He guesses wrong.
On the screen, the characters argue about whether they should go, and one of the girls announces, “We’re doing important work here, guys! We’re proving the existence of paranormal entities! Science needs this. Science needs us.”
I burst out laughing, shuddering against Logan’s rock-hard chest. “Did you hear that, Johnny? Science needs them.”
“I fucking hate you,” he grumbles.
“Five bucks…” I say in a singsong voice.
His hand slides down to pinch my butt, making me squeak in surprise. “Go ahead and gloat. You win the battle by getting five bucks out of me, but I win the war.”
I sit up. “How do you figure?”
“Because you still have to sit through the rest of this movie, and you’re going to hate every second of it. I, on the other hand, am enjoying it immensely.”
The jerk is absolutely right.
Unless…
As he refocuses his attention on the movie, I nestle close again, only this time I don’t rest my hand on the center of his chest. I plant it lower, mere inches from the waistband of the sweatpants he changed into after dinner. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too engrossed in the movie. Ha. He won’t be for long.
With the utmost nonchalance, I drag my hand to where the hem of his white wife-beater has ridden up slightly. Then I sneak my fingers beneath it and lightly stroke the hard plane of his stomach, and his breath hitches. Fighting a smile, I flatten my palm and stop moving it. After a moment, he relaxes.
On the screen, the idiot troupe of paranormal “experts” attempts to record the spirit’s voice using a contraption right out of Ghostbusters.
I scoot up and kiss Logan’s neck.
He tenses, and then a chuckle escapes his lips. Low and mocking. “Won’t work, baby…”
“What won’t work?” I ask innocently.
“What you’re trying to do right now.”
“Mmm-hmmm. I’m sure it won’t.”
I tease him with soft kisses on the side of his neck, angling my body so he’ll be sure to feel the heat of my pussy against his thigh. God. Pussy. I’m even starting to think like him now. He’s corrupted me with the dirty words he whispers when we fool around, and I like it. I like the thrill of being bold and wanton, and I love the way his warm flesh quivers when I taste him with my tongue.
His head is turned toward the screen, but I know he’s no longer paying attention to the movie. The bulge in his sweatpants grows, hardens into a long, thick ridge that pushes up against the fabric. I kiss his throat, feeling the strong tendons straining, his Adam’s apple fluttering beneath my lips.
When he speaks, his voice is so raspy it sends a shiver through me. “Do you want to go upstairs?”
I lift my head and meet his eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, hazy. I nod.
He doesn’t shut off the movie. He just hops to his feet, pulls me up with him, and leads me upstairs, holding my hand the entire time. His bedroom is a lot tidier than the last time I saw it. The night I showed up to yell at him for that stunt with Morris. God, it feels like a lifetime ago.
We stand two feet apart. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me. He simply stares, with what can only be described as wonder shining in his eyes.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Hardly. I’m wearing faded jeans and a loose striped shirt that keeps falling over one shoulder, and my hair is a tousled mess because it was insanely windy outside earlier. I know I don’t look beautiful, but the way he’s gazing at me…I feel it.
I reach for the bottom of my shirt, then pull it over my head and let it fall to the ground. His nostrils flare when my skimpy bikini-style bra is revealed. Holding his gaze, I bring my hands behind my back and undo the tiny clasp, and then the bra falls away, too.
Logan sucks in a breath. He’s seen my breasts before. He’s seen me naked, actually. But the hunger in his eyes, the glittering admiration…it’s like he’s looking at me for the first time.
I wiggle out of my jeans and panties, and approach him with confidence that startles me. I should be nervous, but I’m not. My hands are steady as I tug his wife-beater off him. God, his bare chest never fails to make me light-headed. It’s sculpted. Masculine. So fucking perfect.
He doesn’t say a word when I ease his sweatpants down. He’s not wearing boxers. His erection juts out, hard and imposing, and when I curl my fingers around it, he makes a desperate noise at the back of his throat.
But he still doesn’t touch me. His arms remain plastered to his sides, and he stands completely motionless. I don’t think he’s even blinking.
“Is there a reason your hands aren’t all over me right now?” I tease.
“I’m trying to go slow,” he says miserably. “If I touch you, I won’t be able to stop, and then I’ll be inside you and—”
I shut him up with a firm kiss, locking my hands at the nape of his neck. “That’s kind of the point. You getting inside me.” Then I nibble on his bottom lip, and just like that, the thread of control he was clinging to snaps like an elastic band.
Growling against my lips, he backs me toward the bed, his strong body pressed tight to mine, his erection trapped between us.
My calves bump the edge of the bedframe, and I tumble backward with a screech, pulling him down with me. We land on the bed with a thud that makes us laugh. The sheets smell like lemon laundry detergent, clean and inviting, and the fragrance, mingled with the heady male scent of him, succeeds in fogging my brain. His body ripples with urgency as he kisses me again. He was right to warn me—he doesn’t stop kissing me, not even to come up for air. Doesn’t stop touching me. Everywhere. He hungrily explores my neck, my breasts, my belly, and then he’s between my legs, his tongue slicking over my clit, hot and greedy.