I pull back. My breathing is ragged. I look down at where my hand is vanished beneath the flannel.
"You didn't put them back on," I growl. It isn't a question.
She nods. Her face is flushed crimson. "I... I didn't have anything else."
"Fuck," I growl.
The image of her walking around my cabin all morning, completely bare beneath my flannel, makes my vision swim red. I grip her thigh harder. My fingers dig into her flesh.
"You have no idea what you do to me, Savannah. You have no idea how close you are to getting bred against this wall."
Her pupils blow wide at the word. She doesn't flinch. She shudders. She likes it. My sweet, innocent travel blogger wants me to fill her up.
I kiss her again, a brutal, tongue-tangled raid that tastes of her desperation. My hand dives under the hem of that flannel, my fingers diving straight into her soaking pussy.
I find her completely undone. She’s slick, her heat coating my knuckles as I glide over her swollen clit. I groan into her mouth. I test her with a single fingertip, finding the entrance so narrow and tight it’s like trying to push through a wall of silk.
I can barely find purchase, her body fighting to keep me out even as she milks my finger with her arousal. I work my thumb against the rigid little nub of her clit. I circle it with heavy, rhythmic pressure until she’s sobbing into my mouth.
I grind my hips forward, the heavy, stone-hard ridge of my cock slamming against her pussy through my jeans, letting her feel the terrifying scale of the what's about to break her open.
She whimpers, rolling her hips to meet me, chasing the friction. She’s instinctual. She doesn't know what she’s doing, but her body knows exactly what it needs.
I want to rip the shirt open. I want to lift her onto my cock and bury myself to the hilt. I want to break her open and listen to her scream my name until her voice is gone.
But not like this. Not against a wall, fast and furious, where I can't see every inch of her face when I take her virginity.
I need to see it. I need to savor it. I’ve waited thirty-five years for the woman who would make my soul quiet. I’m not going to rush the claiming.
Restraint burns. It takes every ounce of discipline I learned in the club, every scrap of control I possess. I pull my hand away from her pussy, though my fingers are slick with her.
I rest my forehead against hers. I fight for air.
"Logan?" she asks. Her voice is rough. She tightens her legs around my waist, trying to pull me back into her heat.
"Not yet," I grit out. I sound like broken glass. "Not like this."
"Why?" It’s a plea.
I lift my head. I look her in the eye. I wipe a thumb across her swollen lips. "Because you're untouched, Savannah. And when I finally take you, it’s going to be in my bed. You're going to be on your back, and I’m going to spend hours making sure you know exactly who you belong to."
She shudders, her breath catching.
"I’m going to worship you." My voice is dark, absolute. "I’m going to taste every inch of you. And then I’m going to stretch you until you can’t feel anything but me."
She stares at me, her chest heaving. The desire in her eyes is mixed with apprehension, but she doesn't tell me to stop. She doesn't tell me I’m crazy.
"Put your legs down," I order softly.
She hesitates, then slowly unwraps her legs from my waist. I let her slide down the wall until her feet touch the floor. Her knees are shaky; she has to grab my biceps to stay upright.
I keep my hands on her waist, steadying her. I can feel the heat of her skin burning through the flannel.
"The storm," I say, nodding toward the window where the wind howls like a banshee. "It’s going to get worse."
"Good," she whispers.
The single word hangs in the air. Good.
