11. Logan #2
I take my time, exploring her with my mouth, learning what makes her shake, what makes her moan, what makes her forget everything but this. My tongue circles her entrance before dipping inside, and her hands fly to my head, her fingers tangling in my hair.
"Logan—" His name breaks from her lips like a prayer, like a curse, and I hum against her in response, the sound muffled by her flesh.
I work my way upward, tracing the slick path to her clit, and when I close my lips around that swollen bundle of nerves, she nearly comes off the wall. I suck gently, then harder, flicking my tongue against her in a rhythm that has her thighs trembling on either side of my head.
Her moans fill the room, mixing with the distant ranch background, and I can feel her getting closer, feel the way her muscles are coiling tighter with every stroke of my tongue.
But I don't let her rush. Every time she gets close, I slow down, easing off just enough to keep her on the edge without pushing her over.
"Please," she gasps, and the word goes straight to my cock. "Please, I need—"
I know what she needs. But I'm not done savoring her yet.
My tongue traces lazy circles around her clit, teasing, tormenting, and I can feel the frustration building in her body, the way her fingers tighten in my hair, the way her hips try to chase my mouth.
I hold her firm, keeping her exactly where I want her, and I feel a dark satisfaction at the desperate sounds spilling from her lips.
I dip lower again, thrusting my tongue inside her, and she keens, high and broken. Her walls clench around me, and I fuck her with my mouth, slow and deep, tasting every inch of her. Her arousal coats my chin, slick and hot, and I groan against her, the sound vibrating through her core.
When I finally return to her clit, I don't hold back. I seal my lips around her and suck, hard, while my tongue works her in rapid strokes. Her body goes rigid, her breath catching in her throat, and I can feel her right there, balanced on the edge.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot, and she shatters.
Her orgasm crashes through her like a violent and sudden storm and she screams my name as her walls clench around my fingers.
I don't stop, working her through it, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until she's trembling and gasping, her grip on my hair gone slack.
I press one last, gentle kiss to her clit before carefully lowering her leg from my shoulder. I look up at her, and the sight of her—flushed and wrecked and beautiful—makes my chest ache with something I don't want to name.
She's staring down at me with those hazel eyes, still dazed, and I rise to my feet, my hands steadying her hips as she finds her balance. Her skin is damp with sweat, her chest heaving, and I brush a strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
"You with me?" I ask, my voice rough.
She swallows, her throat working, and nods slowly. "I'm with you."
The taste of her still coats my tongue—salt and honey and something wilder—and instead of satisfying me, it ignites something feral in my chest. I lift her from the wall, and Quinn's legs wrap around my waist on instinct, her damp skin sliding against my shirt.
Three steps to the bed. I lay her down on the rumpled sheets, and she sinks into the mattress, chest still heaving, her beach-wave hair fanning across the pillow in dark ribbons.
Her body hums with aftershocks. I can see the tremors running through her thighs, the way her stomach clenches and releases. But I'm not done with her. Not even close.
I reach for the bedsheet, tearing a long strip from the edge with one sharp pull. The fabric rips cleanly. Quinn's hazel eyes track the movement, her breath catching.
"Logan—"
"Give me your hands." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. Low. Commanding.
She hesitates. That strategic mind of hers calculating risk and reward, even now. But then she lifts her wrists, pressing them together, and something in my chest cracks wide open at the trust in that gesture.
I wrap the strip of cotton around her wrists—not tight enough to hurt, just tight enough to hold. I bind them together, then secure the other end to the wrought-iron headboard, leaving enough slack that she can move but not escape. My fingers check the tension. Twice.
"Too tight?"
She flexes her wrists, testing. Shakes her head.
"Tell me if it is." I brush my thumb across her pulse point, feeling the rabbit-kick of her heartbeat against my skin. "You say stop, I stop. Understand?"
"I understand." Her voice is barely a whisper.
I sit back on my heels and look at her. Really look at her. Quinn Mercer, bound and laid out beneath me like an offering, soft light gilding her fair skin, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes dark and wanting. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I want to take my goddamn time.
I start with her throat. Leaning down, I drag my mouth along the column of her neck, feeling her pulse flutter against my lips. I bite gently at the hollow beneath her ear, and she arches off the mattress with a soft sound.
"Stay still," I murmur against her skin. "Let me."
She makes a frustrated noise, her bound hands pulling against the sheet, but she tries. I can feel the effort it costs her—every muscle in her body fighting the command even as she obeys.
I work my way down slowly. My mouth finds her collarbone, the delicate ridge of it, and I kiss the shallow dip at its center. Then lower. My lips brush the upper curve of her breast, and her breathing goes ragged.
"Logan, please—"
"Please what?" I ask, but I don't wait for an answer. I take her nipple into my mouth, and the sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—goes straight to my cock.
I lick and suck at the tight peak, then scrape my teeth across it.
Not gently. Her back bows off the bed, her bound wrists straining against the sheet, and I feel the vibration of her groan against my tongue.
I give the same attention to her other breast—kissing, biting, soothing with long strokes until both nipples are swollen and red and she's trembling beneath me.
"You're so fucking beautiful," I say against her skin. "I could spend hours right here."
"Don't you dare." The words come out strangled.
I smile against her breast and bite down again, just to hear her curse.
Then I start moving lower. My mouth maps a slow path down her sternum, across the quiver of her stomach. I dip my tongue into her navel, and her hips jerk upward. I press them back down with one palm, holding her still as I continue my descent.
Her thighs fall open for me, and I settle between them, my shoulders pushing her wider. I can smell her arousal—musk and heat—and my mouth waters. But I bypass where she wants me most, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the inside of her left thigh instead.
"Logan." His name is a warning and a plea.
I bite the tender flesh where thigh meets hip, hard enough to leave a mark. She yelps, then moans, her hands twisting in the makeshift binding. I soothe the bite with my tongue, then move to her right thigh and do it again.
"You're killing me." Her voice cracks.
"Good."
I kiss the crease of her thigh, my breath ghosting over her swollen pussy, and she whines—actually whines, this high desperate sound I've never heard from her before. I drag my tongue along the edge of her cunt, just barely touching, and her whole body shakes.
"Please." She's begging now, her composure completely shattered. "Please, I need—I need your cock, Logan, I need you inside me, please—"
"Not yet." I blow softly across her slick flesh, and she sobs.
"I can't—"
"You can." I look up at her, meeting her hazy eyes over the landscape of her body. "You will."
I lick into her then, one long slow stroke that has her screaming and pulling hard against the sheet binding her wrists.
She's close already, wound so tight from my teasing that it won't take much.
But I don't let her come. I edge her right to the precipice and then pull back, kissing her thighs again as she curses me with creative fury.
"Logan Wilder, I swear to God—"
I slide two fingers inside her and curl them, finding that spot, and her threat dissolves into a broken moan.
I fuck her slowly with my hand while my mouth returns to her clit, and this time I don't stop.
I suck and lick and bite until she's thrashing on the bed, the sheet pulling taut as she fights to touch me, to ground herself, to do anything but feel.
"Come for me," I command against her flesh. "Now."
And she does. Her cunt clamps down on my fingers, her whole body seizing as the orgasm tears through her. I work her through it, drawing out every last shudder until she collapses back against the mattress, boneless and gasping.
I crawl up her body and claim her mouth, letting her taste herself on my tongue. She kisses me back desperately, her bound hands straining toward me.
"Please," she whispers against my lips. "Your cock. I need it. I need you."
I pull back from her, and her sound of protest—raw, desperate—shoots straight to my aching cock.
My jeans are fucking torture. The denim strains against my erection, the zipper teeth biting into flesh that's demanding release.
I stand at the foot of the bed, looking down at her—bound, trembling, her hazel eyes glassy and fixed on me.
"Logan—" Her voice cracks.
"Watch me." The words come out rougher than I intend.
My hands go to my belt. The leather slides through the loops with a slow hiss that cuts through all outside sounds.
Her chest heaves, those perfect breasts still flushed from my mouth, and her fingers curl around the bedsheet binding her wrists.
She doesn't pull against it—just grips, like she needs something to anchor her.