Page 28 of Exiled

I bite down on my lip until it hurts.

He nibbles at my nipple with sharp teeth. Slides his lips over it. Tugs. Licks. It’s already hard and standing tall, but every lick and touch of his teeth and tongue make my nipple harder, more erect. Until it aches. And then he moves to the other, and works it the same way. And all the while, his fingers are busy. Sliding in and out, pressing against my clit, circling, pinching, sliding in.

Lips, fingers, breath.

They are my world, Logan’s lips, Logan’s fingers, Logan’s breath.

When I come, I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, and Logan kisses me, swallows my whimper and licks at my lip, soothing the hurt. But his fingers continue to circle my clit as I come, working me harder, faster, bringing my climax higher, pushing me to heights of wildness that leave me breathless, that leave me aching and limp.

And then he withdraws his fingers from my core, lifts them, dripping my essence, to his mouth. Licks them clean.

“Better?” he asks.

I can only gasp against his tuxedo coat, smelling his cologne and the faint acridity of cigarettes, the tang of cinnamon gum.

Logan scent.

But I am still afraid of this night. Being out, with Logan, in public. Not just to a movie or a little diner. Something...public.

On his arm. There will be pictures, probably.

I’m not wearing any underwear.

I’ve just had an orgasm, so I’m flushed and breathless and feeling on edge, wild, rife with lust.

I’m scared witless.

But I feel beautiful, because Logan’s touch always does that. Makes me feel needed. Wanted. Beautiful. Even when he doesn’t say a word.

He adjusts my dress so I’m covered.

There is silence, then, in which I attempt to quiet my nerves.

The limo pulls to a stop, and there is a moment of waiting as the driver exits and circles, opens the door. Logan rises up out of the limousine elegantly, easily. Extends a hand to me, lifts me out. A black awning, doormen in uniforms with brass buttons on their coats stand to either side of the doorway. I adjust the drape of my dress, feeling the soft swish of the fabric against my backside, against my bare, still-tingling core. I feel as if everyone who sees me will know I’m not wearing anything under thedress. I even glance down at myself, but... it isn’t as obvious as it feels to me.

Logan threads his fingers through mine, pulls me closer to his body, so I’m flush against him. Held up by him. His arm goes around my waist, almost inappropriately low. Claiming me as his.

“You are exquisite, Isabel,” he murmurs in my ear. “The loveliest woman in any room. And you’re onmyarm. Makes me the luckiest man in any room.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

“I love that you can take a compliment with grace,” he remarks.

I’m unsure how I should respond, so I don’t.

A maître d’ greets Logan by name, guides us to a booth in a shadowed corner of the back of the restaurant. A single candle provides some illumination, but not much. All the other tables are similarly cloaked in shadow, providing privacy for each booth.

I am uneasy. Off balance. This feels right, but... something is off. Within me.

I ignore it.

Peruse the menu.

Logan does not suggest anything, and when the server appears to take our orders, Logan allows me to speak for myself. I like that. Deciding what I want, making my own decisions.

Dinner is long, broken into several courses. I refuse wine, which perplexes Logan, but he doesn’t push it, and also does not order anything for himself.

And he doesn’t ask why.