He laughed, the sound short and forceful. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“Well, okay, it’d have to be really great sex to make up for the lack of the G-spot attention.” She sat up and grimaced at her sticky belly, still covered with his seed. “I think I’m going to go take a quick dunk.”
“It’s probably cold.”
“‘You will never do anything in this world without courage,’” she quoted at him.
“Is that a challenge?” He asked, grinning. He got to his feet and curled his hands into mock claws, looking as if he were a predator about to pounce on his prey. “Are you saying I’m not brave enough for cold water?”
“Not at all,” she said, turning toward the ocean.
When he took a step forward, she ran for it, a high-pitched squeal of alarm escaping her. Moments later, he had an arm around her stomach and was dunking her in the chilly surf. Brontë screamed and clung to him, dragging him under with her until they were both sputtering and laughing.
“There’s your courage,” Logan told her between chuckles.
She laughed too, delighted by his mood.
They rinsed off quickly, dumped sand on the fire, and then headed back to the hotel in the darkness. Their stairwell was just as they’d left it, complete with mattress, pillows, and blankets. Before when they’d crawled into the bed, they’d been clothed. When Brontë crawled into bed this time, she was naked and slightly damp, and so was the man who crawled in after her. As soon as she pulled the blanket over her body, he tugged her close and spooned her, his hand sliding possessively over her waist and resting on her breast.
As if he cherished her.
And she thought that maybe, just maybe, Logan was going to ruin after-sex cuddling for her, too. Because being pressed up against his big, strong body as she drifted off to sleep, his hand possessively cupping her breast, felt a little too good to be true.
Chapter Five
Logan awoke before Brontë did. His body’s internal clock was set to 6 a.m. New York time, no matter where he was. He’d also awoken with a stiff c**k and pleasant memories of the previous night’s sex on the beach with Brontë. Tousled, sweet Brontë, who’d been so responsive in his arms, and absolutely startled when he’d found her G-spot. That look of pleased surprise on her face? That had made him feel like a king in bed.
She hadn’t been the most skilled of his lovers—he suspected the Ukrainian ballet dancer would forever hold that spot—but she’d been the most open and honest one. Her expression, totally unable to hide anything, had pointed him to exactly where to please her, and her wide-eyed responses and gasping moans had been an incredible turn-on. She’d been enthusiastic and genuine and pleased to be with him.
Him. Logan the “manager.” She didn’t know if he had two nickels to rub together, and hadn’t cared. She’d just wanted to have sex with him. And he couldn’t say that with certainty about any of his former lovers. Had they wanted him? The man? Or just been attracted to the power of his bank account and what he could do for them? It was never easy to tell, and it ruined pretty much every relationship.
And the one woman he’d thought he loved in the past—Danica—had proven herself to be shallow and interested in nothing but money.
A line of sunlight streamed in under the stairwell door below them, giving him just enough light to make out Brontë’s sleeping form next to him. She shifted in bed, rolling over and tucking her cheek close to his shoulder. Her hand automatically went to his cock, and his morning wood had turned painful fast. Did she realize how often she reached for him in her sleep? Or was this a calculated move? He remained utterly still, listening to Brontë’s evenly spaced breaths.
A light snore escaped her.
He exhaled in relief. That was real. She was real. He was a f**king paranoid son of a bitch, wasn’t he? A sleeping girl reaches for his cock, and he automatically thought she had an ulterior motive. It was a good thing she couldn’t read minds. Someone as guileless as Brontë would have probably been disgusted. His father and the way he’d treated Logan’s mother had polluted his brain.
Logan pulled the blanket off of her inch by inch. She slept on, though she moved a little closer to him as if seeking heat. Carefully, he traced his fingers over her shoulder and down her side, resting his hand on her hip. Her skin was soft and smooth, her hips plump, and her full backside made his mouth water.
She made a soft, breathy moan in the back of her throat and shifted onto her back. Perfect. He could part her legs, slide deep inside of her before she even woke up, and rid his c**k of this ache—
Fuck. And then what? Pull out again? That had been sheer torture the night before. They needed condoms. Logan edged out of the bed and down the stairs, slipping on his water shoes and then quietly opening the door. He headed into the lobby, ignoring his nudity. He doubted any rescuer would be here this early. The water on the floor of the hotel had receded, leaving muddy trails on the tile and leftover debris. Rescue would be here soon, he guessed. He and Brontë likely had been lost in the shuffle for a day or two, but it wouldn’t be much longer. Someone would notice a missing billionaire, if not a missing waitress.
Logan got a package of condoms from the store, drank a bottle of water and downed a candy bar, and returned to the stairwell. Brontë was still asleep, so he abandoned his shoes at the base of the stairs, kept a condom in hand, and slid back into bed with her.
She was soft and warm against his side, giving a little absent sound of pleasure when he returned as if she’d missed him. He liked that. Logan leaned in and kissed her neck and then her shoulder. They were light, trailing nibbles that teased the skin. A soft giggle escaped her throat, the sound still too sleepy for his taste. Kissing along her arm, he reached over her and cupped her breast, thumbing over the tip and with a touch causing the peak to harden.
The sound she made in response was a low moan.
His c**k felt as hard as granite, and it rubbed against her limbs when she shifted in the bed. He wanted to pull her full against him, feel the press of her flesh against his cock, but he was enjoying her unconscious reactions a bit too much at the moment. His thumb skimmed over the hard nub of her breast again, rolling it back and forth as he continued to kiss Brontë’s neck.
The woman was definitely a heavy sleeper, Logan thought with amusement. He nipped lightly at her shoulder, and when she rolled onto her back, he leaned down to take the stiff tip of her breast into his mouth.