“Jesus, fuck,” he muttered, but I knew that tone. I’d heard it before.
He was gone too.
And I was going to obliterate him a different way.
I tugged his jeans down until his hard, thick cock bounded free and God, God.
There were a lot of beautiful things about Logan Judd and one of them was the perfection of his dick.
I missed everything about Logan Judd.
Including that.
But there it was, inches away, so I wasted no further time.
I bent low and glided the tip of my tongue along the underside, hearing his groan, looking up and seeing nothing but the underside of his jaw, his head digging back into the pillow.
He liked that.
I quit fucking around and took him in.
All in.
“Jesus... fuck,” he groaned.
I blew him, just like he liked it, exactly like he liked it—definitely like riding a bike, I remembered it all and gave it to him.
I took him there, in woefully little time, and he communicated this to me by shifting away and taking over. Coming up on his knees, catching my eyes, his still severe and piercing but also fired and glorious, shoving a hand in my back and pushing me face-first into the pillows.
He moved and I felt my panties yanked down to my thighs. The tingles gone, my whole body was quivering in anticipation, my moans muffled against his soft sheets.
I moaned again when he shoved my legs apart and I felt my panties stretched tight, biting into my flesh.
Then he drove in and he was mine again.
Mine.
“Yes, baby,” I whimpered, overwhelmed, undone, simultaneously feeling joy while burning with desire, my fingers clenched into the pillow and I reared back in welcome and demand.
His fingers grasped my hips and kept me stationary as he pounded in.
“Oh God, yes. Fuck me. Fuck me harder,” I begged, fighting against his hold at my hips so I could participate as he rammed hard, fast, God... God...
Deep.
My chest stayed down but my head jerked back and I tipped my ass as high as I could, took it and kept taking it until I came apart, the pieces of me flying as I exploded with a succession of sharp cries that led to panting moans.
And he kept at me.
The pieces drifted back and I smelled him on the sheets, felt him thrusting inside, gloried in having him back, and tried to push up to my hands to help take him there.
“Down,” he growled.
“But—” I started.
One of his hands left my hip and moved to my back, shoving in to keep me where I was.
“Stay the fuck down,” he bit out.
I stayed down and stilled, the pieces of me drifting started shooting together as I took his thrusts and finally felt his thrusts.
A different burn assailed me as his noises came and I knew he was close.
Then he came, pouring himself inside me, holding me still and in position to be able to do nothing but take it.
He jerked into me as his orgasm had hold over him, then he buried himself to the root, staying there.
I remained still.
As I was beginning to fear, he wasted no time pulling out.
But even in my wildest imaginings, my worst nightmares, what he did next was not something I’d ever expect.
Not from Logan.
Not from the man who had my heart.
Not from the man who’d vowed to me the first time we met that there was never a time I wouldn’t be safe with him.
Not even after what I’d done.
I felt him leave the bed and was dropping to my side, reaching blindly for the covers, listening to the sounds of his buckle being done up.
I just got the covers over my lower half, my torso up on my elbow, my head turned to him, when I felt the heavy weight of my jeans slap against my body.
My eyes shot to his.
“You got what you wanted, bitch. Now get the fuck out.”
I stilled completely as horror and agony slashed through me.
Logan did not still.
He bent to snatch up his thermal, turned, and prowled out into the hall.
I stared at the space he’d occupied as it belatedly came to me what just happened.
He’d fucked available pussy.
I threw it at him.
He took it.
Now he was done.
This came with the territory for a biker. Groupies hanging around for that sole purpose. They didn’t care who or where or how. They got off on it.
I’d known a few of them, hung with them, shot the shit with them, and it was my considered opinion that they enjoyed it more than the guys, the notches they earned on their proverbial belts. They didn’t want commitment. They wanted fun and someone to let loose with and a fabulous orgasm (if they could get it).
I was not a biker groupie. I was an old lady. I wanted what the groupies had but I also wanted the whole package.
Though, I had to admit, I’d admired them. They didn’t care what anyone thought. They lived their lives in the pursuit of what they wanted and anyone who looked down on that could go fuck themselves.
But, again, I was not a biker groupie.
Yet Logan had just fucked me like one.
No.
Worse.
And it was worse because he didn’t even show me the respect of a cuddle or a kiss or offering me a shot after he’d done it.
What just happened was a revenge fuck.
And I’d walked right into it.
Mortified, shocked, wounded, I yanked up my panties and slid out of his bed slowly but I didn’t take my time dressing.
I hurried.
I did this thinking the Logan Judd I knew didn’t have that in him.
Men needed to earn his respect.
Women, that was another matter.
My mom, my sister, old ladies, biker groupies, whoever—he gave them respect. It wasn’t earned. It was given. He did not judge. He was never a dick, much less a complete asshole.