and the shake of the lock. Instead of stopping, Logan thrusts harder. He moans into my neck.
I manage to squeak out, “Just a minute.” And then, emboldened, with Logan’s lips on my neck and his fingers digging almost painfully into my thighs, I whisper, “Fuck me.” He growls into my neck and forces himself as deep as he can go. The intensity of his pressure, his length and depth, the close rubbing of his abdomen against my hot, swollen clit triggers the beginning of my explosive climax. Like a fuse lit on a firecracker I burn with flaring sparks leading up to a final explosion.
“Say it again,” he says roughly. “Tell me again.”
“Fuck me, Logan. Fuck me hard.”
He moan-growls as he does just that. It seems he practically splits me in two as I keep sparking, my final explosion imminent.
“Again,” he demands.
I whimper it out one last time and then I’m rolling and rocking at the mercy of his final thrusts as my orgasm explodes around us both. I bite my tongue so as not to cry out his name, because someone might be listening on the other side of that door. My nails dig into his shirt, my head lolls against the hard tiled wall, my juices drench his still-plunging cock. His lips lock onto my neck as I feel his climactic thrusts. They’re hard and deep, as if he’s going right through me and into the wall, and then they slow and soften as he leans into me, still holding me up, but with trembling tired arms. I slide one leg down to hold myself up while I feel his releasing pulses fill me.
He kisses my neck and cheek softly, murmuring. “Mmmm… I liked that… I like fucking you…I like you telling me to…”
“I like you wanting to,” I whisper back. I can’t quite find the words to express how beautifully powerful I feel when he wants me that rawly, that primally, when he needs me to open to him, to say those things, or others, and for him to give himself to me so fully. I feel full. Full of him. Full of my own power and pleasure.
But now we have to let each other go. He slips from my pussy’s embrace. I wipe up my juices. He disposes of his condom. We both put our clothes back together and ready ourselves to rejoin the real world. But I hang on to the sweet sensual world we have created between us.
Whoever had knocked earlier is no longer waiting, probably having given up and gone in search of another toilet on another floor. We exit together, and only one elderly woman sees us, her arched eyebrow and pursed lips the only sign of suspicion. We lean toward one another, sharing a sexy secret. I feel as if I’m glowing on the inside and out. Logan’s arm slides possessively around my shoulders for all to see as we carry on up the ramp that houses several large Picasso paintings.
Logan and I walk together hand in hand or arm in arm as if we’ve been a couple for years. What a relief it is to just be together, out in the open, with nothing to hide. It reveals to me how stressful the last few months have been.
“It’s nice to be here with you like this.”
“Museum hopping?”
“Not hiding ,” I say.
“It could always be like this,” he says.
I stop and turn to him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “If we lived here.”
We? Here? My head is spinning. Logan has never even hinted at anything permanent between us.
“This particular Picasso was….” He steps toward the wall pointing out this and that while the tiny bomb he just dropped explodes inside me.
Chapter Ten
By the time we leave the Guggenheim, we have to rush to catch a taxi to make the curtain call for Wicked. That dazzling spectacle pervades my senses through the evening, and manages to push Logan’s suggestive words to the back of my mind. But they are not lost. They haunt the eddies of my imagination and conjure up all kind of scenarios.
That night I dream we’re bride and groom floating through a colorful surrealist sky of a Marc Chagall painting.
Living in New York is my dream, but living here with
I manage to squeak out, “Just a minute.” And then, emboldened, with Logan’s lips on my neck and his fingers digging almost painfully into my thighs, I whisper, “Fuck me.” He growls into my neck and forces himself as deep as he can go. The intensity of his pressure, his length and depth, the close rubbing of his abdomen against my hot, swollen clit triggers the beginning of my explosive climax. Like a fuse lit on a firecracker I burn with flaring sparks leading up to a final explosion.
“Say it again,” he says roughly. “Tell me again.”
“Fuck me, Logan. Fuck me hard.”
He moan-growls as he does just that. It seems he practically splits me in two as I keep sparking, my final explosion imminent.
“Again,” he demands.
I whimper it out one last time and then I’m rolling and rocking at the mercy of his final thrusts as my orgasm explodes around us both. I bite my tongue so as not to cry out his name, because someone might be listening on the other side of that door. My nails dig into his shirt, my head lolls against the hard tiled wall, my juices drench his still-plunging cock. His lips lock onto my neck as I feel his climactic thrusts. They’re hard and deep, as if he’s going right through me and into the wall, and then they slow and soften as he leans into me, still holding me up, but with trembling tired arms. I slide one leg down to hold myself up while I feel his releasing pulses fill me.
He kisses my neck and cheek softly, murmuring. “Mmmm… I liked that… I like fucking you…I like you telling me to…”
“I like you wanting to,” I whisper back. I can’t quite find the words to express how beautifully powerful I feel when he wants me that rawly, that primally, when he needs me to open to him, to say those things, or others, and for him to give himself to me so fully. I feel full. Full of him. Full of my own power and pleasure.
But now we have to let each other go. He slips from my pussy’s embrace. I wipe up my juices. He disposes of his condom. We both put our clothes back together and ready ourselves to rejoin the real world. But I hang on to the sweet sensual world we have created between us.
Whoever had knocked earlier is no longer waiting, probably having given up and gone in search of another toilet on another floor. We exit together, and only one elderly woman sees us, her arched eyebrow and pursed lips the only sign of suspicion. We lean toward one another, sharing a sexy secret. I feel as if I’m glowing on the inside and out. Logan’s arm slides possessively around my shoulders for all to see as we carry on up the ramp that houses several large Picasso paintings.
Logan and I walk together hand in hand or arm in arm as if we’ve been a couple for years. What a relief it is to just be together, out in the open, with nothing to hide. It reveals to me how stressful the last few months have been.
“It’s nice to be here with you like this.”
“Museum hopping?”
“Not hiding ,” I say.
“It could always be like this,” he says.
I stop and turn to him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “If we lived here.”
We? Here? My head is spinning. Logan has never even hinted at anything permanent between us.
“This particular Picasso was….” He steps toward the wall pointing out this and that while the tiny bomb he just dropped explodes inside me.
Chapter Ten
By the time we leave the Guggenheim, we have to rush to catch a taxi to make the curtain call for Wicked. That dazzling spectacle pervades my senses through the evening, and manages to push Logan’s suggestive words to the back of my mind. But they are not lost. They haunt the eddies of my imagination and conjure up all kind of scenarios.
That night I dream we’re bride and groom floating through a colorful surrealist sky of a Marc Chagall painting.
Living in New York is my dream, but living here with
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