“Come.” He made it sound like a command more than a question, and as he spoke, his fingers worked over her clit even faster, circling quickly.

She cried out as her entire body stiffened in her orgasm, then bit her lip to hold back as he continued to rub at her clit in slow, teasing circles that made her orgasm seem to last forever. Her entire body was quivering when she finally came down, and she noticed her nails had made half-moons into his shoulder. “Oh,” she breathed, removing her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

He leaned in and kissed her, hard and possessive. “About what?”

“Y-your shoulder,” she said, bewildered. “I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not hurting me, Brontë,” he said, and kissed her hungrily again, making the flames lick through her belly once more. With his hand, he dragged her arms back around his neck and then flexed his hips, surging forward until his cock rested against her naked pussy, and rubbed there. He was incredibly hard and thick, and she made a low whimper at the feel of him through his boxers. “I want you to keep touching me. I don’t care if you claw up my back.” He tugged at her lower lip with his teeth and then whispered against her mouth, “I like your reactions. They feel real to me.”

Another laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around his neck again. “I’m not very good at faking these things. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Not disappointed,” he said, rocking his hips against hers in a slow, circular motion that made her entire body follow the movement, her legs sliding back around his hips again. “And I know you weren’t faking.”

That masculine smugness in his voice made her curious. “Exactly how do you know that?”

He pressed a thumb to her clit, and she cried out, her nails cutting in to his shoulders again. “Because of that.” He slid a finger lower and circled around her opening, then ever so slowly pushed into her, causing her to gasp in reaction. “And that,” he murmured. “If I had a finger sunk deep inside you when you came, you’d clenched all around me, wouldn’t you? Milk my finger like you would my cock.”

She bit her lip and wiggled her hips a bit, too shy to answer.

“You’re sweet, and you’re smart, and sexy, and so very real, Brontë. That’s what I like about you.” He leaned in and gave her another light kiss, his fingers leaving her pussy, and she nearly cried out with disappointment.

“I like you too, Logan,” she said softly, her hands moving over his arms and chest, caressing his skin. “I want to touch you.”

“I want to fuck you,” he murmured against her mouth, and she gasped at his directness. “I promise I’ll pull out.”

She nodded, and gasped with surprise when his tongue thrust into her mouth, even as he shifted and she felt the head of his cock fit up against the slick opening of her sex.

Logan Hawkings definitely wasn’t one to mince words. He told her what he wanted and went after it. Brontë realized this an instant before he thrust deep, and she whimpered at the sting of unused muscles as he seated himself deep inside her.

He tensed over her. “Virgin?”

She shook her head. “Just been a while, that’s all. Give me a moment.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, his tongue dancing over hers in a way that felt incredibly decadent with his sex buried in her own. When she nudged her hips slightly, he swung his, rocking the two of them in a slow, circular motion that made Brontë instantly aware of every muscle in his body—and hers.

“Oh . . . do that again,” she breathed, holding on to him tightly.

Logan did, repeating the motion and exaggerating it for her benefit. It was a subtle roll of his hips, but he pressed forward and pushed enough that it rocked her body with his, and the slow roll of their hips brushed him against her clit, sending sensations pinging through her. She moaned again, her heels digging into his buttocks, encouraging him.

He was not a man who needed much encouragement. This time, when he thrust, he surged deep inside her, rocking her entire body on the blanket and causing her to cry out with pleasure. She clung to him as he began a hard, steady thrusting, pushing deep and hard inside her with every muscle, every sinew in his body. Her world narrowed down to his hips, pushing against hers, the grit of sand on the blanket at her back, the smack of his flesh against hers as he thrust deep again, the bounce of her breasts with every jolt of their bodies. She lost herself in the sensations, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. He was breathing hard over her, every breath a satisfied rasp, as she began to make soft, pleased noises in her throat with each thrust he made.

The elusive orgasmic feeling was rising again, and she focused in on it, moving her hips in time with his to ensure that each thrust was deeper, harder, stronger, and with each push of his cock into her, she got a little closer to coming.

He shifted his weight, adjusting her hips, and with his next thrust, her eyes flew open. That had been . . . different. The almost-but-not-quite orgasm feeling hovering at the edges of her consciousness flared to the forefront, and when his next thrust pushed forward, it happened again. Her pussy clenched around him in response, and he groaned even as he sucked in a breath.

“Wh-what was that?”

Logan’s hands moved to her hips, angling her just so, and then he thrust again. When she keened in response, he grinned down at her, the look wicked and triumphant all at once. “G-spot.”

Oh, God. She didn’t think anyone had ever hit it before. And oh, God, she really liked it. Her nails clawed his back again. “I need more.”

He gave another brutal surge, shoving their bodies across the blankets with his next push, and she cried out as the orgasm danced so close. Her feet left his hips, and she planted them on the ground so she could better lift her hips when he pushed in again, and thrust just as hard against him, her hips working furiously in time with his. That spot was back, and his short, quick pumps were rubbing up against it in the most incredible way that made her entire body arch with pleasure. She was so close and then—

She cried out as the orgasm rushed through her with force. Her sex clenched tight around him, and she heard him utter a muffled curse before he pulled out. She dropped her hips back to the ground as he stroked his cock with his hand, once, twice, and then he was coming on her belly, hot jets of come splashing over her skin.

Once done, he exhaled heavily and lay down on the blanket next to her, where she was staring up at the sky, dazed and dreamy.

That was incredible. Mind-blowing. She’d totally forgot about being on the beach, though she suspected the sand that had gotten on the blanket would remind her soon enough. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Thank you?” He was still panting. “For pulling out?”

“No,” she said dreamily, though that was nice of him, too. “For showing me where the G-spot was. I had no idea. I think I’m ruined for non-G-spot sex now.”

He laughed, the sound short and forceful. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Well, okay, it’d have to be really great sex to make up for the lack of the G-spot attention.” She sat up and grimaced at her sticky belly, still covered with his seed. “I think I’m going to go take a quick dunk.”

“It’s probably cold.”

“‘You will never do anything in this world without courage,’” she quoted at him.

“Is that a challenge?” He asked, grinning. He got to his feet and curled his hands into mock claws, looking as if he were a predator about to pounce on his prey. “Are you saying I’m not brave enough for cold water?”

“Not at all,” she said, turning toward the ocean.

When he took a step forward, she ran for it, a high-pitched squeal of alarm escaping her. Moments later, he had an arm around her stomach and was dunking her in the chilly surf. Brontë screamed and clung to him, dragging him under with her until they were both sputtering and laughing.

“There’s your courage,” Logan told her between chuckles.

She laughed too, delighted by his mood.

They rinsed off quickly, dumped sand on the fire, and then headed back to the hotel in the darkness. Their stairwell was just as they’d left it, complete with mattress, pillows, and blankets. Before when they’d crawled into the bed, they’d been clothed. When Brontë crawled into bed this time, she was naked and slightly damp, and so was the man who crawled in after her. As soon as she pulled the blanket over her body, he tugged her close and spooned her, his hand sliding possessively over her waist and resting on her breast.

As if he cherished her.

And she thought that maybe, just maybe, Logan was going to ruin after-sex cuddling for her, too. Because being pressed up against his big, strong body as she drifted off to sleep, his hand possessively cupping her breast, felt a little too good to be true.

Chapter Five

Logan awoke before Brontë did. His body’s internal clock was set to 6 a.m. New York time, no matter where he was. He’d also awoken with a stiff cock and pleasant memories of the previous night’s sex on the beach with Brontë. Tousled, sweet Brontë, who’d been so responsive in his arms, and absolutely startled when he’d found her G-spot. That look of pleased surprise on her face? That had made him feel like a king in bed.

She hadn’t been the most skilled of his lovers—he suspected the Ukrainian ballet dancer would forever hold that spot—but she’d been the most open and honest one. Her expression, totally unable to hide anything, had pointed him to exactly where to please her, and her wide-eyed responses and gasping moans had been an incredible turn-on. She’d been enthusiastic and genuine and pleased to be with him.

Him. Logan the “manager.” She didn’t know if he had two nickels to rub together, and hadn’t cared. She’d just wanted to have sex with him. And he couldn’t say that with certainty about any of his former lovers. Had they wanted him? The man? Or just been attracted to the power of his bank account and what he could do for them? It was never easy to tell, and it ruined pretty much every relationship.

And the one woman he’d thought he loved in the past—Danica—had proven herself to be shallow and interested in nothing but money.

A line of sunlight streamed in under the stairwell door below them, giving him just enough light to make out Brontë’s sleeping form next to him. She shifted in bed, rolling over and tucking her cheek close to his shoulder. Her hand automatically went to his cock, and his morning wood had turned painful fast. Did she realize how often she reached for him in her sleep? Or was this a calculated move? He remained utterly still, listening to Brontë’s evenly spaced breaths.

A light snore escaped her.

He exhaled in relief. That was real. She was real. He was a fucking paranoid son of a bitch, wasn’t he? A sleeping girl reaches for his cock, and he automatically thought she had an ulterior motive. It was a good thing she couldn’t read minds. Someone as guileless as Brontë would have probably been disgusted. His father and the way he’d treated Logan’s mother had polluted his brain.