Page 26 of A Good Egg

I couldn’t help the groan that escaped me as her hands tangled in my damp hair, fingers threading through the strands with a desperation that matched my own. My own hands found her waist, fingers curling around her hips as I pulled her against me, my need for her sharper and more demanding than anything I’d ever known.

We stumbled backward, colliding with one of the tables, sending a bucket clattering to the floor. Neither of us cared. The storm outside had somehow transplanted itself within us—wild, uncontrollable, devastating in its power.

“This is a terrible idea,” she gasped against my mouth, her lips swollen and flushed from the force of our kisses. And still, she couldn’t seem to stop herself, her fingers working frantically at the buttons of my shirt, shoving the wet fabric off my shoulders.

“The worst,” I agreed, but my hands were already slipping beneath her shirt, my palms grazing over the smooth skin of her stomach, memorizing the warmth and softness. My thumb traced slow, deliberate circles along her ribs before gliding higher, brushing against the swell of her breast. “We should definitely stop.”

“Absolutely,” she nodded, but her hands clutched at me, pulling me back to her with surprising strength. There was a desperation in her touch, a need that called to something primal in me, something I couldn’t—wouldn’t—deny.

Rainwater dripped from the ceiling, splashing on our tangled forms as clothing was shed with frantic urgency. Her shirt hit the floor, followed quickly by mine, our bodies pressed together, skin against skin. The heat of her, the feel of her curves molding perfectly to me, sent a rush of desire flooding through my veins.

In the dim light of battery-powered lanterns, her skin glowed like alabaster, freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations I suddenly needed to memorize with my fingertips, my lips. I traced a slow path along her collarbone, my mouth following the delicate curve until she gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders as I lifted her onto the table.

Her legs parted instinctively as I stepped between them, my hands cupping her face as I kissed her with all the longing and frustration I’d been bottling up for far too long. My tongue swept against hers, tasting, claiming, deepening the kiss until it was nothing but heat and need.

My fingers slipped down her spine, drawing a shiver from her before finding the waistband of her jeans. She shifted, her hips lifting as I slid the denim down her legs, tossing it aside. She was bare before me, save for the simple lace of her underwear, and the sight of her as I removed the remaining article of clothing nearly brought me to my knees.

“Are you sure?” I managed to ask, the last thread of rationality clinging desperately to consciousness. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—push her into something she didn’t want. But the way her eyes blazed with desire, her chest rising and falling with shallow, urgent breaths, told me everything I needed to know.

Her answer was to guide my hand to the soft warmth between her thighs, her eyes never leaving mine as she nodded. “I’m sure about right now. Tomorrow can take care of itself.”

The breath left my lungs in a rush, my restraint unraveling like threads pulled loose from their weave. My fingers traced over her, through damp heat, drawing a low, shuddering moan from her that nearly undid me. Her hips rocked against my hand, her body straining toward mine, wordlessly begging for more.

I swept her up into my arms, lifting her from the table and carrying her to the pile of tablecloths and curtains strewn across the floor. The rain beat against the roof, like a symphony that was playing just for us.

I laid her down gently, her hair fanned out across the fabric like red silk. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide andwanting, her hands reaching for me as if I were the only thing keeping her grounded.

I joined her, my body pressing against hers, heat mingling between us. My lips traveled down her neck, tasting the rainwater still clinging to her skin. She arched beneath me, her hands gripping my shoulders as I continued my exploration, my mouth leaving a trail of kisses from her breasts to her stomach.

Every sound she made, every shiver and gasp, drove me on, my own need for her building to a fever pitch. Her ivory skin was soft, smooth, and impossibly warm, her body reacting to my touch with a responsiveness that left me breathless.

When I finally moved between her thighs, her breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed as her head tilted back. I explored her with my tongue and fingers, licking, stroking, learning what made her gasp and tremble. Her body responded with an eagerness that made me ache to be inside her, but I forced myself to take my time, to savor every moment.

I wanted her desperate. I wanted her pleading. And she was.

“Logan,” she breathed, her voice a ragged plea. “Please… I can’t… I need…”

I claimed her mouth again, swallowing her words as I slid my rock-hard cock inside her with a slow, deliberate thrust. Her gasp echoed mine, her body arching to meet me, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

We moved together, our bodies finding a rhythm that felt both frenzied and perfect. The storm outside raged, but the only thing I could hear was her breath mingling with mine, her whispered moans, the soft, insistent sound of our bodies meeting over and over.

I didn’t know how long we stayed like that, tangled together in the heat of the moment, but when we finally collapsed into each other’s arms, spent and trembling, I felt like I’d just survived a hurricane.

And I wanted nothing more than to dive right back into the storm.

Chapter Nine

Maisie

The first rays of morning pierced through the barn's eastern windows, bathing the interior in amber warmth. I stirred from sleep, momentarily bewildered by my surroundings until memory returned—the torrential downpour, desperate repairs, and Logan's unexpected arrival culminating in a night that had shattered all my preconceptions.

Logan slept beside me, one arm draped possessively across my waist. Without his calculated poise, he looked different—the sharp angles of his face softened, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, stubble shadowing his jaw. I studied him, this paradox of a man who'd arrived as my nemesis yet now lay beside me, his breath steady against my skin.

The crunch of tires on gravel jolted me from contemplation. Visitors approaching—likely neighbors coming to assess storm damage.

"Logan," I hissed, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up. People are here."

He came alert instantly, corporate instincts evidently extending to crisis management of all varieties. We scrambled for discarded clothing, trading harried glances charged withunspoken questions about what last night meant in daylight's revealing glare.

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