She didn’t care if he took her in a bed, against the counter, on the linoleum floor, or in the muddy grass under the rain. She was lit up to the end of every nerve ending,
He planted his hands on either side of her, his face tight with wanting. “Are you coming?”
“Oh, I’m definitely coming. You promised to make me scream.”
Choking down an exclamation, Logan seized the candle on the countertop then grabbed her hand. He swiveled on one foot and pulled her out of the kitchen. She trailed after him as he led her through the pitch-black living room, then the hall, then into the bedroom where she’d first seen him standing in the portal, his gaze slipping over her wet, naked body.
A flash of lightning speared silver light through the blinds, illuminating her rumpled bed. Logan planted the single candle on the bedside table and then pulled her against him for another possessive kiss, maneuvering her in the room. Suddenly she felt the bed bump against the back of her knees. She responded to the subtle pressure of Logan’s body and fell back upon the twisted sheets. The mattress bounced her up, then let her settle. She let her arms fall above her head, felt the stretch lift her breasts as she arched, wanting him now.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating a ripple of bared muscles as he wrestled his shirt off and tossed it away. The candle flickered, gave off just a small circle of light, liming him on one side. She saw his arms moving, heard the clink of a belt buckle, the whir of a zipper, the rustle of clothes as he bent to kick off his khakis. She raised herself on her elbows, waiting breathless for the lightning to flash anew, so she could see what was coming.
But he leaned over her instead, seized her arms, and pulled her up to a sitting position to grab a handful of her shirt. “Off.”
She crossed her arms as he peeled the knit off her body. Her hair swung out of the neckline and brushed her bare shoulders as he tossed the damp sweater away. It fell with a thump to the floor as she unhooked her bra, peeled it off wetly, and set her breasts free. The cool air licked her damp skin.
Lightning flashed again. She’d often rued the size of her breasts, hated how quickly sensible men turned into drooling grammar-school boys at the sight of them, even when she was fully dressed. She dealt with that nonsense in the workplace, and developed means to surmount those barriers, but right now, as the room lit up with another flash, she glimpsed the hungry look on Logan’s face as he drank in the sight of her, half naked, and suddenly she loved her body. Her body excited this man, and that electricity rebounded when she glimpsed by the candlelight that he was finally naked, too.
She curled her hand around his hard, thick sex. It pulsed against her hand.
He gripped her wrist, his voice strained. “Jenny.”
“But I want to—”
“Later.”
He shifted a knee on the bed and she released him. Scooting her legs upon the bed so she could lie back, she sank against the sheets as he positioned his big, muscle-lean body over her. She curled her hands behind his neck, urging him down so that skin touched her skin, both slippery-wet from the drenching, sliding over each other. His body was smooth and hot and the muscles beneath that skin flexing and strong.
He found her mouth in the darkness. She fell into his kiss but she wanted him deeper. She wanted him to be so wrapped up in the moment that he moved in her with the same urgency that she felt tightening inside her. She wouldn’t ask for anything more than that—just a bout of hard, heavy sex, a slaking of a very mutual physical desire. It was enough. She would lose herself for as long as it lasted.
“Off,” he growled, tugging on her skirt.
She murmured, “Buttons.”
“Where?”
“Left side.”
He found the first button and flicked it open. The pressure eased around her waist. He flicked open the second, and the third, and a tingling began between her legs. Fumbled to find the fourth, he ran his hand under her bottom and lifted her butt. He tugged the skirt loose and flicked open another button, but growled at the effort.
He stopped, slapping his hand on the bed beside her hip. “How much do you like this skirt?”
“What?”
“It’s got to go, Jenny.” He bent his head to rub his unshaven chin across her nipple. “Take it off, or I’m ripping it off.”
“Do it.” She ran her fingernails across his back. “Rip my skirt off, Logan.”
With a swift inhale, he tugged so hard her bottom lifted clear off the bed. A button popped. Then another. Cotton ripped; the sound of it filled the room. With a scrabbling hand he dragged the cloth down her legs until she could kick it free. Somewhere, Jenny thought, a couture designer was screaming. She didn’t care. She’d go into anaphylactic shock if Logan didn’t rip these lace panties off, too, and finally thrust inside her.
“I’ve wanted to do this,” he whispered, as he slid his hand under the waistband of her panties, “since the first moment I saw you.”
He slid a finger over her clit and her body tensed. He rolled his finger, stroking, bending his head to watch the working of his hand beneath the scrap of lace. She arched into his grip, wanting or more than just his fingertips, as strange little sounds came from her throat. With a snap she felt the lace yanked down her legs, and then he shifted his weight to replace his fingers with something hotter, harder, thicker.
She arched as he eased himself in. She spread her legs wider, tilting her hips to welcome him deeper. Flexing her palms across his back, she pressed her mouth against his shoulder, tasting rain and sweat and skin. Every
