand and places it on his chest. “I’ve waited years for someone to show up and put it back together.”
I groan, too. From the sheer lameness of that statement. “You should have put that line in your poem.”
“I’ll write you another one,” he promises.
“Oh God. Please don’t.” A yawn overtakes me, and I twist around to glance at the alarm clock, surprised to find that it’s only ten-fifteen. “Why am I so tired?”
“I wore you out, huh?” He smiles smugly. “I was afraid I might’ve lost my moves during my CS, but I’ve still got it.”
“CS?” His abbreviations drive me nuts sometimes. I’m praying one of these days I’ll be able to figure them out on my own.
“Celibacy stretch,” he explains.