Most girls don’t come home with me solely for their own pleasure. As much as they may insist that’s the reason, they come because they want a relationship, want to be adored. They want me to keep them beyond a single night, to like them beyond what we do together in bed.

But Logan doesn’t seem to really care what I think of her or whether we even see each other again. She’s using me.

I feel the sting of rejection and the warmth of respect at the same time.

She worries that sweet bottom lip with her teeth. “Everything okay?”

I close my eyes, taking a deep inhale of her. “Just looking at you,” I tell her. “You’re . . .” You’re surprising. “You’re really fucking pretty.”

She doesn’t thank me. She barely reacts at all, only watches me with heavy eyes.

I run my hand down between her breasts—full swells, small pink tips—and across her ribs, lower down her toned stomach. Her hips mirror the movement of my palm, chasing my touch.

“Let me kiss you here?” I ask, drawing my fingers between her legs. She’s soft, wet enough to tempt me but not enough that I’m sure she’ll go off like a bomb the way I want.

She shakes her head a little, smiling that wide-open smile at me. “No way, sir. That’s special.”

Fuck. It is special and for the length of a sharp inhale, it thrills me that she feels that way. But then frustration inches in: the more time I spend with her, the more eager I am to ensure this night blows her goddamn mind. If she’s come to a movie theater to be entertained, I’m going to show her the motherfucking Godfather.

She reaches down to the cushion by her hip and finds the condom, handing it to me.

“I thought you wanted me to pull out all my tricks?” I tease.

She laughs, a single burst of sound, but the smile stays. “Just come here.”

Shaking my head I tell her, “If we’re skipping the previews, you’re at least putting that on me.”

With a cute little eye roll, she pushes herself up on an elbow, tearing the condom wrapper with her teeth. Slowly, slowly, she rolls it down the length of me and I bite my lower lip, groaning.

Seeing her naked . . . tasting her tongue . . . the warm grip of her hand on my cock and I’m ready to fuck, but her hands don’t immediately leave me. She touches my cock, my balls, my hips and stomach. Now she’s deliberate, now she’s relishing. Her fingertips explore me, soft and gently tickling up my chest until she curls a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me over her.

“Come here,” she whispers again, kissing my chin, my jaw, my neck.

Maybe I should be in charge; she’s got more innocence buried beneath her steel than she does true cynicism. But I don’t want to lead right now. She reaches for me, slipping me around, playing with the tip of my cock on her clit, and I feel the way my arms shake, planted beside her head. She wants to lead it, wants me to stay still, wants to use this part of my body to feel good. Every muscle along my spine is bunched, every thought banished but the feel of her. The fucking feel. I watch her face and the million expressions I see tense and relax across it. I’ve never been so wrapped up in watching someone give in before.

Finally, she slides me lower. I sense the dip, the invitation, and ease my way inside.

She holds her breath but doesn’t make a sound. I want to roar. She’s warm—crazy warm—and wetter now. I have to ease in and out, an inch at a time because she’s small, and I worry I’m hurting her but her hands find my ass and she pulls me forward, rocking with me to get me deeper, more, all the way.

I groan when I’m finally there, but she’s quiet. She’s so quiet even with the clench of her all around me; with the way I’m squeezed inside her, how can she not make a single sound? I’m all the way in, grinding to get the feel of her, mouth on her neck, her tits. I feel unleashed, ravenous.

I could lose myself. I could fuck hard.

But, God, when she rolls her hips under me I know I could also fuck slow.

Whatever the hell she wants, it’s so good and her tits pressed to my chest make me rub against her, skin to skin.

“It’s okay?” I ask, quietly checking in.

She nods, swallowing. “It’s good.”

I groan, pulling back and then moving back into her.

The slow drag out, long easing in.

So good.

She smells good, too.

Hands all over my back, up my neck.

Logan’s quiet, but it feels good for her, I can tell. I sense it in the way her fingers tangle in my hair, the rolling of her hips and tightening of her nipples. She’s had good sex before; she knows what her body wants. She wants deep, she wants me pressed right up against her and grinding. She’s not getting shy now that we’re getting down to it. No, she’s taking and taking and taking.

Women sometimes talk. Either that or I do. But here we’re just breathing; there’s only the sound of inhales, forceful exhales, and the shifting of our bodies together. And then the involuntary gasps we both make when I start moving faster, and harder. Her breasts move beneath me, hips rise from the couch. She rides me from below, showing me the speed, the pattern she needs.

That she remains so quiet means her orgasm comes as a total shock to me; it comes like the crashing of a wave and when I hear the noise she makes—a tight, relieved cry—I am completely frantic: I need to hear it again, and longer.

I ride it out for her until she seems to deflate under me in relief, but then I’m rolling onto the floor, carrying her with me so that she straddles my hips.

“Take,” I whisper, hoping she understands. I want to give her every drop of relief tonight.

The way her eyes shine when she looks at me tells me she needs this. She loves sex. I mean, holy hell, why a woman with this degree of experience and sensuality doesn’t fuck whenever she wants is beyond me. She rolls her hips, starting to ride me, and then she’s off on a new tear, working herself closer to that tipping point again. Her skin grows shiny with sweat, fingers press sharply into my chest, up my neck, gripping me. Almost threatening. It’s got to be better this second time, her body says. Bigger. Longer. Harder.

“Oh, shit,” she says on an exhale and there—fuck—there it is. Wild and tight and wet, so fucking wet she’s all around me pushing herself farther onto my cock. I groan, fighting the way my body wants to give in, wants to come so hard I’ll see stars.

But I know we’re not done here.

I find myself staring at the smooth arch of her throat, the grace of her straight collarbone as she rides me slower now, coming down. I study the quick rise and fall of her breasts as she gasps for air. She’s completely given herself over to it. To me. For this perfect moment she trusts me.

She’s beautiful, smart, and a little defensive, but even so, she’s here, letting me feel her. I want to deserve this. And I worry I’m going to come hard and wild, and still be left unsatisfied because the tiny taste she’s giving me isn’t going to be enough.

“You’re good?” I manage, running my hands up her waist and higher, cupping her breasts.

She lifts her head with effort, eyes hungry. “I want you behind me,” she says.

Without a word, I lift her off me, help her onto her knees, and then slide back in, unable to keep from groaning, low and long.

I’m obsessed with the muscular lines in her back, the way her clit feels under the slide of my fingers. I’m obsessed with the way she moves no matter what position she’s in, with the sound she makes when she comes.