Текст книги "She: Part 2"
Автор книги: Annabel Fanning
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
I gaze, slightly awed, as I walk towards Logan’s building. It’s modern and stylish, but also has a classic elegance to it, a combination of design elements that I know from experience are not always easy to get right, but he has. A mix of appreciation and pride courses through me as I realise that Logan, my Logan, has created this masterpiece, this empire from scratch.
I’m five metres from the entrance when my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out, and automatically smile when I see the caller ID.
“Hey, baby,” I say to Logan.
“Hi, where are you?” he asks eagerly.
“I’m outside,” I grin into my phone. Oh, this is going to be fun!
He’s silent for a moment. “I can’t see you anywhere.”
Oh? I look around the big, empty square, unable to see him either. “Uh…”
Then it dawns on Logan, and he enquires, “Outside where?”
“Leary Constructions’ main office,” I tell him quickly.
“Damn,” he laughs down the line, before telling me, “I’m outside of Pierson House.”
I face palm myself. We must’ve taken alternative routes. “Oh, dear,” I sigh. I should’ve checked with him, I tell myself what I already know.
“I wanted to surprise you. Apparently you had the same idea,” he correctly guesses, his voice laced with mirth.
It’s with similar humour that I say to him, “You know, they say that the key to a long-lasting marriage is communication. We really might want to work on that,” I laugh.
“Stay where you are,” he says, and I can hear that he’s smiling. “I’ll be with you soon.”
* * *
I take a seat on one of the benches and wait. I barely have enough time to start idly flicking through my phone, when movement ahead of me catches my attention. A woman is walking from Logan’s office in my direction. She stares at her feet as she approaches, affording me the time to quickly scan our surrounds to see if she could be headed towards somebody or something else, but there is no one and nothing in the vicinity. Suddenly, I realise that she must recognise me from Saturday night. What’s her name, I think desperately.
Eventually she looks up and seeing me watching her, she waves a hand in greeting. “Bonjour, mademoiselle quarante-neuf,” she calls out, smiling at me, and referencing Logan’s hotel in Tokyo. Hello, Miss. Forty-nine.
Ah-ha! There’s only one person who could know about that! This woman must be Cheryl, Logan’s personal assistant. She looks to be around Amélie’s age, late forties, and has curly strawberry-blonde hair which bounces buoyantly as she walks, and a kind, freckly face. She’s likeable, based on first impressions.
“Hello, Cheryl,” I smile back, standing up to greet her, doing the customary two kisses thing.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gemima,” she tells me sincerely, with a very heavy French accent.
“Likewise.”
“Congratulations on your engagement,” she says, beaming as we take a seat on the bench, side-by-side. “Your shock announcement took most of the company by surprise. No one, not even I, knew that Logan was seeing anyone,” she shares.
That’s because it’s been so fast, I think. Without telling her how fast, I say, “It’s been a wonderful whirlwind.”
“You’ve put a lot of rumours to bed,” she reveals.
“What rumours?” I ask with a grin. It’s gossip-time.
“That Logan’s asexual,” she says, so matter-of-factly that I erupt into laughter.
It takes every ounce of my strength to stop my inappropriate mouth from saying something that it shouldn’t. The image of Logan’s lathered up erection from this morning comes to the forefront of my mind. Don’t say a word, I order myself.
Fortunately, I don’t have to. Cheryl speaks again, “Clearly, he’s not. I’m thrilled for both of you.”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely. I’m thrilled for us too. Then moving the conversation out of dangerous territory, I ask, “Did you have a good night on Saturday?” Now that I see her up close, I recognise her more, and can vaguely remember catching glimpses of her throughout the course of the evening, though her hair was up then, making her look quite different.
“Oh, c’était merveilleux!” she exclaims in her native tongue. Oh, it was marvellous! “Everybody in the company works so hard – especially Logan – so to have a night to relax and drink my weight in alcohol,” you and me both, I think, “was a brilliant treat.”
I nod in agreement.
“And the speeches were wonderful,” she continues. “I especially loved the bit where I was singled out,” she grins. “The company wouldn’t function without me and my girls,” she tells me with a cheeky wink.
Uh…her girls? Is Logan running a brothel within the company, I think sarcastically.
Seeing the perplexed look on my face, Cheryl admits, “I should probably figure out how to say that without making it sound like I’m the madam of a whorehouse.” She explains herself further, “My girls are the other PA’s…Michel’s, Guillaume’s, Grace’s…they all report back to me.”
“Oh, I see,” I grin, finally understanding.
“We make the big shots look good,” she jests.
“And then they get all of the credit?” I ask, playing along.
“Exactly,” she laughs, enjoying our repartee.
I smile at her, warming to her more by the second. She’s clearly got a sense of humour which no doubt makes Logan’s long work hours more tolerable.
“It was your friend who called here last week, wasn’t it? American woman, erratic voice,” she says.
“Oh, yes!” I laugh. “My best friend, Amber,” I tell her. “She was trying to get in contact with Logan.”
“Yes,” Cheryl remembers. “For one wild moment I thought that she was a deranged one night stand of his,” she confesses, making me laugh even harder. “That would have been unprecedented. I was already mentally preparing a press release to avoid a scandal.”
I snort in laughter at the thought. Oh, Amber! She’ll be thrilled to know that she’s made such a strong impression.
We continue talking back and forth for five highly comical minutes before Cheryl leaves to get lunch. On exiting the square she passes Logan; they’re stationary, chatting for a few seconds, before he makes a speedy beeline for me, carrying what looks like our lunch in a takeout bag.
“Yum,” I say when he’s in earshot.
“Me, or this?” he asks, holding up the bag of fragrant food.
“Both,” I grin.
He smiles and speeds up his walk. He does it without noticing his own eagerness, but I notice it, and it thrills me. When he reaches me I’m greeted with a one-armed hug and a kiss. “Thank you for surprising me,” he grins against my lips.
“Ditto, baby,” I laugh. My hand lingering on his lower back, I run it south slightly, just breaching the top his pants, where I feel his boxers. “Just checking what you’re wearing down there,” I say. “That last message of yours had me intrigued,” I tease.
“And your last message nearly made me spit my coffee out,” he informs me, making me laugh again.
“Thanks for picking this up,” I peer into the bag, hungrily. It looks and smells like a North African cuisine, though I can’t put my finger on which one.
Whatever it is, it tastes amazing, and we eat it with gusto, sitting cross-legged at either end of the wooden bench with our lunch spread out in between us, while we swap stories about our productive mornings.
“So, I’ll have to get the proper qualifications first, but Amélie knows that I’m all in,” I inform Logan, feeling giddy about it all over again.
“That’s amazing, baby,” he gushes. “Grace did the same thing with us about seven years ago. She was an engineer at the time, and pestered Michel for a solid six months to let her switch. It’s probably one of the best moves that the company’s ever made, and I’m sure Amélie’s thinking the same thing about you,” he says kindly.
I smile back at him, and then I ask him inquisitively, “Does, uh, Leary Constructions ever hire landscape designers for work?”
“Yes,” he chuckles.
“So, this time next year we could be getting down and dirty in a flowerbed somewhere in Paris,” I giggle. Assuming, of course, that I am able to secure the jobs that Logan’s company is hiring for.
Grinning at me with a playful gleam in his eyes, Logan agrees, “That does sound like something we’d get up to.” Then he tells me, “I bumped into Amélie outside of Pierson House.”
Oh, shit! “Did she pry into whether it was you who told me about Madeleine?” I ask hurriedly.
Logan shakes his head. “She didn’t have the chance. I did all the talking,” he reveals, piquing my interest. “She agreed to give you a longer lunch break tomorrow so that I can enact my little plan,” he says intriguingly.
My curiosity soars. “And what plan might that be, Mr. Leary?”
He studies me for a moment, deciding how much to tell me, before saying, “What with my parents leaving tomorrow night, I thought it would be good to take the opportunity to host a little engagement party while they’re still here. So, we’re going to lunch,” he tells me, and a split second later a broad smile spreads across his face.
There’s more to it than that, I know immediately. “Where?” I enquire.
“Top secret. If I tell you, I’ll have to…”
“Yes?”
Logan quickly scans the square. “If I tell you, things might turn amorous,” he says dramatically.
I laugh out loud, and then say, “Where?” again, feeling nothing but encouraged by his warning.
“All will be revealed in twenty-four hours,” he lets me know with a promising smile. “I’m also taking you somewhere this evening.”
I’ve my very own man of mystery, I suddenly think. “Am I allowed to know where we’re going tonight?”
“Something’s happening at Mercy’s,” he says casually, but his attempt at nonchalance doesn’t fool me; my excitement shoots from one to ten in under a second.
“Is Samuel going to be there?” I ask, my voice suddenly quiet and expectant.
Slowly Logan nods, and I immediately bounce up and down on the bench in glee.
“Fuck, yes!” I exclaim, before getting a well needed grip on myself. “I mean, that will be wonderful,” I beam. Much more ladylike.
“Oh, baby,” Logan laughs, “I love watching your mind work.”
“Are you going to pick me up tonight, then?” I press.
He nods. “Though I might be late,” he says, “I have a two week post-surgery checkup.”
“I’m more than happy to give you a thorough physical myself,” I attempt to keep a straight face. “But if you’d prefer a doctor?”
“I’m only going for the lollypop,” Logan responds, and part of me actually believes that that could be true.
His phones message tone beeps loudly from inside his pocket, and while he pulls it out and glances at it, I hoover another few mouthfuls of our delicious lunch. Then Logan offers his phone to me.
“From Bud,” he explains.
Teasing him, I ask, “Do you two message each other everyday?”
He grins and nods in honesty. Giggling, I then peer down at the screen and read the message from Buddy:
*Something to keep you occupied while you wait for your sex swing. If you think you’re up for the challenge.*
At the bottom there’s an internet website address linked. I click on it and squint my eyes, preparing to snap them shut if the link takes me to something distasteful, but almost surprisingly, it doesn’t. I find myself on a page of a prominent French Men’s Health magazine, and it seems to me that Buddy is spending his lunch break reading. The article in question is entitled How To Give Her A Full Body Orgasm. Now there’s an attention grabbing title, I think appreciatively.
“You look entranced,” Logan notices.
I quickly show him the engaging name before possessively pulling his phone to my chest, where I peer down and read it attentively. It begins:
A full body orgasm, otherwise known as a cervical orgasm, is one of the most sacred, intimate, and pleasurable experiences that a couple can encounter. Men, this is not just one for the ladies. It may be her body that you’re stimulating, but if you can get her there, she’ll take you along for one hell of a ride!
My eyes grow wide. I rapidly scan down the article until I reach the How To part of it, where the article’s author suggests deep penetration of the vagina – so far, so good, I think slyly – and stimulation of the tip of the cervix – my eyes widen even further – prompting the woman to orgasm intensely, and causing an afterglow that lasts for hours.
I move further down the article, stopping at a section called For Best Results, where the first line simultaneously makes me laugh out loud and doubt everything that I’ve just read. Surely this is too good to be true, I think, as I read:
For Best Results…
1. Ensure your partner has had at least two orgasms before even attempting this. She needs to feel completely relaxed, at peace, and in total trust with you.
“I bet this was written by a woman,” I laugh. I scroll up to check the byline. Yep, this is a woman’s work. There’s a picture of her next to her name. She looks sane enough to me, I think. I scroll back down once more, finding the section called Personal Experience, and I read through the woman’s firsthand account of this particular practise. Jeez, she makes it sound like nirvana, a nirvana that sounds very familiar to me…
Have we already done this, I wonder wildly. I look up and grin lustfully at Logan. A deep, emotional connection. Check. Total trust in one another. Check. Powerful, all-consuming orgasms. Double check. Heat begins to rise up in me as I recall our own memorable moments, which are a match for the writer’s detailed description of this. I’ve never thought to give it a name, though. To me it’s just great sex, it’s just Logan.
“Uh, how long do you think we’ll be at Mercy’s tonight?” I ask, feeling abruptly flushed.
He starts chuckling, seeing straight through my reason for asking. “Reading something compelling, are you?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I admit, basking in those delicious memories.
“You’ll have plenty of time to have your way with me once we’re home,” he smiles, resting back on his hands and looking more gorgeous than anyone should be allowed to.
“You might want to brace yourself,” I giggle, closing the internet app and handing Logan’s phone back to him. “And you should message Buddy back and tell him that we’re way ahead of the trend.”
Logan smirks, gazing across at me looking completely besotted. I know that he doesn’t care about provocative messages from his best friend, nor magazine articles, nor the latest sexual trends. He cares only about connecting with me, about making love to me. The explosive reactions we evoke in one another are, as Logan has pointed out before, by-products of something much more profound – a true, open, brave love. One which also just so happens to be the most sensual, erotic, and pleasurable thing that I’ve ever encountered.
Seconds pass in silence as we look at each other.
“Do you have a subscription to that Men’s Health magazine?” I quip, breaking the sexual tension that’s skyrocketed between us in the last sixty seconds.
Logan starts laughing at me and my antics. “No, but I can get one if you want?” he teases.
Smiling at him, I shake my head. Instructions really won’t be necessary.
“I have an idea for the remainder of our lunch break,” Logan says, leading my mind astray. Bringing me back to reality, he continues, “Seeing as we’re so close,” he glances at the entrance of his office, “would you like a personal tour?”
“From the bossman himself?” I nod vehemently.
* * *
His office is everything that I expected it to be – modern, stylish, and as open-planned as it ought to be for a professional environment. At high-speed, Logan walks me around the ground floor, through the different departments within the company, all of which flow in a circular path around a large central atrium, in which several staff members are currently eating their lunch. This place is easy to navigate, and the differing colour themes for each department are a nice touch too, I think.
Logan’s large office is on the first floor, and the entire back wall of it is made of glass, overlooking the atrium. He must have a thing for walls of glass, I think coyly.
Grinning to myself, I ask Logan, “Is this also oneway glass?” I knock once on the glass, and every face below on the atrium floor looks directly up at me. Shit!
“No,” Logan laughs, standing next to me, “it’s not.”
Spotting Michel and Grace having lunch together, I give them an awkward little wave, which they reciprocate, and then I step away from the window.
“The only time I’m willing to play against this window…is after hours,” Logan tells me, his words igniting my vivid imagination. I am temporarily lost in the delicious thought of it. “I take it from the way your eyes just glazed-over that that sounds as appealing to you as it does to me,” he says as he walks over to his desk.
“It does,” I confirm. It really does.
“Then I’ll make it happen,” he assures me. He sinks into his office chair and I join him, perching myself on his lap.
“I have to go,” I tell him with a sigh, and he nods reluctantly. “Thank you for my tour,” I say.
“You’re welcome. You’re the queen of this empire now, you should know your way around it.”
I smile at his words. I like being queen, I think smugly.
* * *
My modesty returns to me in droves as I wade through another painful afternoon of grumpy clients. What is it about Tuesdays afternoons, I wonder. I lament the slow-moving hours, wishing instead that they could pass as easily as this morning did. My final client, the nightmare-turned-daydream from last week, today teeters somewhere between the two, neither as terrible as she could be, nor as enthusiastic, which results in very little development in her design plans. At the end of our hour, she puts on her coat muttering under her breath about how little work we accomplished. I’m tempted to tell her that I’m not a fucking miracle worker and that there’s only so much I can do when she’s so damn unhelpful. However, despite my indignant thoughts, I remain professional, assuring her that things will come together soon, and promising her that I’ll email her through some design boards.
“Passez une bonne soirée, Mme Clark,” I stand next to Layla’s desk as I wave her out. Have a good evening.
The second the front door shuts behind her, I let out a long sigh, and delve my hand into my pocket, finally allowed to look at the message that I felt vibrating half an hour ago. Logan writes:
*About to leave for my check-up. I’ll be with you in an hour. Will try to swindle a lollypop for you too. x*
That gives me half an hour to kill. I could continue working on Mrs. Clark’s project. I could scurry down the road to the cafe to pick up a muffin, which I still have to replace. I could do a multitude of useful things, but I don’t. Instead, as most people are leaving for the day, I wheel my office chair into reception, and Layla and I fill the time engaging in a tête-à-tête.
She tells me about how Saturday night went in her eyes, and it’s comically different from Amber’s account – Layla loved it, she had a brilliant time, and can’t wait to do it again. She effuses the happiness that Amber thinks is fake, and I remember that when I first started working here I also thought that Layla’s (seemingly) over-the-top positivity was disingenuous. But now? I’ve seen so much of it in her over the last few weeks that she’s beginning to convert me into believing that she really means it. Hmm, time will reveal all, I think.
Logan arrives right on time, a lollypop stuck between his lips and another one sticking out the top of his suit breast pocket. Score! He lingers just outside the entrance while I hurry back to my desk to gather my things together.
“C’était vraiment agréable de discuter avec vous, Layla,” I say, really meaning it, as I come back into the reception area. It’s been really nice chatting with you.
“J’ai apprécié aussi,” she smiles. I enjoyed it also.
“Avez-vous besoin que nous attendions tandis que vous fermez?” I ask, as Logan walks over to join us, slipping an arm around my waist. Do you need us to wait while you lock up?
“Non,” she shakes her head. “But thank you for offering. Patrick will be here any minute,” she tells us, trying but failing to downplay her excitement.
I smile back at her. “Have a good night, Layla.”
“You too,” she says again.
I give Logan a mischievous look as we leave. Oh, we will, I think.
* * *
We’re in a jovial mood when we arrive at Mercy’s apartment forty-five minutes later. I practically run to the front door, beyond excited to see Samuel. Samuel and Mercy, I think, reminding myself to be a courteous guest and not to steamroll her on my way to the puppy.
Unsurprisingly, Mercy is a perfect host to us, welcoming us into her home in her usual, gracious manner. She leads us into the kitchen, pulls out chairs for both of us, and once we’re seated she places two piping mugs of coffee and a large plate of freshly baked biscuits in front of us. I can’t keep the smile from my face; it feels just like coming to visit a grandmother. Despite the fact that she’s younger than both of Logan’s parents, she somehow doesn’t seem it, effusing that grandmother quality and concern on almost every meeting so far. Supporting this thought of mine, when she joins us at the table, she starts bombarding Logan with questions about his check up, checking (and then double checking) that everything is alright.
“Il n’y a pas à s’inquiéter,” he assures her for the third time. There is nothing to worry about.
“Merveilleux,” she finally believes him, and I can hear the relief in her voice. Marvellous.
Jeez, she’s so loveable, I think.
“Well, drink up and have a biscuit, and then we’ll go and see Samuel,” she smiles.
I splutter into my coffee. “Samuels here, in the apartment?” Given that Mercy lead us straight into the kitchen, I assumed that the dog breeder hadn’t arrived with him yet. If I’d known that he was already here my desire for coffee and biscuits would have been non-existent. “Where?” I ask, my voice unusually high, and an odd maternal feeling of needing to see him this instant bursting forth inside of me. I’ve never felt this sort of need before.
“He’s sleeping in the living room,” Mercy tells me, apparently pleased by my reaction.
“Not anymore,” Logan chuckles, and when I turn to look at him he nods his head in the direction of the kitchen doorway.
I whip my head back around and see Samuel standing there, only seven inches tall. He looks up at each of us in turn with his large blue eyes, and one of his too-big ears twitches, making Logan and Mercy laugh. I make a strange, airy-sounding gasp at the sight of him, and half-slide, half-fall off of my chair onto the floor. He’s beyond the cutest thing that I’ve ever laid eyes on; the millions of animal sensations on the internet don’t even come close. Though perhaps I’m biased, already.
He hurries over to me, and the way his little legs carry him, as if not able to accommodate his own eagerness, makes me beam up at Logan.
“Meet our baby,” he laughs, clearly enjoying watching me. “We’re calling him Samuel,” he then tells Mercy as Samuel reaches me and starts clambering over my legs.
Unable to resist, I pick him up and cradle him. Oh my god, I think, though oh my dog might be more appropriate. His velvet-like grey fur is interrupted by a white stripe down the length of his tubby belly, and he’s got one white foot that stands apart as well.
“You are adorable,” I tell him. He gazes up at me with sleepy eyes, and I start to believe that we’re having a special bonding moment.
A few seconds later, Logan joins us on the floor. “You’re going to come home with us soon,” he tells the pup, stroking its head, encouraging him back to sleep.
“Logan, he’s amazing,” I say, my voice quiet in case, you know, I wake Samuel up. Silly, Gemima.
Logan grins back at me, nodding.
I glance back down at our sleepy little man. His eyelids flutter open for a moment, and we briefly make eye contact, then he sighs and falls asleep. Yep, I’m in love. Unexpectedly and abruptly in love. Funny, I tell myself, looking up at Logan once more, it’s the second time that this has happened to me in the past four weeks!
A short while later Mercy’s husband, Gilles, arrives home and once introductions have been made, together they start busying themselves in the kitchen and it seems that Logan’s and my invitation to stay for dinner is nonnegotiable. While we sit for our main meal, I’m allowed to keep Samuel nestled in a one-armed hug, which results in me eating my food with some difficulty. Totally worth it. During dessert it’s Logan’s turn, and he becomes so adorably engrossed with Samuel that he misses the majority of the conversation around the table; or perhaps he’s heard these stories before.
I’m all ears as Mercy and Gilles tell me about how they met and fell in love, four decades ago, to the backdrop of quite a different era. They tell me about their three children and eleven grandchildren, and while Mercy makes a round of after dinner coffees, placing those biscuits on the table once again, Gilles disappears momentarily and comes back carrying several photo frames, so that I can put faces to the names. They’re a beautiful family.
It’s past nine PM when the dog breeder arrives to pick Samuel up. In the few minutes we’re chatting back and forth, Logan and I seem to pass her approval test, and before we have to hand our little boy back to her she confirms that we can pick him up for good in ten days time. Thinking ahead, I calculate that that will be a Friday – perfect, I think, we can have the whole weekend to get him settled in. The only thing that the breeder tells us that sounds like a red flag, is the puppy’s need for a stable home, meaning that our to-ing and fro-ing between Logan’s place and mine might be problematic.
“Stability,” Logan grins cheekily once the breeder has gone. He wants that too, I remember.
“I’m sure we’ll make it work,” I mutter. “He’ll be affluent, having two homes.”
“I don’t think affluence matters to puppies,” Logan chuckles.
“You’ll love him to pieces and that’s the main thing,” Mercy pipes up and I nod smugly in agreement.
Still chuckling Logan announces, “Nous devrions partir aussi.” We should leave too.
“Thank you so much for such a wonderful evening,” I say to our hosts.
“If you must leave, take these with you,” Mercy insists, taking my hand and pulling me back into the kitchen. “You barely ate a thing at dinner,” she says to me.
I finished my entire plate, I think, amused. From the fridge she pulls out a plate of muffins, raspberry if I’m not mistaken. I beam at her.
“Mercy, you read my mind,” I laugh.
They’ll save me stopping at the cafe down the road from Pierson House tomorrow morning; they’ll afford me an extra five minutes in bed with Logan, and based on the way that we’ve been looking at each other all evening, five minutes more in the morning might be necessary, because I’ve a feeling that we won’t be falling asleep until very late tonight.
That’s if we sleep at all.
* * *
He lifts my leg a little higher and I whimper in undiluted ecstasy. Oh, fuck!
“Yes, yes, ah!” I susurrate, pushed to the verge.
We’re entangled against the world’s best window, the front of my body pressed against the glass, one leg lifted out to the side, giving Logan better access to me from his position behind me. I revel in the feeling of his tall, firm, muscular structure, delivering my endless stream of pleasure with his quick, heavenly thrusts.
Abruptly his hand releases its hold on my waist and slams onto the glass above my head. He’s bracing himself. Holy shit! That’s so damn sexy! Even when he doesn’t mean to, he manages to turn me on even more by showing just how perfectly undone I am able to make him.
“Oh, Gemima,” he groans, his face buried into my neck.
Abruptly, he looks up and as our eyes pour into one another’s, everything in me goes haywire. My heart rate spikes, and my pleasure seems to expand from its epicentre down below, sending a frisson of carnal gratification through my whole body.
Ah!
As I’m seconds away from free-falling in sheer ecstasy, I vaguely note that this always seems to happen whenever we’re intimate like this – when we gaze at each other on our imminent path to orgasm, the resulting orgasm is one of emotion, as well as physicality.
“I love doing this with you,” he whispers to me.
“Me…too,” I say breathlessly, as he speeds up slightly. Oh, Logan, yes! I orgasm with his next thrust, moaning loudly, and shaking between him and the window.
Relishing the sensation of me around him, Logan holds himself inside of me as I come, which somehow seems to heighten my peak even more. He feels phenomenal! How does he always do this, my mind screams.
He then starts moving his hips again. “Fuck!” His deep, guttural moans are punctuated with airy gasps. His whole body tenses and he’s able to hold my eye contact until the very last moment. “AH!” He calls out effusively, and now it’s my turn to savour the feeling of him coming. I put all of my concentration on how he feels inside of me right now; he’s throbbing.
Oh my god!
“Logan,” I sigh, my body trembling with his.
Oh, wow! It just gets better each time, and this is only our second sexcapade of the night. We didn’t make it beyond the living room for our first encounter, and we haven’t even made it to the bed for our second.
“Baby, you feel astounding,” Logan pants, before kissing my lips, my cheek, and my neck.
“I like that you waited for me to finish coming,” I giggle. I take several long, deep breaths, my heart rate slowly returning to normal.
“I was indulging myself,” he admits, smiling against my skin. “You feel so good,” he says again.
He pulls out of me, and we both come away from the window. I clutch my breasts; they’re fuller and achier than the last time they were pressed against that window. This is a usual sign that my period is coming but it also means that they didn’t exactly enjoy being smooshed into the glass.
“Do you think that it’s possible to get window-burn?” I ask Logan in amusement whilst looking down at the red marks left on my skin.
“Window-burn?”
“Yep,” I gaze up at him. “You know, like carpet-burn,” I explain.
“Did I hurt you?” Logan asks, his hands lightly gracing my abdomen.
I roll my eyes at him playfully. “I’ll live.”
“Maybe massage would help,” he says coyly. His caressing hands move north and replace my hold over my breasts. He massages them, his strong fingers soothing their ache.
