He fulfils my wish, again, immersing his rock hard member into me, all the way to the hilt. There’s something different, something more about feeling him fill me, feeling his sex stimulate mine in all the right places as his body drapes over mine. I tangle my hands in his hair and kiss him hard. All of a sudden I’m very happy that I woke him up. Oh, yes, I’m happy. He thrusts into me over and over, fully exploring that sweet spot within.
Ah!
“Logan,” I mewl.
“Best. Wakeup. Call. Ever,” he says into my mouth, before claiming it again, crushing my tongue with his own.
Down below, he quickens the pace. I’m drowning in pleasure. I’m actually drowning; there is nowhere I can escape the satisfaction that’s building in me, no way to stem it. He’s got me pinned down, forcing me to accept every beautiful, incredible, indescribable feeling. And I love it! I love being pinned under him, feeling his weight on me.
He runs a hand down one of my legs and pulls it up under the knee, changing the angle that he enters me and then he thrusts deeply. Holy fuck! Right there!
“Logan,” I cry into his mouth. Ah, he feels exquisite!
Logan takes me at this new angle and my drowning continues. I’m pummelled by wave after wave of ecstasy, building up to something deep and powerful.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I susurrate.
“Ah, Gemima,” he groans, provoking me with unfailing precision.
He pushes my leg higher and I whimper in rapture. So close! So fucking good! I feel both of our bodies tense as we reach the very edge, and then, when there’s no chance to turn back, no chance to back down from our inevitable explosion, when one more fast thrust would send us both flying, Logan slows his pace drastically. My body trembles violently and I scream in sexual frustration and pleasure (though mostly pleasure) as I come slowly, too slowly, so slowly that every feeling is heightened and drawn out, engulfing me over and over again, in an oddly similar fashion to the dream that I just had. Holy shit! This feels phenomenal!
In the midst of my sounds, Logan comes too, before pulling out of me and rolling onto his back, panting hard. “People will think there’s been a murder,” he laughs airily.
“S’your fault,” I say again, with the biggest smile on my face. It really is his fault. “Baby, you do things to me that are out of this world.”
“Ditto,” he breathes. “The way you tighten around me, it makes me lose myself in you. It’s all consuming. Everything about you is, you’re all I can fathom…so, no, Gemima, it’s not my fault, it’s most definitely yours,” he tells me.
I grin at him, enjoying his explanation. I’ve never been happier to take the blame.
5. What A Man
“Shit!” Logan shouts.
My eyes dart open; I feel like I’ve only just closed them, but I know that I haven’t because of the amount of light that’s now creeping out from behind my curtains…a little too much light compared to when I usually get up.
I scramble for my phone to look at the time. “Shit!” We’re late. We’re very late!
We dart out of bed; I head for the bathroom, Logan for the kitchen. While I hurriedly wash myself and pull on some clothes, Logan gets the coffee brewing. Then we swap, him in the bathroom, and me pouring the coffee, which will be our only breakfast this morning. We drink it, never minding that it’s piping hot, and then we make out for all of two seconds, before both conceding that we have to go. Before he reaches the kitchen doorway, Logan comes to an abrupt halt and I crash into the back of him.
“What?” I ask.
He points to the kitchen table where I’ve laid out his birthday presents. His face is youthful, excitable, he’s smiling his boyish smile. “Are those for me?”
Damn! Not a great hiding spot, Gem. “Yes.”
He picks each of them up, registering their weight and giving them each a customary little shake to try and coax them into revealing their identities to him. “Can I open them now?”
“No,” I grin. “You can have them on Thursday morning. They’re not your main present, anyway,” I hasten to add. “You’ll see that tomorrow night,” I tell him.
“And I can’t wait,” he beams. He puts the presents down and we leave.
Just before we have to part to go to our separately parked cars, I tell him, “There’s somewhere I’d like to take you tonight, after our meeting. It’s just something silly, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“Looking forward to it, Miss. Samuels.” He steps forward to kiss me goodbye. “Until four-thirty, baby.”
As I head to my car, one thought goes through my mind: please, let this day pass quickly.
* * *
It doesn’t. In fact, it’s probably one of the worst days I’ve had at Pierson House since I started. My lack of energy and sustenance means that I feel drained the entire morning, despite my constant supply of coffee, which I manage to spill over a pile of important documents, twice. This has me running back and forth to the copy machine, feeling flustered and completely unprofessional.
When lunchtime finally brings some sweet reprieve, I head for the cafe down the street to order an enormous amount of food, and then it’s back to the grind, for an afternoon of back-to-back client meetings.
First up I deal with my most unpleasant client to date, who seems capable of only saying no to my every idea. And I mean every idea. I’m at my wits end, and needing a time out, I go to make her a cup of tea; chamomile, perhaps in hopes of sedating her. When I return, I find her thumbing through one my sketchbooks, a book that I’m almost certain was hidden away in one of my desk drawers only minutes ago. Having already had quite enough of her shit, not to mention her wholly inappropriate rifling though my drawers, I’m about to say something that could quite easily get me fired, when she looks up at me with a huge smile on her face. I freeze. It’s like she’s a different person.
“J’ai trouvé quelque chose de magnifique,” she beams. I’ve found something magnificent.
At last. My whole body relaxes, releasing my pent up tension. The sketchbook in question is one that I’ve dedicated to my landscape design ideas.
“This…and this…and this,” she points out my own drawings to me, “they’re beautiful!”
“Thank you,” I say, setting her tea down in front of her. “You want a garden in your home?” I make sure I’ve understood her correctly.
“Oui, ce serait parfait!” Yes, that would be perfect!
Uh, really? I smile and nod, the way Amélie would. Anything for a client. “OK, that’s what we’ll do,” I assure her.
After that she’s different, warm, friendly, and chatty. By the time we part company thirty minutes later, I actually quite like her. But no time to dwell, for as one client exits, another enters, and this one is another nightmare with no let-up at all until I show him out an hour later. I stand next to Layla’s reception desk and wave him away with a sigh. Good riddance, you miserable bastard.
As he exits, Layla says, “Just one more before you get to go and play.”
“Excuse me?”
She consults her massive diary, in which everyone’s meetings are listed so that she can keep track of who’s coming and going from the building. “You’re meeting Mr. Leary at four-thirty, non?” she asks, and I nod. “Only one more to go.”
“Right, but, uh, we’re not playing,” I whisper to her. “We’re working, Layla.”
She looks at me the same way that Amélie does, seeing straight through me. I say nothing else, there’s no point.
“Your next client has already arrived, I showed her into meeting room five,” Layla says.