Page 149 of Wicked Minds
I chuckle breathlessly but manage to keep my hands to myself as he deftly undoes the laces of my right skate before sliding it off my foot. I watch as he diligently moves to my other foot, noting the care he takes and the gentle touches he uses. Does he know that every drawn-out second is torture on my frayed nerves, which are screaming to feel his hands on my skin, his lips, his breath?
After what feels like an eternity, he sets the skates aside, hands roaming over my calves, thighs, and hips. Reaching the zipper of my jacket, he slowly lowers it until I shrug it off my shoulders. My breasts ache with the desire to be touched; my nipples sharpened peaks that scrape tantalizingly against my bra.
My whole body comes alive as he slips his hands beneath my top, pressing his palms against the soft skin of my stomach. My breaths come in heaving pants as he takes his time exploring, my top lifting inch by inch as his hands roam over my ribs, abdomen, and back.
At the first peek of my baby pink bra, he groans, some of that notorious control crumbling as he rids me of my top, leaving me in my jeans and bra.
“Fucking hell, Riley. You’ve no idea how beautiful you are.”
I blush beneath his compliment, not that he seems to notice as he leans in to kiss a blazing trail up the center of my stomach, between the valley of my breasts, and across the heaving expanse of my chest.
When his hands come up to cup my heavy breasts, I groan, arching into his touch as I wrap my fingers around the edge of the bench. “Logan,” I moan, my core clenching hungrily as blasts of heat emanate from my lower belly, screaming for exactly one man.
He nips at my collarbone. “Patience, Shortcake. I’ve waited a long time for this moment, so let me enjoy it.”
Well, fuck, how can I argue with that?
His large, calloused palms knead my breasts, his thumbs flicking over my nipples. The barely felt sensation only serves to drive me mad, and I squirm on the bench as my panties grow wetter.
He takes his time, exploring every inch of exposed skin before his hands slide around to my spine, undoing the clasp. My bra falls away, and Logan dives in, tasting the sensitive flesh with his tongue.
Lifting one hand from the bench, I twist my fingers through his hair, gasping as he rolls his tongue around my nipple before sucking it into his mouth.
“Logan,” I groan, growing impatient. “You’re killing me.”
He chuckles against my skin. “Good. Now you’ve some idea how I’ve been feeling.”
“Please,” I plead. “I need you.”
“Mmm, I like it when you beg. Where do you need me, Shortcake?”
“Everywhere,” I pant, half-delirious.
“Hmm, here?” He runs his tongue along a rib, and I huff out a frustrated breath. “Or maybe here?” He blows a breath of warm air over my stomach. “Or were you talking about down here?” His fingers trail along the waistband of my jeans before he pops the button.
“Yes,” I pant, greedily lifting my hips to help him along.
He chuckles at my unsubtle movements. “Is someone getting a little impatient?”
“Yes,” I snap. Grabbing my jeans and shoving them down my thighs when he takes too long.
At the sight of me before him in only a pair of pink panties, his teasing falls by the wayside, his eyes drinking me in with a reverence that leaves me feeling exposed. Naked in a way that goes far deeper than skin.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss the inside of my knee. He chases it with another one just above it, then another, and my heart lodges in my throat when he reaches the tops of my inner thighs and his tongue flicks out to run along the pearly-white scars. He lavishes each one with the same appreciation as he does the rest of my skin, to the point where I’m on the verge of tears. Not only do I feel seen in a way I never have before, but I feel accepted, too.
With tears brimming in my eyes, I grasp his face with both of my hands and drag his lips to mine, kissing him hard and deeply. Time stands still as our lips move in perfect harmony, our tongues a tangle of all-encompassing passion. His fingers slide beneath my panties, slipping between my slick folds, and I groan into his mouth as he sinks two long fingers inside me.
His other arm rests against the bench at my back as his lips and fingers send me spiraling, and I break apart with his name on my tongue and tattoo on my heart.
“More,” I rasp, still floating in the aftershocks of my release. “Need more.” I pull and tug at his hoodie in a desperate need to make it disappear, to feel the burning heat of his skin directly against mine.
He chuckles dazedly, but with an arm reached behind his back, he helps me out, removing his hoodie and t-shirt with one firm tug. My hands slide reverently over his smooth, chiseled, tanned skin, committing every dip and ridge to memory. The pads of my fingers circle the tattoo on his ribs, the EKG strip with the hockey player drawn into it, before trailing over his ribs to the defined V at his hips.
Reaching the buckle of his jeans, I pop it open and pull down the zipper before pushing them down his thighs. I tug on his boxers but stop when another tattoo is revealed beneath the waistband.
12.18.2023.
I frown, staring at it in confusion as I try to figure out if anything specific happened on that date only six weeks ago. When I can’t figure it out, I lift my eyes to his face, finding him watching me closely, expression unusually vulnerable.
