|Home > Samantha Young > On Dublin Street Series > Moonlight on Nightingale Way (Page 12)|
|Moonlight on Nightingale Way(On Dublin Street #6)(12) by Samantha Young|
“What?” I whispered in fright, leaning over to switch my bedside light on. I wasn’t imagining it. Logan MacLeod was sitting on my bed, wearing nothing but a pair of faded old jeans. I forced my gaze to his face. “What are you doing here?”
His violet eyes were hot on me, his silent presence potent.
My breath caught.
My lower stomach clenched against the burst of tingles between my legs.
He placed a hand slowly on either side of my hips and leaned forward until his face was so close to mine our lips were almost touching. A fierce hunger flashed across his face, and I gasped, feeling arousal shoot through my body.
He wanted me.
Suddenly he grasped me by the nape of the neck and hauled me against him. His mouth captured mine. I instantly melted into him and wrapped my arms around him, my fingers pressing into the muscle beneath his hot skin.
His kiss was hard, demanding, almost punishing, and I reveled in it. Logan groaned, the reverberations causing my nipples to tighten in reaction, and I shuddered. My reaction ignited something inside of him, and he shoved me roughly onto my back before hauling the covers off me. I stared up at him in aroused astonishment as he tugged on my pajama shorts. He slid them deftly down my legs, along with my underwear, and then he was braced over me, nudging my thighs apart as he stared down into my eyes. Logan’s hands encircled my wrists, and he pinned my arms above my head as he pressed his jeans-covered erection between my legs. “Grace,” he whispered hoarsely, the word filled with need.
“Logan,” I pleaded.
His right hand left my wrist to draw down his zipper. He shoved his jeans low enough to release his erection and then returned his hand to my wrist to pin me to the bed.
Logan slammed inside me before I could draw another breath. I cried out at the pleasure-pain that surged through me.
My legs parted, urging him to go deeper. He did. He pulled back out only to thrust in even harder. His rhythm was fast. It was rough. It was molten.
It was unlike any sex I’d ever had before.
I gasped for more as Logan pounded into me, his features fierce and taut with lust.
The headboard rattled against the wall as Logan fucked me toward climax. As the orgasm tore through me, I cried out his name so loudly, I was sure the whole building heard me.
Lost in some lust-fogged hyperspace, I distantly felt Logan still. And then he shuddered on a throaty groan that made my inner muscles clench around him. He threw his head back as he came, and I watched him in awe. Finally, he finished and his head lowered.
Violet eyes pierced right through me, and he gave me this mocking, calculated smile. “I told you all you needed was to get laid.”
My eyes flew open, and I couldn’t see anything or hear anything but the rushing waves of blood in my ears.
I launched myself across my bed and fumbled for the light switch on my bedside lamp. Soft light flooded the room, and I gazed around.
I was alone.
I was also covered in sweat.
My body was lit with arousal.
I flopped back against my pillow, my cheeks inflamed and the erotic dream burned into my brain.
I’d had a sex dream about Logan MacLeod.
With a moan of absolute mortification, I covered my eyes with my arm as if somehow I could block out the memory of the dream.
But I couldn’t.
I’d had a sex dream about that grumpy, irritating, arrogant, inconsiderate ruffian of a man! How was it possible? He wasn’t even my type! No.
“Oh God,” I groaned as I thought of something even worse.
How on earth was I ever going to face him again?
His considerate streak was over.
I glowered at my reflection in the gilded silver mirror in my bedroom.
The person looking back at me was unrecognizable.
I looked like hell.
Because of him.
Only hours after I was jolted awake by the dream I needed to stop acknowledging ever happened, I was awoken by the noise coming from Logan’s bedroom. Loud – extremely loud – sex.
“THAT’S RIGHT. RIGHT THERE. OH BOY. RIGHT THERE. OH, LOGAN. OH, LOGAN. OH, LOGAN… AHHHHHHH!”
And she was American. He was obviously branching out.
Not that I cared. Nope.
I was, however, surprised and outraged when the next night I got even less sleep because the American was back, and she and Logan went three rounds of “RIGHT THERE.”
And she returned last night for more rounds of it.
Seventy-two hours of no sleep.
It did not look good on me.
If he bloody well returned with the American again, I was going to… “What, Grace?” I curled my lip at my exhausted reflection. “Shout at him? Let him have it? Scold him? Because you’ve done so well at it in the past.”
What if the American did make a fourth appearance? I lowered my gaze, unable to look at myself anymore as I stood there with my messy hair, wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt because I was too tired to iron something decent.
Was Logan MacLeod finally settling in to become a one-woman man?
I turned around and strode out of my bedroom, my mood darkening to the black-hole level. Marching through my flat, I snatched up my purse. I needed chocolate and coffee. There was no way I was getting through the day without either one of those.
Locking the door behind me, my shoulders instantly hunched up around my ears at the familiar sound of Logan’s door opening.
Oh God, was life really this unfair?
Feeling my cheeks bloom with heat at the thought of Logan seeing me so disheveled, I turned slowly around.