When she’d recovered from the sudden orgasm, she leaned in and kissed him, laughing and panting. “‘Short is the joy that guilty pleasure brings.’”
He studied her, a smile on his lips. “Are you using Plato to criticize my techniques?”
Brontë laughed at his smug expression and pushed on his shoulders. “Not at all. Just sad that it didn’t last longer.” She leaned in and bit his earlobe. “And I’m pretty sure that was Euripides.”
“Ah. Good old Euripides.”
“Mmmm.” She ran a hand over his chest. “You are still wearing entirely too much clothing.”
He rolled over on his back, grinning at her. His c*ck had formed a hard tent in his pants.
He looked so delicious that she immediately rolled on top of him, straddling him there. She grinned down at him playfully. “Now I have you right where I want you.” She finished undoing his tie and tossed it aside, then began to work on the buttons of his pants. “And I want you nak*d.”
Logan groaned, his h*ps thrusting up against her wet sex, driving his c*ck against her. “I think I like you on top of me.”
“Do you, now?” She teased, exposing his pecs and breathing a sigh of pleasure at the sight of his chest hair. It felt like it had been forever since she’d seen him nak*d. The quickie in the freezer this morning had been nice, but it hadn’t been enough. She tugged at his clothing, exposing his chest, and ran her fingers over him even as he bucked his h*ps under her again. “I love looking at you.”
“It’s mutual,” he told her, and his hands reached out to cup her br**sts.
She gasped at the sudden surge of pleasure, then batted his hands away. “Clothes off.”
He sat up then and leaned in to kiss her as she straddled him. She slid her hands under his shirt,and they were able to push it off of him, and then his torso was exposed and beautiful and, my, she loved staring at his skin.
Brontë gave a little wriggle over his hips, a deliberate tease. “Now we need to get rid of these pants.”
He flipped her down on the bed in a quick motion that surprised her, and got up, ripping his belt off and flinging it aside. His pants and boxers quickly followed, and then he was lying down nak*d. But to her surprise, he grabbed her and rolled her back on top of him, settling her h*ps over his erect, straining cock. “I like you there,” he told her, and thrust again.
This time, she could feel his c*ck slide through the slick lips of her sex, brushing against her clit, and she moaned at the sensation. He palmed her br**sts again, and she held his hands there, closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of his body against hers. “You’re right,” she breathed. “This definitely has merit.”
“We need a condom,” he told her, tweaking her n**ples. “In the nightstand.”
She leaned over him and reached for the drawer of the nightstand, laughing when he nipped at her breast as it dangled too close to his face. She opened the condom and gave him a challenging look. “Shall I do the honors?”
“Please do,” he said in a courteous voice that was ruined by the husky growl low in his throat.
Brontë moved to the side and took his c*ck in her hand, working it with a few teasing squeezes. He thrust against her fist, and she leaned in and gave the head a quick lick, tasting the pre-come that slicked the crown.
“Tease,” he growled.
“You like being teased,” she told him, rolling the condom on quickly. Her own desire had escalated, and she was feeling aroused and needy again. She desperately wanted him inside her and was done with teasing.
She straddled him again, and his hands went to her hips, steadying her as she grasped his c*ck and pressed it to the entrance of her sex. She ached for him, she needed this so badly. But she wasn’t used to being on top, and so she sank onto him with small, careful motions, rocking her h*ps a little to take him deeper and deeper. His hands on her waist guided her down until she was seated on top of him and full of his cock.
It was a delicious, overwhelming sensation. Every nerve ending felt alive, and he felt enormous inside her from this angle. Brontë bit her lip and rolled her h*ps a little, experimenting.
He groaned beneath her.
That was encouraging. She repeated the motion, rolling her h*ps even more, and was pleased when he rocked with her. She began a rhythm, moving over him and working her h*ps in a way that made him brush up against that spot inside her that drove her so wild. His movements echoed hers, and before long, she was increasing the pace, needing more and needing it faster, harder, than what she was doing.
His h*ps began to buck hard against hers, so that when she bore down, he thrust upward roughly. Brontë cried out each time he did, and when his hands moved to her br**sts, teasing the n**ples as she bounced on top of him, she lost control. She rode him wildly, lost to the sensation, until her entire body stiffened and began to quake with her orgasm.
“Brontë,” he growled, and she felt him clasp her h*ps again, grinding her down on top of him as he pushed to his own release. A moment later, he bit out a curse and shuddered, and she knew he’d come too.
She fell on top of him to catch her breath, twining her fingers in his chest hair. It was ridiculous that one man could make her feel so very good. Her entire body was one big bundle of pleasure right then.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her on top of him.
Her stomach growled, ruining the moment.
Logan chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Why don’t you jump in the shower, and I’ll order the food?”
“You know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
They stayed in the rest of the evening. Brontë borrowed one of Logan’s T-shirts to wear. The Chinese food was excellent, and they ended up watching a movie in the media room with their takeout. She wanted to cuddle next to him on the couch, but the media room had only big, overstuffed recliners, so she was thwarted. He promised to put a couch in for her, though, and she simply rolled her eyes.
After dinner, they made love again, and she curled into his arms to sleep. All in all, not a bad day. When she was in Logan’s arms, she forgot about everything else.
***
The next morning, she woke up to see Logan off for the day. He kissed her at the door for several minutes, then sighed. “I have meetings all day, but I’ll be back in time to pick you up tonight.”
“Gotcha. Is there a bookstore nearby I can hit up once I find some pants?”
Logan chuckled. “You have all of New York at your disposal, and you want a bookstore?”
“Pretty much.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “But it comes second to pants.”
He leaned in and kissed her again. “Tell you what. I’ll send my assistant over in about an hour with some clothes for you. She can escort you around town.”
She wasn’t sure that she needed a chaperone, but it might be wise until she got her feet under her. “All right.” She wrapped her leg around his and clung to him in a way that left nothing to the imagination. “You’re going to think about me today, right?”
Logan groaned, his hands moving to cup her nak*d ass under his shirt. “I couldn’t stop if I tried.”
“A wise man once said, ‘We strive after the forbidden.’”
“More Plato?”
She rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s Plato to you. That was Ovid.”
“If you find a bookstore, buy me some Plato. I hear he’s interesting.” Logan leaned in and kissed her one more time, then reluctantly pulled away. “I’ll call when I’m on my way home.”
That felt . . . domestic. But she nodded, a hint of a smile on her face as she closed the door behind him. They were clicking so well it was almost scary. Scary, but enjoyable. Was it too good to be true? She supposed she’d see when she met his friends.
Just the thought of it made her stomach knot up. She was a waitress. He was a billionaire. They were going to think she was after his money, when the truth was his money just made her downright uncomfortable. Money was nice, but it wasn’t the reason to have a relationship.
Of course, she doubted anyone would believe her if she said that.
Brontë took a quick shower and had just combed her hair into a damp ponytail when the doorbell rang. She bounded to the door, pulling on her dirty jeans. “Coming.”
When she opened the door, a woman about her age stood on the other side holding a Saks Fifth Avenue bag. She was about the same height as Brontë, but her figure was radically different. Where Brontë was lean everywhere except her behind, the woman in the doorway seemed to be all softness and curves bundled up into a stuffy brown suit and tight bun. Her makeup was minimal, her skin pale, and she wore a pair of oversized sunglasses that she removed as Brontë opened the door.
She gave Brontë a friendly, efficient smile and stepped inside. “You must be Brontë Dawson.” She held out her hand. “My name is Audrey Petty, and I’m Logan’s assistant. He asked me to come by and see if I could help out today.”
Brontë shook her hand enthusiastically. “Hi there. Yes. I’m Logan’s girlfriend.”
The look on Audrey’s face remained professional. Her smile could have been painted on. “Well, Logan told me to come by with some clothes so you could go shopping today. It seems he didn’t give you time to pack?”
“That’s right.” Brontë crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a little awkward. “Sorry to be such trouble.”
She gave Brontë an odd look. “Trouble? Logan once asked me to drive to Pennsylvania to pick up floor plans because he didn’t like the way they looked faxed. Taking someone shopping? That is not trouble in the slightest.”
Brontë relaxed a little at that, even as Audrey moved past her and began to unpack the contents of the bag she’d brought. “Does Logan often make you run strange errands?”
“I don’t know if they’re strange,” Audrey said. “But he does sometimes ask me to run favors for him. It’s my job as his assistant, of course. He has a secretary for other business needs.”
Brontë stared. “So wait. He has an assistant and a secretary?”
Audrey turned and gave her a puzzled look. “Of course. Now, Logan told me that he had no idea what your size was, so I bought a sweater and some pants in every size. We can just return the ones that don’t fit. I also brought some panties and bras in some common sizes. If you don’t have shoes, I can go back out and get some.”
“This is fine,” Brontë said, reaching out to touch one of the sweaters. It was plain black, cashmere, and extremely soft. “This is nicer than what I normally wear, actually. You could have brought me a T-shirt and jeans.”
“Not if I wanted to keep my job,” Audrey said cheerfully. “I know Logan, and if he thought I was cheaping out on you, he’d have my head.”
He’d never seemed to mind what Brontë had worn before, though. She picked up the sweater in the right size and grabbed the closest slacks and panties. “These’ll work.”