31. Quinn #2
He starts high—just below my throat, sweeping the lather across my skin in slow, sensual strokes.
The texture of the cloth is rougher than his hands, creating a different kind of friction that makes my nipples tighten.
He circles the soap over my collarbones, down the center of my chest, around—never quite touching.
Teasing.
He's teasing me.
My jaw tightens. I recognize this game. It's the same one he played when he held out his hand for the soap—giving me the illusion of control while he orchestrates every moment.
The washcloth sweeps under my breast, along the curve, lifting slightly with the motion.
My breath comes faster, my chest rising and falling beneath his careful attention.
He cups my breast through the cloth. The lather slides across my nipple, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. His thumb circles the peak through the rough fabric, once, twice, and then moves on—down my ribs, across my stomach, tracing the line of my hip.
He avoids where I need him.
The washcloth travels down my thigh, along the outside, behind my knee.
He's crouched now, his face level with my hips, and I can feel his breath against my skin even through the steam.
My hands clench at my sides. Every nerve ending in my body is focused on that narrow strip of space he's deliberately ignoring.
"Logan." His name comes out Quinn than I intend, carrying more want than I'd like to admit.
He looks up at me. Those blue eyes are bright with something—amusement, desire, the satisfaction of a man who knows exactly what he's doing. But he doesn't speak. Doesn't acknowledge my tone. He simply rises, takes my hand, and turns me around again.
I face the wall. The cool tile is slick under my palms, contrasting with the heat of the water striking my back.
Logan crouches behind me, and I feel the washcloth return—this time on my legs.
He starts at my ankle, working up my calf with the same thorough attention he gave every other part of my body.
The cloth moves behind my knee, up my thigh, higher and higher until—
He stops.
His eyes find mine over my shoulder. That gaze holds me captive, refuses to let me look away, refuses to let me hide behind closed eyes or turned heads. I'm forced to watch him watching me, forced to see the hunger in his expression while feeling the absence of his touch where I need it most.
My breath is coming faster now. I can hear it over the rush of the water—short, shallow pulls of air that I can't seem to control. My hips move without my permission, shifting, seeking, trying to find relief against nothing. The motion is instinctive, desperate, and I hate how much it reveals.
Logan tsks.
The sound is soft, almost gentle, but it carries a weight of authority that makes my stomach clench. He rises to his feet behind me, and I feel his hands settle on my hips—steadying me, holding me still.
"Patience," he murmurs. But the word sounds like a promise.
Then he's on his knees again.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading them slightly apart, and I feel his breath against my core—hot even compared to the steam surrounding us. I brace myself against the tile, my fingers splaying across the cool surface, my forehead dropping forward until it touches the wall.
His tongue finds my clit.
The first touch is devastating. A slow, deliberate lick that sends a jolt through my entire body. My head falls harder against the tile, and a gasp tears from my throat—raw and uncontrolled. The sound echoes off the walls, mixing with the rush of water, and I can't bring myself to care.
Logan doesn't rush. His tongue circles my clit with maddening precision, tracing patterns that make my legs tremble.
He knows exactly what he's doing—every flick, every pressure calculated to build without pushing me over.
The stubble along his jaw scrapes against my inner thighs, adding another sensation to the overwhelming assault.
I'm drowning in it. In him. The water runs down my back, between my cheeks, over where his mouth works me with single-minded devotion. Steam fills my lungs. My hands slide against the tile, struggling for purchase, and I end up pressing my forearms flat against the wall just to stay upright.
His tongue dips lower.
It circles my entrance once, twice—teasing, testing—before diving inside me.
The intrusion makes me cry out, a broken sound that I barely recognize as my own voice.
He fucks me with his tongue, in and out, establishing a rhythm that my hips immediately try to match.
The pressure builds low in my belly, tightening with each thrust, each stroke.
Just when I think I can't take anymore, he pulls back.
I make a sound of protest—whining, needy, nothing like the controlled woman I pretend to be. But Logan isn't finished. His mouth returns to my clit, and this time he sucks. The suction is firm, deliberate, and it sends sparks exploding behind my closed eyelids.
His fingers join the assault.
One slides inside me, then another, curling upward to find that spot—the one that makes my vision white out at the edges. He strokes it in time with the rhythm of his mouth, tongue and fingers working in concert, and I'm lost. Completely, utterly lost.
My hips rock against his face, chasing the sensation, chasing the release that's building like a wave about to break. The cool tile presses against my forearms. The hot water streams down my spine. Logan's mouth and hands consume me, demanding everything, and I give it willingly.
"Logan—" His name breaks apart in my mouth, shattered by the moans I can no longer suppress. "Fuck—Logan—"
He doesn't stop. If anything, my response spurs him on—his fingers move faster, his tongue works harder, and the pressure builds and builds until I'm trembling on the edge. My thighs shake. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The wave crests.
I come apart.
The orgasm crashes through me, pulling a scream from my throat that the water can't quite drown out. My walls clench around his fingers, again and again, and he works me through it—never stopping, never slowing, drawing out every last tremor until I'm left gasping against the tile.
Slowly, gently, he eases his fingers from me. His mouth places one last kiss against my clit—soft, almost reverent—before he rises to his feet behind me. His hands find my waist again, steadying me when my legs threaten to give out.
I can't move. Can't think. Can barely breathe. The water continues its steady rush, washing away the soap, the sweat, the evidence of what just happened. But I can still feel him—the ghost of his mouth, the stretch of his fingers, the way he took me apart piece by piece.
Logan's lips brush against my shoulder. "Thorough enough for you?" he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
A laugh escapes me—breathless, shaky, genuine.
I turn my head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.
His dark blonde hair is plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his face, and those blue eyes are bright with satisfaction and something deeper.
Something that makes my chest ache in ways I'm not ready to examine.
"Maybe," I manage, my voice rough. "I might need another demonstration. Just to be sure."
His smile widens. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, and I feel the hard length of him pressing against my lower back. He's still hard. Of course he is. He took his time with me, focused entirely on my pleasure, and now—
Now it's my turn to return the favor.
I turn in his arms. The water hits my back as I face him, and I look up into those blue eyes—so intense, so focused on me, like I'm the only thing in the world that matters. My hands find his chest, sliding over the defined muscles, tracing the lines carved by years of ranch work.
"Now it’s my turn," I say.
The cold water pricks my skin, but the fire inside me burns hotter.
I shut off the shower and step out, grabbing a towel without bothering to dry properly.
Logan follows, water streaming down his chest, those blue eyes watching me with the patient intensity of a man who thinks he knows what's coming.
He doesn't.
I wrap the towel around myself and walk past him, my fingers brushing his wrist. "Bedroom. Now."
His eyebrow lifts, but he follows. Through the doorway, past the hallway, into the soft amber glow of the bedroom. The king-sized bed waits with its iron posts—sturdy, purposeful. I've noticed them before. Calculated.
I cross to the nightstand and pull open the drawer. The handcuffs catch the light—steel, lined with leather. I bought them weeks ago. Planned this. Him.
Logan stands at the foot of the bed, dripping onto the hardwood, his gaze fixed on what I'm holding. His throat works. "Quinn—"
"Sit." I point to the center of the mattress. "Against the headboard."
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then that slow, cocky smile spreads across his face. He thinks this is a game. He thinks he'll humor me, let me play at being in charge, then flip me over and take what he wants.
Not tonight.
He settles against the headboard, legs stretched out, arms loose at his sides. Still smiling. Still confident. I climb onto the bed, the towel falling away as I crawl toward him. His smile falters when I snap one cuff around his left wrist.
"Quinn—"
"Shh." I guide his arm up, threading the chain through the iron scrollwork of the headboard before securing his right wrist. The click of the lock is final. Absolute.
He tests the restraints. The chain rattles against the metal post. Not going anywhere.
"Comfortable?"
His jaw tightens. "You're playing with fire."
"I know." I straddle his thighs, my wet skin sliding against his. "That's the point."