She tries to nod, but instead arches her back, opening herself wider. “God, yes, fuck me until I can’t move—fuck me until you can’t think?—”
Her words detonate something inside me. I snap—lose all pretense of control and fuck her like I’m trying to weld us together, my balls slapping against her, her cunt so tight I can’t think of anything but the way she squeezes me every time I bottom out. I grip her ass so hard my knuckles hurt, rutting into her until my vision whites out, until my ears ring with nothing but the wild, desperate sounds she makes for me.
When I come, it’s with a violence that nearly folds me in half, spurting into her, jet after jet, her body milking me until there’s nothing left. The cum leaks out around my cock, sliding down her thighs, a hot, filthy brand on everything that’s supposed to be proper and buttoned-up in this godforsaken room. I keep pumping, slow and messy, wanting more, always more, shoving my cock in until the last aftershock leaves her limp, fucked-out, and shuddering.
“Jesus Christ,” Audrey slurs, her cheek pressed to the desk. “You are a maniac.”
I collapse over her, both of us shaking with it, every cell in my body singing.
“Fuck,” I gasp into her hair, unable to move. “I really wanted to wait until I had you in my bed so I could make love to you.”
She starts giggling, a helpless, delirious sound muffled in a pile of old journals. “Make love? Logan, you just tried to break the sound barrier with my pelvis.”
“I’m serious,” I pant, kissing her neck. “I wanted to make it slow, to show you, I mean—you?—”
“Are you apologizing for railing me senseless?” She laughs, twisting around enough to face me, her lips swollen and eyes wild. She’s so beautiful like this—smeared and radiant, half-wild with pleasure and pride, legs still trembling, sweat damp on her skin. I want to scoop her up and keep her close always.
“You don’t understand,” I tell her, my voice still not totally human. “I had this entire plan. Candles. Jazz. Late-night pancakes in bed, maybe. Then you—” I try to gather my dignity, but we’re both a wreck, and she’s still giggling into her arm. “Then you wore that dress and started in on my leg under the table, and this house just hasso many rooms.And this cunt of yours.” I grind my hips against the mess we’ve made together. “I fucking lost my mind, Audrey.”
She wipes at her eyes and twists around to face me. “Oh, that’s really not your fault. No one controls the power of the pussy. The power of the pussy has a mind of its own. It controls us all.”
I’m laughing too hard to keep her balanced, so I just wrap both arms under Audrey’s knees and back, scoop her off the desk, and lift her up like a wet, giggling sack of flour. Her arms flop around my neck and she tries to protest that she’s ‘catatonic and sticky and not fit for bridal transport,’ but I ignore her and stagger us back to the stairs so I can take her up to myapartment, leaving a trail of sweat, and whatever else is dripping off the two of us on the floor.
“I should really get you cleaned up,” I mutter into her hair, not even bothering to hide the delight in my voice.
She groans, her face buried in my shoulder. “You’re leaking out of me onto your priceless Aubusson runner. This is a war crime in preservationist circles.”
“That rug is a reproduction,” I inform her, carrying her up the stairs.
CHAPTER 35
Audrey
“Ican walk, you know.”
“Debatable.” Logan adjusts his grip on me as he shoulders open the door to his apartment. “Your legs were shaking in the library. You could barely stand.”
“That’s because someone decided to turn his Victorian mansion into a sex obstacle course.” I kick my heels off as soon as the door closes and they clatter to the floor.
“You started it. Under the table. With your hand.”
“I started a little light teasing. You escalated to... whatever that was in the library.”
“You’re complaining?”
“I’m observing.” I press my face into his neck, hiding my grin. I feel so thoroughly fucked and filthy. I never expected sex with Logan would turn into this, but I loved every second of it. Like the ‘dirty little slut’ I am. “For the record, I’m not complaining. I may never walk normally again, but I’mnotcomplaining.”
When we reach the bathroom, he sets me down on the heated floor and turns on the massive shower with more showerheadsthan necessary. I’ve been practically living here for weeks, and I still haven’t figured out what they’re all for.
“Too hot?” Logan runs his hands under the stream and gestures for me to check.
“It’s perfect.”
He guides me under the spray, and I groan as the water hits my shoulders. Every muscle in my body is screaming—the good kind of screaming, the kind that comes from being thoroughly, comprehensively wrecked. I tip my head back and let the water run over my face, washing away the sweat and the mascara and whatever else is smeared across my skin.
Logan steps in behind me, his chest warm against my back. For a moment, he just holds me—arms wrapped around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder, both of us breathing in the steam.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
