It’s Friday night. Logan and I are tangled up together on his living room couch, about to watch a horror movie he chose off the film channel on his TV. When we got back from dinner at the fish and chips place in Hastings, I figured we’d go upstairs and rip each other’s clothes off. You know, so I could give him my flower, as my mother would say. Instead, he surprised me by suggesting a movie.
I suspect he’s trying not to seem overeager, but the heated glances he keeps casting my way tell me he wants it as much as I do. Still, I’m not against taking it slow. Letting the tension build, the anticipation simmer.
“I can’t believe this is what you chose,” I complain as the opening credits flash on the screen.
“You told me I could pick,” he protests.
“Yeah, because I thought you’d pick something good.” I glare at the television. “I can already tell this is going to make me angry.”
“Wait, angry?” He shoots me a baffled look. “I thought you were bitching because you didn’t want to be scared.”
“Scared? Why would I be scared?”
Laughter bubbles out of his throat. “Because it’s a scary movie. A ghost is killing people in gruesome ways, Grace.”
I roll my eyes. “Horror movies don’t scare me. They piss me off because the characters are always so frickin’ stupid. They make the worst decisions possible, and we’re supposed to feel sorry for them when they die? No way.”
“Maybe these characters will be smart, levelheaded adults who do everything right but still get killed,” he points out.
“There’s a ghost in the house and they choose to stay there. The levelheaded response? Leave.”
He tugs on a strand of my hair, his tone taking on a chastising note. “Just you wait—there’s going to be a good reason for why they can’t leave the house. I’ll bet you five bucks.”
“You’re on.”
We settle in for the movie, Logan on his back, and me snuggled up beside him with my head on his chest. He strokes my hair as the first scene fills the screen. It’s an incredibly un-scary cold open involving a busty blonde, an unseen malevolent force, and a scalding shower. The blonde meets her grisly end by burning alive—the evil spirit, of course, has ghosted the water temperature. Logan tries to give me a high-five after the death scene, which I refuse to reciprocate because I actually feel bad for the girl. Kudos to her—the only decision she makes is to take a shower, and who can fault her for that?
The movie unfolds in the most predictable way. A group of college students conduct paranormal experiments in the ghost house, and then bam—the first one dies.
“Here it comes,” I say gleefully. “The levelheaded reason for why they stay in the house.”
“Watch, the ghost won’t let them leave,” Logan guesses.
He guesses wrong.
On the screen, the characters argue about whether they should go, and one of the girls announces, “We’re doing important work here, guys! We’re proving the existence of paranormal entities! Science needs this. Science needs us.”
I burst out laughing, shuddering against Logan’s rock-hard chest. “Did you hear that, Johnny? Science needs them.”
“I fucking hate you,” he grumbles.
“Five bucks…” I say in a singsong voice.
His hand slides down to pinch my butt, making me squeak in surprise. “Go ahead and gloat. You win the battle by getting five bucks out of me, but I win the war.”
I sit up. “How do you figure?”
“Because you still have to sit through the rest of this movie, and you’re going to hate every second of it. I, on the other hand, am enjoying it immensely.”
The jerk is absolutely right.
Unless…
As he refocuses his attention on the movie, I nestle close again, only this time I don’t rest my hand on the center of his chest. I plant it lower, mere inches from the waistband of the sweatpants he changed into after dinner. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too engrossed in the movie. Ha. He won’t be for long.
With the utmost nonchalance, I drag my hand to where the hem of his white wife-beater has ridden up slightly. Then I sneak my fingers beneath it and lightly stroke the hard plane of his stomach, and his breath hitches. Fighting a smile, I flatten my palm and stop moving it. After a moment, he relaxes.
On the screen, the idiot troupe of paranormal “experts” attempts to record the spirit’s voice using a contraption right out of Ghostbusters.
I scoot up and kiss Logan’s neck.
He tenses, and then a chuckle escapes his lips. Low and mocking. “Won’t work, baby…”
“What won’t work?” I ask innocently.
“What you’re trying to do right now.”
“Mmm-hmmm. I’m sure it won’t.”
I tease him with soft kisses on the side of his neck, angling my body so he’ll be sure to feel the heat of my pussy against his thigh. God. Pussy. I’m even starting to think like him now. He’s corrupted me with the dirty words he whispers when we fool around, and I like it. I like the thrill of being bold and wanton, and I love the way his warm flesh quivers when I taste him with my tongue.
His head is turned toward the screen, but I know he’s no longer paying attention to the movie. The bulge in his sweatpants grows, hardens into a long, thick ridge that pushes up against the fabric. I kiss his throat, feeling the strong tendons straining, his Adam’s apple fluttering beneath my lips.
When he speaks, his voice is so raspy it sends a shiver through me. “Do you want to go upstairs?”
I lift my head and meet his eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, hazy. I nod.
He doesn’t shut off the movie. He just hops to his feet, pulls me up with him, and leads me upstairs, holding my hand the entire time. His bedroom is a lot tidier than the last time I saw it. The night I showed up to yell at him for that stunt with Morris. God, it feels like a lifetime ago.
We stand two feet apart. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me. He simply stares, with what can only be described as wonder shining in his eyes.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Hardly. I’m wearing faded jeans and a loose striped shirt that keeps falling over one shoulder, and my hair is a tousled mess because it was insanely windy outside earlier. I know I don’t look beautiful, but the way he’s gazing at me…I feel it.
I reach for the bottom of my shirt, then pull it over my head and let it fall to the ground. His nostrils flare when my skimpy bikini-style bra is revealed. Holding his gaze, I bring my hands behind my back and undo the tiny clasp, and then the bra falls away, too.
Logan sucks in a breath. He’s seen my breasts before. He’s seen me naked, actually. But the hunger in his eyes, the glittering admiration…it’s like he’s looking at me for the first time.
I wiggle out of my jeans and panties, and approach him with confidence that startles me. I should be nervous, but I’m not. My hands are steady as I tug his wife-beater off him. God, his bare chest never fails to make me light-headed. It’s sculpted. Masculine. So fucking perfect.
He doesn’t say a word when I ease his sweatpants down. He’s not wearing boxers. His erection juts out, hard and imposing, and when I curl my fingers around it, he makes a desperate noise at the back of his throat.
But he still doesn’t touch me. His arms remain plastered to his sides, and he stands completely motionless. I don’t think he’s even blinking.
“Is there a reason your hands aren’t all over me right now?” I tease.
“I’m trying to go slow,” he says miserably. “If I touch you, I won’t be able to stop, and then I’ll be inside you and—”
I shut him up with a firm kiss, locking my hands at the nape of his neck. “That’s kind of the point. You getting inside me.” Then I nibble on his bottom lip, and just like that, the thread of control he was clinging to snaps like an elastic band.
Growling against my lips, he backs me toward the bed, his strong body pressed tight to mine, his erection trapped between us.
My calves bump the edge of the bedframe, and I tumble backward with a screech, pulling him down with me. We land on the bed with a thud that makes us laugh. The sheets smell like lemon laundry detergent, clean and inviting, and the fragrance, mingled with the heady male scent of him, succeeds in fogging my brain. His body ripples with urgency as he kisses me again. He was right to warn me—he doesn’t stop kissing me, not even to come up for air. Doesn’t stop touching me. Everywhere. He hungrily explores my neck, my breasts, my belly, and then he’s between my legs, his tongue slicking over my clit, hot and greedy.
I used to be so self-conscious when my high school boyfriend did this to me. It was always too intimate, made me feel exposed, but with Logan I’m too consumed with pleasure to care how vulnerable this position makes me.
My hips strain to meet him, aching for more, and he chuckles and gives me the contact I crave. He wraps his lips around my clit and sucks, and if I hadn’t been lying down, I would have keeled right over. Pleasure shoots up my spine and surges through my bloodstream, and when he pushes one long finger inside me, my mind fragments into a million pieces. I come faster than I expect. Faster than he expects, and he groans as I convulse against his face, his tongue and finger working me through the orgasm.
As I crash back to earth, he lifts his head with a soft curse. “I love making you come,” he mumbles. “It’s so fucking hot.” His finger slides out, then in again, and an aftershock of pleasure sizzles through me. “And you’re so fucking wet.”
I whimper when his finger disappears, but the disappointment is replaced with pulsing excitement, because he’s reaching into the top drawer on the night table to grab a condom. Swallowing hard, I watch him roll it down the length of his shaft. Skillfully. God, he’s probably rolled on a million condoms in his lifetime. He’s pretty much a sexpert.
What if I suck at sex?
My heart gallops at a breakneck speed when he lowers his strong body over mine. His lips brush my temple. Softly. Sweetly. “You sure about this?” he whispers.
I gaze up at him, my worries fading away. “Yes.”
His features are taut in concentration as he brings his erection to my opening. He nudges forward, and I tense involuntarily. The intrusion is barely a millimeter deep, but the pressure is intense. His cock is a lot bigger than the one finger he’d just had inside me.
“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.
“It’s only been three weeks, horndog.”
“Actually, it’s been…six months?”
My eyebrows soar. “You haven’t had sex in six months?”
“Nope.” A sheepish look fills his face. “Not since I met you.”
“Bullshit.”
Now he looks hurt. “You think I’m lying?”
“No…of course not…” My mind struggles to digest the information. Even before I met the guy, I was well aware of his reputation—I witnessed it firsthand when he stumbled out of that bathroom at the frat party.
And he and I were apart the entire summer. Is he seriously telling me he didn’t fool around with someone even once during that time? Granted, I didn’t either, but I’m not John Logan, the manwhore who’s slept with half the girls at Briar.
“I almost did,” he adds, his features pained. “It was early on in the summer, and you were still ignoring my messages. I went to this chick’s place, fully intending to sleep with her, but when she tried to kiss me…I took off. It just didn’t feel right.”
I’m floored. Utterly floored.
“But this…” He leans closer and gently presses his mouth against mine in the sweetest kiss imaginable. “This…” Another kiss. “Feels…” And another one. “Right.”
