Page 77 of Exposed

He groans, a quiet, constrained sound. And then his fist resumes its blurring pumping and he leans all his weight against the marble wall, face resting on his forearm, hips pushed forward. His body is bowed inward, spine arched. He is a vision of masculinity, all muscle and tattoos and hard flesh and angles.

I nearly come when he releases. It is a geyser of semen spouting out of him, splashing onto the marble and sluicing down the drain, washed away, and he continues his rough abuse of his member, pumping until another gush spurts out of thetip of him, and then he grips himself at the base and rubs there as a third fountain of white viscous liquid leaves him. And then he’s rubbing his palm over the head and squeezing, pumping, squeezing. Finally, he’s done.

And that’s when he looks at me.

His eyes narrow. His jaw flexes. “Isabel.”

His gaze flicks over my breasts, down. Fixes on my core. I glance down as well, and see that the silk covering my opening has darkened with dampness.

I meet his gaze unapologetically. Tilt my chin up.

And then I flee. Return to his bedroom and throw myself on the bed. God, what did I do? I watched Logan masturbate. Is he angry? I don’t know. Surprised, at the very least. Confused. He saw how aroused I was, watching him.

Oh god. Oh god. I close my eyes and I can see it still, his thick shaft in his hard fist, the head broad and plump, dark as he squeezes himself mercilessly. I can almost feel his cock in my hands, can almost feel his lips on my breasts. I moan and slide my fingers under the waist of my underwear, slip two fingers into myself. Delve into the juices and smear them against my clit. Bite my lip and let out a groan as lightning sizzles through me.

I hear the door and know he’s there. I don’t open my eyes yet. I arch up off the bed and shove away my panties. Kick them off. Spread my legs open and touch myself once more, let my fingers find a circling rhythm.

When I’ve found it, I open my eyes and stare at Logan through slitted lids. He’s leaning back against the closed bedroom door, a thick black towel wrapped around his waist, clutched closed in one hand. I don’t stop. I keep my eyes on him as I fondle my clit, slip my fingers into my slit and smear wetness over myself once more, circle, circle. I’m breathing hard, andmy hips flutter. My throat closes, and then I groan involuntarily, heat tightening my muscles, tension coiling inside my belly, low.

The towel around Logan’s waist does nothing to disguise the evidence of his renewed erection.

What are we doing? Why?

I have no answers, but I know I’m not going to stop. And I know he won’t either. But he’ll get no closer, either. If he did, this would all change in a moment. A single touch, and it’d be over. He’d be here in this bed with me. And I want that, but like he said yesterday, I want it when it’s right. And this may be wrong, or maybe it’s not. I don’t know. I just know I like his eyes on my body, and I wish it were his hands but I know if it were we’d be here for days and days, naked and tangled up and sweaty and getting so dirty together doing all the things I’ve wanted with Logan for so long it hurts, it seems, and yet after we emerged blinking and sore from this bed, I’d still have questions and problems and nothing would be different and nothing would be solved.

So I choose to wait.

And torture both him and myself with this intimate, voyeuristic display. I’m on display for him. Heels drawn up to my buttocks, slit open wide for him, wet and gleaming with my juices, heavy breasts weighted to either side of my body. I blink and glance at him, and he’s naked. Towel dropped. Cock in hand. Impossibly hard again.

“Pinch your nipples, Isabel.” His voice floats to me. I pinch my nipple between finger and thumb, and a whimper leaves me. “Harder. Make it hurt.”

I squeeze hard, and lightning sears through me, and my hips lift involuntarily.

He’s jerking himself roughly.

I meet his gaze. “Softly, Logan. Gently. Not so rough.” He gentles and slows his touch. “Yes. Like that.”

“Wish it were your hand,” he murmurs.

“Or my mouth,” I say.

“Or your pussy.”

“That would be so perfect. I’d squeeze around you. I’d squeeze you so hard you wouldn’t be able to pull out of me.”

“If I were in your pussy, I’d never leave. I’d bury myself so deep...” He’s pleasuring himself slowly, gently. But not the way I’d do it.

God, I want to touch him.

I remember the way he felt in my hands. In my mouth. His come on my skin, on my tongue.

I’m crazed. At the edge of my control. Ready to abandon the pretense of all this and just pounce on him like a lioness leaping for her prey.

“Why are we doing this to ourselves, Logan?” I ask, my voice ragged, desperate.

“Fuck if I know.” He’s close. His eyelids are heavy, his motions jerky and rough.

“I need you.”