Stud for Hire (11 page)

Time hung between them. A second. A century. All Hanna knew was Logan. Big and bold, hovering over her, staring at her face. When his head dipped, she readied for his kiss. She hissed in a breath as her tongue danced out to wet her lips, just a dab, but he caught it. His entire body stiffened.

He came down on her, but to the side, so his weight didn't pin her in place. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, because he was big and the mattress was . . . fluffy. With his weight on her, surely it would swallow her up. She nearly laughed at the thought, but didn't. Couldn't. Because, just then, his lips touched hers, and all thought flew.

He tasted like heaven. Like hard, hot man. Like Logan.

His mouth was warm, mobile over hers, working her, teasing her lips. His tongue slipped in to touch hers and a sizzle of arousal scudded through her. He cupped her cheek, holding her—though she had no intention of leaving—and he ate at her mouth, sucking and laving and nibbling.

Heat rose within her and she shifted restlessly. He groaned as she rubbed against him and she realized her thigh was pressed against something hard and throbbing.

Holy God.
How thrilling.

He wanted her. He wanted her bad.

His fingers trailed over her jawline and down her neck, toying with her tender skin there, before easing lower. He found and cupped her breast and a shiver walked through her. When his thumb drew circles around her nipple, teasing it and prodding it, sending delicious waves of sensation through her, she couldn't hold back the moan.

“Logan . . .”

He responded by deepening the kiss, distracting her, overwhelming her with too many sensations at once. He shifted, so he could stroke her with his other hand as well. Toying with both nipples in tandem.

But he lost patience with this before too long—though she could have reveled in it all night—and he drifted lower. Cool air kissed her thighs as he tugged up her nightgown.

For the flash of a second, when she'd awakened to find him in her room, she'd been discomfited that he'd found her in such a dowdy nightie, but he didn't seem to mind that it wasn't sexy in the slightest.

His touch skated over her knee, her thigh, then brushed her center, through her panties.

Of a sudden, she wished she never wore them. She wasn't the kind of girl who never wore them, but oh, how she wished she could be. At least tonight.

He found her, through the cotton, and stroked her. Murmured deep in his throat as he touched her dampness. She was swollen, engorged. So much so that his slight caress sent pings dancing along every nerve.

He trailed away from her mouth, nibbling at her cheek, her jawline, her earlobe, as he continued to toy with her.

“Do you like that?” His voice was a low thrum, rough, as though he had to force out the words.

“Yes.” She shifted her legs farther apart to make the point, to encourage him, perhaps. That she rubbed his cock in the process was an added bonus.

“Shit.”
An unintended imprecation, she was sure. He slipped beneath the elastic of her panties and she stiffened. His skin wasn't soft or smooth, like a city boy's. It was harsh and rough. The skin of a man who worked for a living. The scrape on her tender flesh was agonizing, and divine.

He circled her, teasing the underside of her clit until she began to fidget and make undignified sounds, needy grunts.

“Logan.” Something of a demand.

“Yes, Hanna?” Somehow he'd unbuttoned her nightgown and bared one breast. He dipped his head to lick and then suck her nipple. Still he drew agonizing lines up and down her slit. He played with her in a leisurely fashion, as though he could dandle her all night long.

She didn't have all night.

She wanted him now.

She wanted, needed him
in
.

“Please, Logan.”

She was certain the sound he made was a chuckle. It sent a snarl of annoyance through her.

He'd been much more cooperative when he'd been on the payroll.

But surely, she could find a way to . . . motivate him to move more quickly.

She fumbled for the snap of his jeans; deliberate incompetence was helpful. He winced as she scraped against his cock, then murmured something incomprehensible as she followed it up, tracing the line of his insistence. She met his gaze as she found, and released, the fastening.

She reached in and took hold of him. His nostrils flared.

“Mmm.” Though his jeans were tight, that only increased the pressure of her stroke. “What have we here?” she murmured.

He grabbed her wrist and tried to pull her hand away, but she wouldn't allow it. She set her chin with the obdurate determination she was known for, and caressed him again.

He hissed in a breath.

She drew a finger around the damp tip.

His eyes narrowed and he did the same to her, dancing a finger over the tip of her clit.

She stroked him again, harder, faster, squeezing him tight and turning in a short, corkscrew fashion.

He froze and hissed in a breath. And then, with no warning, plunged three fingers deep inside her.

She lost her hold on him altogether as absolute glory descended.

God, the man knew how to move. He knew how to touch her. Where and when and just how hard. He stroked in and out, ground around, seeking and finding that spot—as evinced by her wail. He crooked his fingers and caressed her, deliberately, tenaciously, deviously.

Her orgasm came, but it was not a surprise this time. It rose slowly from the well of her soul. Rose slowly and grew, blossoming and filling her, cresting in a mad crescendo of gasps and cries.

He did not give her time to recover.
Thank God.

With no respite, he yanked down his jeans and levered over her and entered her.

And heavens.

As delicious as his forays had been a moment ago, this, this,
this
was divine. He was hot and hard and velvety smooth as he slid in. Her body accepted him with a ripple of recognition.

He shuddered.

“Jesus, Hanna,” he bit out.

She spread her legs to give him more room to work—because, heavens, she wanted him to feel free to work—and then cradled him with her knees. Though he still wore his shirt, she stroked his back, scraping her nails over the chambray as he moved in and out of her, digging in with needy claws as he plunged in and out, as he drove her higher and higher once more.

When her hunger unraveled, when his long, hard thrusts threatened to consume her sanity, she skated lower and sank her nails into the globes of his ass and desperately, savagely, tried to control his tempo.

He would not be controlled.

But there was ecstasy in the chaos. Delight in the manic measure of his pace.

Harder. Faster. Shorter. Wilder.

Sweat beaded on her forehead. The sound of wet flesh meeting and melding filled the room, twined with their moans, grunts, and ecstatic groans.

Incomprehensibly, his cock swelled. Filling her even more. With that expansion, delight pinged along every nerve with each and every hellish slide.

The ripple began again, deep within. Became a quiver. A quake. A catastrophe.

He braced himself over her and stared down, the light of some ancient warrior limning his eye. “You're mine,” he growled, as he thrust once, twice, and one final time.

Her orgasm took her then. Lifted her and spun her and bathed her in a wet, warm heat. She dissolved into shudders, each wave more delightful than the last.

And all the while, he continued to stroke her and soothe her and murmur, over and over again, “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

And for that moment, that brief sliver of time, she was.

And it was glorious.

***

Logan didn't intend to fall asleep. He had little enough time with Hanna before dawn broke on the last day of their time together, and he had many plans. But he did. After that incredible coupling, as they merged their bodies and, he imagined, their souls, he held her and stroked her and they drifted on a cloud of indescribable peace and oneness.

But when he awoke, he knew he'd drifted to sleep as well.

He couldn't be annoyed, because when he opened his eyes, it was to find her leaning over him, watching him with an impish smile on her face.

“Hello there,” she said.

He wove his fingers in the riot of her hair and pulled her close for a kiss. “Hello.”

“Have you recovered?” This, she said in such a teasing voice, he had to glance down at his cock. He wasn't uncomfortably hard, but he was hard. It laid across his belly, growing even as she stroked him.

He stiffened as a sudden realization hit him.

Shit.

They'd made incredible, wild, passionate love . . . and he hadn't used a condom.

He'd never forgotten to use protection. Ever.

Shit.

“Hanna . . .”

She kissed his nipple and he realized that while he'd slept, she'd unbuttoned his shirt. The touch of her lips, the nibble, the suck, distracted him.

Also, her hand, curling around his length was diverting as well. She pumped once, twice.

“Hanna . . .”

Her hot mouth skated over his abs, kissing and licking his flesh. He shivered.

“Hanna . . .”

Her wayward tongue dipped into his belly button. She stroked him again and again and angled his cock, just so.

“Hanna . . .
Ah God
.”

She took him in her mouth. Encased him in her warmth. Murmured. Moaned. The sound resonated through him. All thoughts of conversations, all thoughts of protection or what a man should or shouldn't do with some other man's fiancée spun from his head and she took him deeper.

That it was her, his Hanna, the woman he had always wanted with an aching need, taking him in her mouth, sucking him, fucking him with her lips . . . it was too much to bear.

But he resolved to bear it.

She changed her angle and took him deep, holding him at the base in a tight fist. She began a heinous rhythm, her fist and mouth playing a torturous counterpoint.

He needed to stop her. He had to stop her. If he didn't stop her, he wouldn't last.

And God, he wanted her again. One more time, before he had to tell her to truth about him and release his hope to the four winds.

She might not be too mad.

She might still be willing to consider his proposition.

But she might not.

And he needed one last time with her in the event she told him no.

“Hanna. Stop.”

She lifted her head.

He forced a chuckle. “I can't take much more. And I have plans for you.”

She grinned playfully. Lord have mercy, he adored this side of her. “Do tell.”

“You're leaving tomorrow.” Her lips formed a pout. “Don't you want something a little more . . . naughty?”

She froze. Slowly her head rose. Their gazes clashed.

“What-what did you have in mind?”

He loved the way her voice softened, became breathy and tight.

He allowed his expression to darken. “I think you know. Take off your nightgown.”

He shifted from the bed and drew up his underwear and jeans. Zipped them slowly, meaningfully.

Oh, she'd get his cock again, but not until he was damned good and ready. Not until
she
was damned good and ready. Begging, perhaps.

How fitting, how gratifying, that she liked this, wanted this. They were perfect for each other in this regard and, frankly, every regard.

“Go on,” he urged, sending her an impatient frown. “Do it.”

She shivered as she slowly drew the thin fabric over her head. He stared as she revealed her creamy thighs, her red thatch, her perfect, full breasts with pink crests. As the nightgown released, her hair tumbled over her shoulders.

Had there ever been a more splendid sight?

Hanna Stevens, naked against a snowy-white duvet?

“Spread your legs.”

She swallowed, and then complied.

His heart hitched. His pulse thrummed. His cock jerked.

Hell and damnation. He had so many plans.

So little patience.

“Turn over.”

“What?”

He sent her a speaking glare and, with a little “eep” she did as he asked, presenting her beautiful ass to him. She peeped at him over her shoulder.

“Stay there.” He headed for the cupboards, where he'd hidden a coil of rope. Pulling it out, he held it up, so she could see.

Her eyes widened. Lips parted. “Oh my,” she murmured.

His boots, which he'd never bothered to remove, resonated against the boards as he crossed the room, back to the bed. She flinched with each step. “Hands over your head,” he commanded, and with a whimper, she complied.

He wrapped the rope around one wrist and then the other. He would have liked to thread it through the headboard, but there wasn't one. For his purposes tonight, this would work.

Once she was bound, he sat on the bed, gently stroking the delicate line of her back. She shivered to his touch, but she nibbled her lip, rather than speak, as though she was unsure what to say, or unwilling to break the spell.

“Do you remember the rules?” he asked.

She nodded, a tumble of curls.

“Tell me. Tell me who's in charge.”

“I-I am.”

“You are. And what do you say if you want me to stop?”

“Wh-whoa.”

“Very good. Try your bonds. Are they too tight?”

She wriggled her hands. “N-no. They're not too tight.”

He allowed a chuckle at her petulant tone. “Are they too loose?”

“A little.”

He made the necessary adjustment, just a tug here and a loop there. “How's that?” She sighed. He took that as his response. “Are you ready to begin?”

Another nod.

It did not please him.

“Say it.”

“Yes. I'm ready to begin.” She looked nervous. Good. He wanted her nervous. She should be nervous.