Page 33 of Exiled
Still wearing my black high heels, I use my feet to pull him against me. As if he could get closer, as if it were possible to go deeper. It’s not, but I try. As if him being deeper will unite us more. As if feeling more of him, as if being filled more completely by him will bind us more tightly. As if to love him thus—wildly, desperately, furiously—could erase my sins, could cure my addiction.
It won’t, but I try.
Oh god, God, gods—I try. To erase, with Logan. To cure, with Logan. To remake myself, with Logan. He is inside me, but yet I am in him. Wound up, delved deep, tangled up, woven in. I writhe then and feel his cock slide through my stretched and burning and aching core, and I lean forward. Collapse againsthis chest, lips to his breastbone. Curl my hand around his ass and pull. Urge him.
“Love me, Logan.”
He moves then. Thrusts. Pulls me closer. I lean back, close my eyes, push my hips against his, angle away. Hook my high heels around his calves and clutch the cool hard round bubble of his muscular buttocks and let him move. Just feel it. Feel him move. Feel him fill me.
But it’s not enough.
I push at his chest.
He lifts me, pulls out of me, and sets me down. And now I push him again, shove him to the couch. He falls backward to the cushions, and I fall onto him. Straddle him. Kneel over him. Drape my breasts against his face, drag my aching nipples against his mouth. Reach down between us and guide his cock to my entrance. Don’t waste a moment, not a single second. Impale him into me. Sink down on him. Grip his shoulder with one hand and the back of the couch with the other. Knees in the back of the couch, taking my weight. Lift up, sink down. God, so deep. So full. So thick. So much. I lean back, stare down at our bodies as I rise, watch his shaft slide out of me, gleaming and wet and slick and wide, and watch as he thrusts up and buries himself into me, watch as that thick beautiful erection disappears into me. He has my breast in his mouth, tongue lapping at my nipple. Licking my tits. I arch my back and beg him without words to never ever stop doing that.
I ride him, frantic, frenetic, and wild. He grunts, moves with me, but this is all about me. I’m taking this. I need this. This is mine. I cling to him, both hands now. On his shoulders, almost gripping his throat. His hair is loose and wild, in his face. I leave it that way, obscuring him. The patch is black through yellow strands, his eye is ultrablueblueblue. His skin is golden, his hairthe color of the noonday sun. Body hard and lean and strong and perfect, and all mine.
I kiss him, quickly. “You are mine.”
He laughs. Helaughs. “Yes, Isabel. I am yours.”
His hands grip my hips and urge me to move harder, faster, to sink him deeper. And this, his hands thus on my hips, it is him saying without words—and you are mine. He doesn’t need to say it, and if he did, I would hate it. I’ve heard those words far too many times from someone not him, and I cannot hear them again, not from Logan. He knows. He sees. So he says it another way, he tells me with his hands. He slides his big rough palms up my torso to cup my big, heavy, bouncing breasts.Mine.He brings one breast to his mouth, kisses it, devours my nipple, the areola;mine.The other;mine.Hands grazing now down my sides, cupping up under my buttocks, gripping them, lifting me, letting me fall down to bury him deepdeepdeep, so deep;mine.
Then—while we move, while he drives up into me, while I sink down on him, while my tits sway and bounce in his face, while he stares into me with his one good eye, the one eye now more arresting and piercing than ever—he puts a thumb to my lips, a palm to my cheek, his fingers through my hair;mine.Grips my hair in rough fistfuls, suddenly, and kisses me so hard I forget to breathe, and thank God for that because in this moment with Logan Ryder I’d rather kiss than breathe, need his kiss this kiss more than oxygen, more than life, more than anything, however elemental.
Because this, us, we are elemental, thus. Bonded, connected, soul to soul;
MINE.
A jealousy, a possession going both ways. Ownership freely given, rather than taken.
I will myself to him. I would with all my soul belong to him and only him forever.
Our movements become ragged. Mine, his, ours. I feel his breath come as gasps. His grip in my hair and on my hip goes bruisingly beautifully rough. If I was loving him—not just moving, certainly notfucking, butloving him—wildly before, now I am primal. Feral. Mad. I even make sounds that aren’t quite human. Sounds of need, sounds of utter abandonment. Bliss. Perfection. Beauty. Raw love being created between us.
He is growling.
I am whimpering and whining and snarling and clutching at him everywhere.
A hand in his hair, fisted in his sun-locks. Biting his lip. Eating his breath. Sucking down nipping dipping kisses.
I feel him come, and I explode around him in that precise moment. I feel him release, hear his lion’s roar of ecstasy, and I give my own orgasm vent. Loud, crazed. We are clinging to each other. Mouth to mouth, kissing as if kissing were breath, were life, and we were drowning without it. He comes and comes and comes, and I am thrashing above him, squeezing him as he orgasms, undulating above him, driving him deeper and harder as I come so hard I see stars, go dizzy, nearly faint with the shattering power of it.
When he has finished his orgasm, and I have also, I grip his hair in both hands and yank his face back so he cannot but look at me. He lets me do this. Enjoys it. Stares up at me unblinking, unwavering, and roams my body with his hands while I gaze into his soul.
“I love you, Logan.” I whisper it, raggedly. “I love you.”
A moment, fraught, rife.
And then we’re twisting and falling and I’m lying on his chest and his arms around me and holding me tight and he’s holding me together. Keeping all my pieces together.
“Isabel... Isabel.” A thumb across my temple. A palm on my back, broad and warm and comforting. “I love you.”
In that moment, I feel like just maybe things might be okay, somehow, someday.
Chapter
Six