Page 79 of Exposed

We both know why we’re not supposed to do this. Why it feels wrong, even though it feels so right.

I was just with Caleb.

I force the reminder upon myself. It shows in my eyes, I’m sure, and Logan sees it.

“I’m with you, baby.” His gaze is bold and strong and unwavering.

We are frozen in this moment, him about to pierce me so perfectly, our eyes locked. Tensed, taut. Neither of us looks away.

My hands are flattened on his chest, my hair loose and draping in a thick inky black curtain, and now it blocks out the whole world as I lean down and kiss him.

Oh, heaven, the beauty of the kiss is endless and wild. It makes my heart soar to tangle my tongue against his and to taste my essence on his lips and lick it away; it makes my soul sing to feel the raging need in the power of his mouth on mine, makes my entire being vibrate with pure and ecstatic joy to give myself over to this, to him, to us.

I don’t give him a warning. I don’t givemyselfa warning.

I sink down on him as we kiss, plunge my tongue into the warmth of his mouth as he surges up into me and fills me and spreads me to stretching aching burning beautiful fullness. I can’t help but weep at the glory of this.

“Oh my god, Logan,Logan. . .” I sob.

“Fuck, oh my fucking God in heaven,” he breathes, and his hands fly to my hips, soar over my ass, my thighs, my back, scouring every inch of my flesh he can reach, “Isabel, my Isabel, God, you feel so fucking perfect.”

There is nothing but this. I am impaled by him, seated fully upon him. I can’t move. I can breathe, for once in my life I feel like I can finally breathe. He is my Breath. He fills me to stretching and I am mad with delirium from it. It burns, the way he fills me. There is nothing like it, has never been anything to match the utter perfection of his body inside me. We are mated, made for each other.

“Isabel . . .” he groans.

And I remember he was so close to comingbefore, when he was on the other side of the room; he’s held it back, and now he has to be in pain from the need to release, the need to move.

“I can’t hold back much longer,” he whispers, his grip on my body slipping and shifting from hips to buttocks to waist, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch me hold me feel me more.

“Don’t hold back. Never hold back. Give me all of you, Logan.”

I drive my body down his, letting the aching tips of my breasts trail down his chest. My hips flex until my thighs are flush with my torso, and he’s crushed so deep into me it almost hurts. My lips touch his chest. My tongue flutters over his nipple. I nip at his throat. Cup his face in my palms and kiss his chin and the corner of his mouth and I lick his upper lip, taste the sweat there.

“Make love to me, Logan.” I say it out loud, not whispering it, not hiding the crazed needy desperation in my voice, not hiding the pain and the conflict and the self-loathing.

I glide up his body, slipping him out of me almost all the way, and I don’t pause, don’t wait for his response; I pull his face tomine and kiss his mouth with all the starvation-fervor I possess, and I sink down on him. He groans into our kiss and thrusts up, and our hip bones collide like ships crashing prow to prow. His hands grip hard into the meat of my ass, a double handful of my buttocks, and he pulls me against him, even though I’m as fully seated on him as I can get, but we both need more, need him deeper.

I plant my feet against the outside of his thighs and let my weight rest on his chest, and I cling to his shoulders for balance, and I pull back, like a rubber band stretched to its apex, and then I crash down on him and I scream his name—“LOGAN!”—like a curse, like a blessing, like a prayer, like a benediction, and his voice is raised as well, raised with mine, shouting with me. He takes control then, without flipping me or switching positions. He takes my hips where they crease to meet thigh and plunges me down and pushes me up and sets the rhythm. He’s shiny with sweat, a glistening sheen on his tan skin. His eyes bore into mine. We do not look away. I stare into him as he thrusts up to fill me, and my eyelids flutter with pleasure when he slides out but I do not close them, do not look away.

Sustained eye contact with another person is very hard. The mind, the soul, they want to look away after a while. To meet someone’s gaze without looking away, without flinching, even allowing natural blinks, to just stare into them and receive the stare in return, it is nearly impossible.

Because it is too intimate. It is to bare one’s very soul, one’s vulnerable heart.

I give Logan every corner of me, I don’t look away, I let him look into me, and I take that same from him. It is a gift.

We move in sync now. We find our rhythm. The music of our bodies uniting is dulcet, palpable. This is what each of us was meant for; we were meant to be this way, together.

“Isabel, god, Isabel.” He sounds as if there is a world of words waiting on the other side of his teeth, and he’s just barely holding it all back.

“Say anything, Logan.”

We move madly now. I am coiled on top of him, legs pulled up beneath me, hips circling, breathing his breath, kissing him now and then, sipping at his lips.

“I love this,” he says. It is ripped out of him, it sounds like.

I bury my face against his neck. “Me too. So much.”

“I feel like I’ve been waiting for this for my whole life.”