“For you, yes,” he agrees readily.
I have learned so much about adult Logan over the past few weeks. He needs to be teased constantly; otherwise, I can see him being sucked down into a far-too-serious mindset. He still loves his hair tousled and played with and is still obsessed with my hair. He’s downright greedy about back rubs and scratches.
Sex-wise, he still has a healthy libido, although he has gotten far more creative than just the two positions he relied solely on when we were still learning together before. This Logan seems to relish finding new ways to make love.
More topically speaking, the man has also developed a robust appetite for cunnilingus. Just this morning, he made me come four—or was it five times?—and still he looks perfectly content to stay cuddled around my hips, a look of pure bliss on his face as he continues to lap at my clit.
“Shouldn’t we try to do something today?” I ask, my voice hoarse from all the moaning I can’t seem to keep quiet.
Logan stops to nuzzle the crease of my thigh. “I think we’ve been plenty busy. But I can try to work harder.” He returns his tongue to me with increased pressure.
Iam so sensitive down there that I can already feel another orgasm winding up. Low moans escape from my throat with every swipe of his persistent tongue. My thighs tighten around his head as I climax with a hoarse gasp.
His tongue gentles, soothing me until I am limp and boneless. But he doesn’t stop.
“Logan,” I protest.
He pauses only long enough to shush me and murmur “one more” before he continues to love on me. And I can only describe it as love—each touch is so tender and sweet.
Tears prick my eyes. Has any other man cared about my pleasure before? Not like this. Not anywhere close to this. It’s even such a stark difference between the boy Logan was before and the man he is now. He’s grown up to be such a generous lover.
It’s too much. We were supposed to go back today. No-strings-attached sex. No feelings allowed. I should stop him. “But—”
“Let me take care of you, baby.” He presses his face into me, and his eyes roll back as he inhales. “I have waited years for this. ‘Don’t deny this thirsty man a drink.’”
I giggle, my eyes darting to the book of Blackstone poems perched on the table next to the bed. Logan is getting too much mileage out of quoting it at me now.
His hand strokes up and down my inner thigh, the movement comforting me until I settle back down. My toes curl when he resumes.
“All right, one more,” I pant.
“Thank you, baby,” he says with so much gratitude that I blush.
God, what am I doing fighting this? Why not two more?Six more? Who was I to deny this man his deepest desire to spoil me with a half dozen orgasms? I could get used to this.
The thought hits me hard as my next shuddering orgasm washes over me.
Logan wants me to get used to this. He wants to keep me. And he tells me with every word, every action, every look, every touch. The care he takes of me every day: how can I deny the truth anymore? This good man loves me.
I let out a sob, and Logan finally relents.
He crawls up next to me and pulls me into his arms. He kisses away the tears on my cheeks. When I press my mouth to his, I taste myself and the salt of my tears on his lips.
“Why are you crying?” he asks gently.
I shrug. My jaw is so tight that I can’t speak, and I can’t seem to stop shaking. He holds me tight, as if to absorb the tremors into himself.
He studies me hard, his gaze softening as if reassured by what he finds hidden there. “It’s okay, baby,” he says gently.
“I need you,” I manage to say.
He nods and lines himself up with my entrance.No,I want to say.No, I mean, how will I be able to live without you again?
We both gasp when he pushes inside of me. Each stroke inside of me is tender, punctuated by his sweet, loving kisses.
He loves me.
I can’t seem to fight the truth or how it makes me feel anymore. A mantra repeats inside my head as he makes love to me.He loves me. He loves me.This good, honorable, caring, generous, wonderful man lovesme.
