Page 44 of Risky Game

A minute later, he tossed the comb on top of the pile of discarded clips.

A breath rushed from me.

“Torture over,” he murmured.

“Thank you—” I stopped, froze with my jaw slack as Logan’s hands dug into my hair, my scalp. And then he started massaging my head.

“I think I’m good now,” I rasped. My core was pulsing in between my thighs, and I swallowed a large cotton ball in my throat.

His hands slowly ran through my hair and he curled both of them around my shoulders. He kept massaging. Kept rubbing. It was the worst stress-relieving massage ever.

His hands on my body did the opposite.

“Logan?” I asked. And nothing else.

“I promised you I wouldn’t accidentally kiss you again.” His voice was a whisper by my ear, and I shivered as his warm breath slipped down the column of my throat. “But I thought about that kiss all day today.”

Oh dear God.

“I…” I had nothing to say.

“You can say no,” he murmured, and his lip brushed the lobe of my ear as he spoke. His hands were firmer now. Thumbs digging into the nape of my neck made my head swim with desire. With the need to flee. He created an overwhelming sensation of wanting to lean back against him and see where this took us.

To trouble. That’s where it would take us. Nothing good could come from anything happening between us, but as those thumbs kept working and the heat spread south, tightening my nipples and heating my core, making me grow wet, I wasn’t sure I was capable of coming up with reasons why it’d be so bad.

“Logan,” I forced out his name, and it hit the air like a whisper, quickly vanishing.

One of his hands slipped from my shoulder, to the side of my neck. His thumb pressed against the soft spot beneath my chin, and he tipped my chin up and back until I was facing him.

His iron dark eyes were molten lava, his full lips parted. And for the first time, I didn’t hold back on the urge to push that wayward curl off his forehead.

His eyes feathered closed at my first hesitant touch and he licked his lips.

“You can say no,” he repeated. “Tell me you don’t want this. I’m not forcing you, won’t. We can walk away from this and nothing has to be said about it.”

All sensible, responsible options.

“I know,” I rasped out and chose none of them.

I leaned forward, barely a centimeter closer to him, but he caught it and took it as the consent it was intended as.

The first brush of his lips against mine sent searing heat tumbling down my spine, almost choking me.

The second, firmer touch, had me twisting on my knees so I could get a better taste.

And the third time his lips brushed over mine, I was up on my knees, clinging to his biceps to steady myself.

“Fuck,” he groaned against my mouth, and then he kissed me.

His hands cupped my jaw. His tongue ran along the seam of my lips. They parted for him, and I tilted my head for better access.

He might have moaned again. It could have been me. As he swept his tongue inside my mouth, against mine, the ache in my core grew painful and I pressed my thighs together to relieve the ache.

Logan’s hands pushed back to my hair. Those same fingers dug right back into my scalp and he leaned back on the couch, bringing me with him until I was scrambling to my feet, leaning over him and then straddling his waist.

It was so quick, so fluid, and I was so lost to the feel and taste and the heady scent of his campfire and dangerous nights cologne, I barely registered the movement until the hard, firm press of his erection was at me.

“Oh,” I whimpered, rocking against him.

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