“Can I admit something?” he whispers, brushing a curl from my face, his touch impossibly gentle.
I nod. “Of course.”
“I’ve been thinking about doing that for months. Longer, maybe. Every time you’d lean over a microscope and I could smell your shampoo, I’d imagine...” He pulls back a little, nervous laughter making him pause. “It sounds kind of bad now I’m saying it out loud.”
“Imagine what?”
His face goes a hotter shade of pink. “I’d imagine what you’d taste like. I’d imagine your thighs on either side of my face, your hands in my hair—” He gives a nervous, choked laugh. “It was very distracting.”
This should be the part where I tease him, where I turn the tables and deliver some flippant rejoinder about all the things I’ve imagined. But something about the way he says it—matter-of-fact and vulnerable, like he’s handing me a map of all his secret landscapes—hits me somewhere soft.
“I like that you thought about it,” I admit, pulling him closer, my hands sliding down his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his skin. His cock is hard against my thigh, insistent, and I want it inside me more than I want my next breath. “Do you want to hear what I thought about?”
“Yes.”
“I thought about the way you’d moan if I took you in my mouth. Your taste.” He groans and grinds himself against my thigh. “How you’d feel inside me.”
“Audrey.”
“I want you inside me, Logan,” I tell him.
His whole body shudders, but I see the war on his face—want and caution, lust and the terror of getting it wrong.
“As long as you feel ready.”
He meets my eyes and nods. “I do.”
I pull him to me, kissing him deeper, threading my hands through the back of his hair, and when I urge his body flush over mine, the tip of his cock slides against my soaked center and he makes a sound I’ve never heard before. It vibrates through his whole frame. I brace my leg around his hip and pull him closer, desperate and greedy.
He kisses me, messy and unfiltered now, barely holding his body up above mine. He’s whispering my name, and I can feel him shaking with anticipation, the same way I am.
Every cell in my body is tuned to his hands, his breath, his face so close above mine. There’s a clumsy moment as he lines himself up and I wonder ifI’llremember how to do this—if my body will stutter, go shy, fail me at the last moment—but he’s so careful, so fucking careful, slow even as he’s trembling, and he surges forward only when I relax and tip my hips to meet him.
The stretch is perfect. He slides into me, and there’s a moment—God, always, always this moment—when it’s almost too much, and then it’s not enough, and then all the nerves of my body reorient and seize him like he’s the axis I revolve around. He’s thick and hot, and the fullness is dizzying. He’s bracing himself above me, forearms shaking, eyes glued to where his body disappears inside mine.
“You OK?” I ask, though my voice comes out strained.
“Yes. Just—give me a second. You feel...” He shakes his head, lost for words. “Incredible. You feel incredible.”
He stays still for a long moment, buried to the hilt, breaths jagged as his body adjusts to the heat and pressure. His arms tremble with restraint, hands planted on either side of my head as if he’s bracing for an earthquake. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, fingertips sinking into taut muscle, and arch up to kiss the sweat from his brow.
“Move,” I whisper. “Please, Logan. I need you to move.”
He starts slowly, pulling out halfway and pushing back in, finding his rhythm. I guide him with my hands on his hips, my voice in his ear—"Faster. Yes, like that. Angle up a little—oh fuck, right there."
He learns my body the way he learns everything—with complete focus, with absolute dedication, with a desperate need to get it right. When he hits a spot that makes me gasp, he memorizes the angle and repeats it. When I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper, he gives me exactly what I’m asking for.
“Harder,” I pant. “I won’t break.”
He snaps his hips forward with more force, and I cry out, my nails raking down his back. This is what I needed—him losing control, giving in to the hunger I can feel coiled in every muscle.
“Yes, Logan, fuck—just like that?—”
“You feel so good.” The words spill out of him, raw and unfiltered. “So fucking good. I’ve wanted this for so long—wanted you?—”
“I know.” I pull his mouth to mine, kissing him messily between gasps. “Me too. God, me too.”
The bed is creaking beneath us, the headboard tapping against the wall, and I don’t care. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know that Logan Whitman is fucking me like his life depends on it.
