Page 68 of Exiled

You kiss me as if there will be no tomorrow, as if there was no yesterday, as if You have never kissed me, Logan, as if You have never made love to me, as if I might vanish, as if I am fading away right now and You must cling to me and clutch me closer and kiss me to keep me.

Kiss me, Logan.

Keep me, Logan.

I do not speak these words, but You hear them anyway, Logan.

His fingers delve into my hair, and his body presses down on mine. I relish the weight, savor the tang of his tongue clashing against mine. His lips break away from mine, and we both gasp, breathless. And then he kisses me again, and again it is freighted with desperation, given tectonic power by the unspoken plea in my eyes, dripping silent from my lips. The plea is in my fingers as I work the cotton of Logan’s T-shirt up his back and rip it away, breaking the kiss for a wild frantic second. The plea is in the way I fumble with his jeans, in the way I tear at the knot of my robe, needing both of us bare, needing skin against skin more than I ever needed anything in all my life. Were I starving, I would need this more than food; were I about to succumb from thirst, I would need this more than water.

I need it more than I need to breathe, because I can breathe Your oxygen, fill my lungs with Your breath and never need to breathe again.

Somehow, someway, Logan’s clothes are tossed aside, and he is above me, magnificent chest bare, pectoral muscles scribed into his flesh as if by a razor, abdominal muscles grooved and ridged and cut with the same blade. His shoulders are broad, wider than the earth, blocking out the heavens and the stars. His eye is the sky, his eye is the sun. Warming me, giving me life. The patch is one I’ve not seen yet, rich supple white leather, hundreds of individual strands woven in ornate, interlaced knots. It is a work of art. His hair is loose and long and the color of honey, the color of ripe wheat, curling around his shoulders, strands catching in the stubble of beard on his chin. His lips are reddened and swollen from kissing me. His hands, rough, work-worn, scars on knuckles, callused, touch me. Trace my curves. Breathe heat and need into my flesh. Cup my breast and then my cheek with equal passion. I breathe and gaze at him and give him my soul. My will. My body.

He presses his palm to my belly, to the bump wherein a life grows.

I smile at him, and he kisses the tear tracks on my cheeks.

And now his palm descends to tease my core, closer, closer, closer... and then to my thigh, teasing. Kneading the muscle of my upper thigh, up to cup my well-padded hip bone. I have gained weight.Pregnancy suits you, I must admit. It adds a softness to your already full figure.

I banish that voice. It has no place in this moment.

No place in my mind.

No place in my life.

Not any longer.

I breathe in and will the voice to vanish, breathe out; and there You are, Logan. Kissing the corner of my mouth, Your eye on mine, watching me, knowing the battle I fight, and letting me fight it myself, so that I may know the sweetness of victory and come back to now, to here, to You, to us.

And I do.

There is only silence, only Your breath and mine, and the whisper of Your hand on my skin. The slight wet sucking sound of Your finger delving into my core, into my heat, into my wetness. Then the gasp from my lips as Your touch draws lightning out of the heavens and into my belly. Into my core. Your touch, Logan, it is everything. I feel it with every atom of my being, the way You touch me. The way Your lips graze my throat, kissing each bruise. The way Your lips then descend to kiss the swelling slope of my breasts, swollen with pregnancy. You lap at my nipple with the flat of your tongue, flick it erect with the tip.

I spread my thighs wide, draw my heels up to my buttocks, let my knees drape aside, open myself for You. Clutch at the supple muscle of your back, the cool hard bubble of Your beautiful backside. Murmur in delight at the way the smattering of golden hair on Your chest rubs against my belly and then my thighs. Whimper in abandon as Your nimble tongue finds my folds and scours them for every drop of essence, every drop of pleasure. My hips roll and writhe as You tongue me to climax, and I give full voice to my orgasm, cry out loud. And then I tangle the fingers of both hands into Your hair and haul You roughly up to my mouth, and I lick at the corners of Your lips, lick away my own taste, and then kiss Your mouth with such fierce fervor that You moan, and I bite Your lip until You grunt in surprise and I taste blood.

Oh, Logan, my Logan, my love, I feel You now. Here, against me. One hand still tangled and knotted in the wild golden mane of your locks, I kiss You, and with my frantic other hand I seek Your hardness, and find it hard as steel yet soft as velvet and thick and springy and slick. Wetness beading at the tip. Heavy down under the root, tight to Your body with need. I grip You and stroke You and caress You until Your kiss falters, and then Ibring You to me. Pull You away from the kiss by my grip on Your hair, and gaze into Your eye, my own filled with tears of love and passion and too many millions of other manic boiling potent emotions that all I can do is ride out the maelstrom of them and hope You’ll be there to kiss me back to life, be there to hold me until I gentle from the hurricane.

For in this moment, I am a hurricane.

I guide You to my slit. Lift my hips and grip You at the root and spread myself open with the thick broad head and pant and moan as I slide You into me.

“Logan...”I whisper Your name. A benediction. A plea.

You move, root Yourself deep. Rut into me.

I retain my grip on Your hair, and now I jerk You down to my mouth, kiss You. Mouth to my mouth, hips to my hips, hearts beating in unison, in parallel, in syncopated rhythm.

I glut myself on You.

Beneath You.

You lift up, lean back, rise up to Your knees. Tuck my feet into the crooks of Your arms, and You begin.

Slowly at first. Never looking away from me.

Then harder, and faster.

I feel my breasts swaying and bouncing with the vigor of Your love. I cup one, pinch my own nipple. You watch, and move all the harder for it.