His arms tightened around her possessively. Brontë was his again.
Good.
He pushed open the door to the other bedroom. Brontë’s room. There was a single twin bed in the corner of the room with a plain wrought iron headboard, and a small dresser that held a few mementos from their dates that week. A vase of flowers—flowers that he’d given her—sat in the windowsill. There were no pictures on the walls, and the entire room seemed barely lived in. The realization pleased him—she’d be back with him after tonight. His place felt empty and lonely without her.
Logan gently laid her on the bed and admired her, the curves of her body, the beauty of her face, the way the ends of her hair curled wildly. The way she bit her lip as she anticipated his touch. Carefully, almost reverently, he brushed his fingers down the length of one denim-clad leg and enjoyed seeing her shiver in response. He turned and shut the door to Brontë’s small room, just in case her roommate did show up again, and she jumped at the sound.
“Everything all right?” he asked her.
A nervous giggle was his answer. “I’m fine. Just . . . a little on edge.”
“That’s part of the appeal of having you like this,” Logan murmured. His hands went to one of her shoes and eased it off her foot, and he smiled at the way she wiggled her toes in response. “Watching your response as I touch you. Watching you anticipate my moves. All of it pleases me.”
“And are you hard?” she asked breathlessly.
He took her hand and placed it on his cock. That quick caress had him nearly groaning aloud at her touch. His cock felt like steel and ached with the need to bury itself into her, but he would pace himself.
Her fingers lightly glided along his shaft, exploring and feeling him. She licked her lips, the unconscious move making his cock jerk in her hand. “You’re so hard, Logan. So big in my hand.”
And she was so delicate under his. “Beautiful Brontë,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her lips.
She made a small noise of protest when he kept the kiss brief, automatically reaching for him again and stroking her hands down his cheeks. “I want you.”
“Let me play with you, Brontë. It would give me such pleasure.”
She shuddered at his words and nodded.
“First, I’d like to undress you,” he said in a low, seductive voice, intending to seduce her with words as well as touch. Her hands automatically moved to the waist of her jeans as if to help out, and he caught her hands in his. “Allow me.”
Her hands fluttered at her waist, as if uncertain, and then she dropped them to her sides. “Okay.”
Logan leaned in and pushed her sweater up, exposing an inch of skin above the waist of her jeans. He kissed the skin, enjoying her shiver of pleasure beneath him. “I plan on taking my time exploring you, love. You’re going to be begging for me to take you by the time I’m done with you.”
She sucked in a breath. At her sides, her hands clenched and then flexed, as if she didn’t know where to put them.
“Just relax,” he told her with a small grin, knowing that she’d never be able to.
“Oh, sure,” she said with a small laugh. “Easy for you to say.”
“It is,” he agreed, undoing the button of her jeans and then lowering the zipper with excruciating slowness. His cock throbbed at the sight of the sliver of pale blue satin exposed. His mouth lowered, and he nipped at her skin through the satin, enjoying her small jerk of response. “These are lovely.”
“My panties or my hips?” she teased.
“Both,” he teased back. He tugged the thick fabric of the jeans down her legs, tossing them aside and on the floor when he was done. Her socks went next, each one carefully removed with a light skimming of fingers over her flesh.
Now her sweater. There were no buttons that he could lovingly pull apart. Shame. He slid a hand under the soft fabric, caressing her belly.
She squirmed, ticklish. “Stop that.”
“Stop touching you?” His fingertip dipped into her belly button.
Brontë sucked in a breath, and when his tongue followed the finger, she moaned in response. “Never mind. Keep touching me. I’m obviously delusional.”
“Clearly,” he murmured, swirling his tongue around the edge of her belly button as he pushed her sweater upward. Ah, damn. She’d worn a matching bra. The cups were the same ice blue satin decorated with little black bits of lace around the edges and between her breasts. He’d wanted to see her naked right away, but the sight of her curves cupped in that gorgeous lingerie made him rethink his idea. He’d leave her in it a bit longer, and then strip it off of her later.
But for now, her sweater had to go.
“Hands?” he asked her, sitting upright again.
Her forehead furrowed over the blindfold, and she lifted her hands in the air after a moment’s hesitation. “Like this?”
“Exactly.” He tugged her sweater over her head and arms in a deft move and tossed it aside, pleased at the sight of her beautiful body. “You’re gorgeous. I could look at you all day and never get tired of it.”
A soft smile touched her mouth, and she reached for him, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I could look at you all day, too.”
“Ah, but this is about me pleasing you,” he said, clasping her hands in his. “And you’re not playing fair. No touching.”
She did a mock pout that made him want to lean down and kiss her mouth. Instead, he took her hands and directed them over her head, to the wrought iron headboard’s bars.
“Keep them here,” he instructed her. “I want to play with you a little longer.”
He was pleased to see the little shiver move over her body at the thought. She obeyed him, her breathing quickening with excitement.
Logan skimmed a hand down her leg, caressing the skin. The front of her thigh was smooth and soft, her calves dainty and her ankles elegant. He could indeed spend all day admiring her body. He ran a finger along her skin, tracing a light pattern over her from foot to thigh, noticing how she reacted when he touched her. She jumped when he moved over her thighs, and he repeated the motion, this time skimming the inside of her thigh, and was pleased to see her twitch even more.
“‘Afflicted by love’s madness, all are blind,’” she quoted suddenly.
“Oh?”
“I just . . . it felt appropriate at the moment.”
Logan chuckled. “Very appropriate, except I am enjoying looking at you far too much to claim to be blind.” His fingers played along the lace of her panties. “Plato?” he asked innocently.
Her lips quirked with amusement. “Sextus Propertius, I believe.”
“Intriguing name,” he commented. His fingers grasped her thighs, and he pulled them apart, eliciting a startled gasp from her. “Keep these open for me, Brontë. I want to get my fill of looking at you.”
A whimper escaped her throat, but she did as he’d commanded, her knees falling open, her legs spread wide on the bed. He pushed them apart until they were flat on the mattress , the ice blue panties totally exposed. She was so wet that he could see it seeping through the fabric of her panties, and he palmed his cock in response, groaning. “I see how wet you are, love. Should I taste you?”
A shudder rippled through her, and she moaned, clutching at the iron headboard. He watched with fascination as her thighs quivered, as if desperate to lock together again. He ran a curious finger down the inside of her thigh, starting at her knee and moving toward her sex.
She seemed to shudder with every inch caressed, until her hips were rolling on the bed. “Logan,” she breathed, her head turning back and forth despite the blindfold. “Touch me.”
“Where shall I do it?” He brushed a knuckle over her belly button again. “Here?”
“Lower.”
He went to her knee and caressed it. “Here?”
She moaned in frustration. “You’re a horrible tease.”
“Now, love,” he chided. “If I was a horrible tease, I’d move in and touch you like so.” And he stroked one finger up the damp satin between her legs.
Brontë’s sucked-in breath was audible.
He pushed his finger, nudging at the clit under the layers of clothing. “But I’m not finished playing, Brontë. And if I continue to touch you here, you’ll come. And I don’t want that just yet. I’m enjoying teasing you far too much.”
Her hips bucked against his hand, trying to create friction between his fingers and her flesh. Naughty woman. He spanked her sex lightly in reproach, enjoying her startled gasp. “Are you not having fun, love?”
“I’m not sure if this is fun or torture,” she panted. Her body shifted on the bed, about as close to squirming as she could get away with. Her hips wriggled under his hand, still resting atop her sex. He let it remain there a moment, a silent tease, before he removed it.
A small protest escaped her throat.
It died when his knuckles brushed over the tip of one of her breasts. He could tell they were hard and tight through the fabric of the pretty bra. Tight and needing, and probably delectable. Logan’s mouth watered just thinking about how she’d taste in his mouth, and he tugged at the cups of her bra, freeing her breasts. The underwire of the bra pushed her breasts upward, plumping them as if offering them to his lips. And who was he to refuse such an offering? Logan bent forward and took one succulent tip in his mouth.
Brontë moaned.
“Delicious,” he murmured against her skin, rolling the tip of her nipple against his lips. Such a hard little nub. He flicked his tongue against it. He loved her nipples—a dusky rose, slightly tilted. Dark and pretty against all that creamy flesh. He began to tease the other with his fingertips as he tongued the first, flicking and teasing it with his mouth.
Underneath him, Brontë whimpered, her hips undulating again. Her hands clenched the iron headboard tight, as if she needed to hold on to something desperately. “Oh, Logan.”
He kissed her flesh—the tips of each breast, the sweet valley between them, the gentle curves underneath them. She moaned wildly with each caress, her blindfolded head moving back and forth, as if in denial.
And so he paused.
“More,” she demanded, arching her back so her breasts were thrust oh-so-beautifully into his face. “Please, Logan.”
“Not yet, love,” he murmured, kissing one nipple and then sitting up. His cock strained against his pants, so fucking eager that he could feel pre-come beading on the thick crown. He stood and began to remove his pants, desperate to free his cock.
She whimpered, confused. “Logan? Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, love,” he told her. “Just getting undressed. My cock’s so hard it’s aching and my clothes are too tight.”
A smile curved her lips, and she licked them, which nearly made him come in his pants. “I love your cock.”
“Do you, now?” He stripped off the rest of his clothing, kicking it onto the floor before kneeling back alongside her again. His cock thrust into the air, hard, the head slick.
“Mmm-hmmm,” she said with a small sigh of delight.
He wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking it while looking at her lying in the bed, legs spread for him, panties wet, her breasts thrust up. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were listening for his movements since she couldn’t see him.
Logan moved back over her, leaning in to kiss her mouth. His hand went to her breast, palming it, and he settled between her legs. She responded to his kisses eagerly, her tongue meeting his and rubbing against it with soft mews of desire. He moved down a little, settling his cock against her wet core and thrusting.
She gasped, her hips rocking against his flesh.
“Feel good?” he asked her, thrusting his cock against her sex again. The wet fabric prevented him from pushing deep inside her, a teasing barrier.
“Oh, God, yes,” she moaned. “Logan, I need you so bad. I want you inside me.”
He wanted to be there, too. But he wasn’t done playing. He thrust again, enjoying her moans of response.
When she parted her lips and licked them again, a mental image formed in his mind that made him groan aloud. He had to get up.
She whimpered a protest, turning her head and looking for him.
“I’m here,” he told her, standing by the head of the bed.
He caressed her breasts, plucking at the nipples. Then, he ran a thumb over her lower lip, unable to resist that mental image in his mind. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”
Her entire body seemed to tremble with anticipation, and then she took his thumb in her mouth and bit down lightly. “I trust you.”
“Do you want me?”
“More than anything.”
He grasped the headboard and leaned forward until the head of his cock pressed against her mouth. “Then taste me.”
Her lips parted, and she ran her tongue over the head of his cock, licking up the salty pre-come there. He groaned when her tongue slipped down the shaft, flicking against it. Then she opened her mouth and tilted her head, taking him in deeper. The sight of her lips wrapped around his cock was almost enough to send him over the edge, and he clutched at the headboard, trying to keep control. “Brontë,” he groaned. “Ah, God, your mouth.”
Her tongue licked against the underside of his cock, running along the thick vein there. So trusting and loving. So incredibly erotic.
She sucked, trying to take him deeper, but he pulled out of her mouth. It was too much pleasure too fast, and it would be over with far too quickly if he let her continue.
He wanted her to come first. Logan moved a step back from the bed, eyeing her all spread out and delicious. “Are you enjoying yourself, love?”
She nodded, biting her lip. Her hips lifted a little, as if unable to stay down. “More, Logan. I need you.”
“I know,” he told her. “I’m going to give you more. But I need you on your hands and knees.”
Her little gasp was followed by a low moan, and she obediently turned over, moving to her knees and then leaning forward to rest on her elbows. The position pushed her pretty ass high into the air.
Logan ran his hand all over her exposed skin—her thighs, her calves, the small of her back, along her spine. It was a pleasure simply to touch her. She seemed to be enjoying it as well, her little breathy sighs of pleasure almost as enticing as touching her. His fingertips snagged on the waistband of her panties, and he tugged them down her thighs, exposing her wet, gleaming flesh.