The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,48

is up at my waist and it shouldn’t feel so bloody good to feel that pressure there from his thigh, but it’s heaven and he knows it. He keeps his leg there and I press against him, squeezing my thighs and trying to relieve some of the heat building inside me. He lets me grind against him as he kisses me deeper.

My stockings are abrasive, especially combined with his denim-clad thigh. The friction is driving me mad and I worry I’ll crumble at any moment, from nothing more than his thigh between my legs. I should be embarrassed, but deep down I realize he wants me like this, helpless, splitting apart at the seams, grinding and moving against anything that feels good. Right now, it’s his muscled leg. It’s not like I can try for anything more. He still has my hands locked up by my head, and his grip is as tight as ever. His mouth leaves mine and his lips fall to my ear. I shudder as his voice whispers that he wants me to come just like this, from his thigh.

My eyes nearly roll into the back of my head.

It’s one thing to privately feel as though you’re about to burst and another for a man to openly discuss it, to demand it.

Then his lips slip down to my neck and he conquers newfound territory. It’s an area that’s yearning to be touched, sensitive skin right above my collarbone. It’s skin that usually doesn’t get its due because guys always seem to be rushing to get to the more obvious parts of a woman’s body.

There’s also new pressure between my thighs: him, moving his up and down, a little preview of what’s to come. I make a desperate sound, a plea, and he must understand because his leg splits my thighs farther, opening me up and leaving me no way to fend off the overwhelming feeling there, the need to implode.

I imagine myself as if I’m an onlooker, pinned beneath Logan’s huge body, my dress in disarray, my hair fanned out around me. I imagine how pink my wrists have turned underneath his grip, how wet I look down there, and the image combined with his thigh is enough to send me careening over the edge. My muscles clench tight as pleasure racks through me and then I’m nothing but a loose sack of limbs, limp on the sofa, underneath Logan.

He pulls away from me, and I’m too scared to open my eyes, too afraid to name what we’ve just done. Feelings that felt sexy and empowering in the moment have left me raw and embarrassed. Did he really ask me to come or is he angry that I used him that way? Without giving him anything in return?

I suppose it’s not too late to reciprocate; I feel his hard length against my leg. I know he’s probably desperate for my hands to slide down into his jeans, to give him the same relief he’s given me, but then he sits back, separates us, and uses my wrists to lift me into a sitting position. He keeps tugging until the momentum carries me forward, against his broad chest. I’m confused and wondering what he’s after, until his arms wrap around me and he keeps me there, in a hug.

We don’t say a word as he holds me, and my heart is a train, racing along the tracks, but then gradually starting to slow, syncing with his. At first, I’m on high alert, so bloody aware of his body pressed against mine. Every groove. Every muscle. Every breath. Then, the longer he keeps me pressed against him, his hand drawing slow circles on my lower back, the easier it is to slip off and let my mind rest.

We fuse together as I start to nod off, forgetting where I am and why it’s so important to keep my guard up with a man like Logan.

Hours later, I wake up, alarmed because I don’t immediately recognize my surroundings. I’ve lost track of where I am, why my sheets feel so soft, why my ceiling is so much higher than usual, why my twin bed seems to go on forever in both directions.

Then I register the feel of a warm body beside me, and I turn to see Logan asleep on his stomach. It’s so dark, but my eyes have adjusted, so I can make out his naked back perfectly in the moonlight. My eyes skate down the hard planes