Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 57

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 fuck 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, fuck. 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 fuck, 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 fucking 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.
“That’s not fair!” she protests, laughing. “You don’t get to kiss—”
I cut her off with my mouth over hers again, lips fitting between, coaxing her open so I can lick at her, go deeper, feel like I’m inside her in every way I can be right now.
Because now I know why she wanted my mouth on hers when I touched her. There’s an ache in my chest, clawing its way up and out of me, needing to feel her deeper, to thank her or—fuck, I don’t know—show her what it feels like that she’s touching me like this, giving me this kind of pleasure. I rock into her hand, giving in and finally rolling on my side to face her, pulling her by the hip to face me and fucking her fist, reaching between us to lift her leg, pull it over my hip so I can touch her, too.
So wet.
I push a finger into her, stroking her, sucking and swallowing her noises and falling into the feel of her hand on my dick, her slick skin covering my hand.
It’s sex, but it’s not.
It’s sex, but it’s more.
There are so many ways to love this girl; good God, let me find each and every one of them.
London shifts against me, rocking, rubbing, getting there and she’s close—she’s holding her breath—and when I look at her I see her eyes on me, looking back and forth between my face and where her hand grips and I fuck into it and it’s almost like I can see her thoughts, see it telegraphed, how watching me come undone like this is going to send her falling along with me.
“Come on me?” she whispers.
It doesn’t take effort to get there. Fuck, I’ve been holding it back since the beginning of time—at least that’s what my body is screaming. I cut the control, letting it overtake me, fucking hard and fast three, four, five more times into her fist and then everything is warm, shooting down my back, out of me, onto her. On her stomach, her hand. Over her breasts, on her arm. She stares, eyes wide, mouth opening slowly more and more until she’s crying out, riding my hand, head falling back as she comes with a staccato of sharp, relieved cries.
She goes quiet, breaths heaving as she lets her head rock forward and rest against my shoulder.
“We’re really good at that,” she whispers, and then laughs before kissing the center of my chest.
I know we’ve just finished a round, but I can’t imagine ever being done with her.
My hand moves carefully back and forth between her legs and she whimpers a little, rocking into my palm.
“Are you sore?” I ask.
I feel her hair brush against my ribs when she shakes her head no.
“London?”
“Hmm?” she hums.
I stroke my middle finger across her clit. “I really want to kiss you here.”
She arches into me, holding me closer and sliding her hands up and around my neck so she can kiss me.
So she can keep me from crawling down her body and putting my mouth on her.
“You don’t like it?” I ask against her lips.
“I like it too much,” she whispers. “I’d like it the most of anything I think you could do to me.”
I pull back, the question then why won’t you let me? perched on my tongue.
But she speaks first, whispering, “I can’t give my heart away all at once. I want to. But I can’t.”