Page 48 of Frozen Hearts
“Kiss me,” I demand in a quiet rasp, because how could I not want to kiss his perfect lips when he says the most incredible things?
Seemingly as desperate as I am, he presses his lips to mine, and for a moment we forget where we are. It isn’t until the lights dim and the opening credits roll that we pull apart, and he tucks me into his side, offering me some popcorn as we settle in to watch the movie.
* * *
“Holy crap, I was not expecting that plot twist,” Logan exclaims as we exit the movie theater.
“Mmmhmm.”
It’s the only response I can form. The last two hours have been literal torture, and I can’t figure out if it was deliberate on his part or if he was completely unaware of what he was doing to me. There wasn’t a single moment where he wasn’t touching me. Whether it was his fingers grazing my upper arm or his hand resting on my leg, tracing patterns on my inner thigh. All any of it did was drive me crazy, to the point where I barely paid attention to the movie.
Meanwhile, Logan was hooked from the opening scene. Every time I subtly glanced his way, his gaze was riveted to the screen. Yet, his fingers continued to torture me with their light, seemingly innocent teasing.
I shiver when we hit the cold air outside, my skin clammy, and my body wound too tight after the movie for me to put my coat on, making me welcome the cool breeze as it dances over my tormented skin.
Logan pulls me deeper against him, and I inhale the sharp, wintery scent of his aftershave as I burrow into his side. We hurry across the street, and Logan opens my door for me, helping me into his car before he rounds it and climbs in beside me.
As soon as he’s maneuvered the car onto the road, he reaches over and rests his hand on my thigh. Immediately, he begins tracing circles on my skin. Already primed, my body instantly reacts, thighs clenching as need builds in my core.
I do my best to hide it, to block out my reaction to his touch, but when I squirm in my seat for the third time, and his fingers slip beneath the hem of my dress, steadily climbing up my legs, I know he’s completely aware of my response to him.
“You alright over there?” he asks with a knowing smirk.
“Yup.” The word is a high-pitched squeak that causes him to laugh while I bite down on my lower lip to stop a needy moan from escaping.
He glances my way. “You sure? ‘Cause you seem a little worked up. Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.”
His fingers continue their tantalizing teasing. They are now so high that if I parted my legs, he’d easily be able to touch where I need him most. The knowledge has me close to combustion, and with another sweep of his fingers, I’m unable to hold it back. A small whimper escapes.
“Fuck, Shortcake,” he rumbles, his hand clenching the steering wheel. “I love the noises you make. They make me so fuckin’ hard.”
My gaze drops to his crotch, noticing the outline of his dick pressing against the stiff confines of his jeans.
“Are you wet for me, baby?”
There’s an edge of desperation to his voice, and I lift my gaze to his face. Instead of answering him with words, I swallow back my nerves and tentatively part my thighs, granting him entrance as his fingers stroke along the drenched fabric of my panties.
He groans, low and deep. “Jesus Christ.” Pressing his thumb against my overly-sensitive clit, my hips jerk and my head falls back as I moan.
Ripping his hand away, he growls, “Touch yourself.”
“W-what?” I ask, blinking stupidly through the fog of endorphins.
“I wanna touch you so badly,” he states in a strained tone. “But if I sink my fingers into that sweet pussy, I won’t be able to stop at fingering you, and I don’t want our first time to be a quick fuck in the front seat of my car. When I finally get you naked, I want to have you spread out on my bed, with the entire night dedicated to memorizing every inch of your body.
“However I may crash this fucking car, knowing you’re sitting right there, soaking wet, and begging me with your eyes to make you feel good. So I need you to touch yourself for me, Shortcake. Make yourself come so I can hear those delectable moans of yours.”
Jesus, when he talks like that, Logan could get me to do just about anything.
“I—I can’t.”
For most of my late teens, I was as good as dead inside. Sex and orgasms were the farthest thing from my mind. It took me several years before I was healed enough to acknowledge those feelings of sexual attraction. Longer still before I was brave enough to act on them. However, with that came terrifying nightmares and panic attacks, and it didn’t take long for me to decide the experience wasn’t worth the mental fortitude required.
I was so focused on not panicking while I was intimate with someone that I didn’t have a mission of reaching an orgasm, and after failing to get myself off even alone in my room, I came to the conclusion that I was broken. Thathehad broken me.
From that point on, I focused on my studies and building the lifeIwanted. Boys didn’t matter. Sex wasn’t important. I was alive. I had my freedom, had everything I needed to be happy.
Yet here is Logan, making me feel more than I’ve ever felt for anyone else and giving me the courage totry.He already achieved the impossible in the library when he made me come without even touching me. Something about Logan puts me at ease. He pulls me out of my head and I’m entirely in the moment with him, attuned to the way our bodies react to one another, the static charge of electricity in the air.
