Page 126 of Snared Rider

Heat flames up my cheeks. “You saw me naked and cursed, Logan. Of course I’m going to cover myself.”

He releases my wrist to cup my face, forcing my eyes to his. I try to resist but he doesn’t let me. When he has my attention, he speaks.

“Baby, I wasn’t cursing over your body—that’s perfect. I was cursing because you’re black and blue.”

I frown and then look down at my left side which is, in fact, black and blue, not to mention scraped to hell. I hate to admit it, but I don’t make for a pretty sight.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says wryly. “Oh.”

“I didn’t realise it was that horrible.”

“It’s not,” he admonishes.

“It’s gross, Logan. No wonder you’re turned off.”

And it is gross. My side is one huge bruise while the skin has started to scab over. It doesn’t look nice at all.

“Sweetheart, there is no part of me that will never not want you.” He peppers kisses across my face before stopping on my lips. “And you’re not gross or horrible or anything else: you’re beautiful, Beth.”

I laugh a little but even I hear the derision in my tone. “I’m older and saggier and have so much cellulite beneath this mess.”

He leans forward and presses a kiss to my nose before coming down to capture my mouth again.

“You’re beautiful,” he repeats. “However—and I can’t believe I’m about to say this, given the fact you’re there, ready for me—maybe we should wait until you’re healed. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“Beth—”

“You won’t,” I repeat.

He studies me for a moment and whatever he sees satisfies him because his hands come down to my shoulders and continue to my chest, palming my aching breasts. The touch is like electricity and shoots a bolt right down my body to add to the growing ache between my legs.

My head tips back, my eyes rolling closed even as my mouth opens in a silent gasp. I moan loudly as he takes one nipple between his fingers, rolling it and tweaking it.

Sweet Jesus.

I pant as his lips lock around the other nipple, sucking the areola deep into his wet mouth.

I can barely breathe as he runs his tongue back and forth over the hard bud. And my sex is practically convulsing already. I rub harder against him, wanting, needing the friction.

My hands go into his hair, sifting through the soft locks as he continues to play with my breasts, alternating between them. He licks one and twists the other, then twists one and licks the other. My thoughts are heady and pretty much non-existent as I try and fail to think of anything other than what he’s doing to my body. It’s been, what? Ten years? Yet, he still remembers the right spots to make me sing.

His hands leave my breasts, much to my disappointment. This doesn’t last long and everything south of my navel tingles with anticipation as he reaches for the button of my jeans, slowly unfastening it.

My stomach muscles quiver as he skims the skin, and then he’s pushing my jeans down my thighs.

I stare at the ceiling overhead, trying to catch my breath, trying not to moan as his hands skim down my legs until I’m free of my clothes.

Then, he’s at my knickers, and I’m grateful I’m not wearing granny ones. They’re plain, black shorts, and while they’re not high-class lingerie, the look on Logan’s face makes me feel as if I’m in lace and silk, not cotton.

He shrugs out of his kutte, then seizes the back of his tee, pulling it over his head in one sexily swift movement that makes my body take notice. At least for a brief second until I see him in his entirety.

Time has been good to Logan Harlow. He has more tats covering his chest than the last time I had him naked over me. He’s like a walking, talking work of art.

I trace the lines of colour and patterns across his pectorals and down to his abs, seeing the skull with dice for eyes on his right side. The words ‘Ride Free’ sit on his ribs while the phoenix tattoo he got for his father still spans down his shoulder and bicep.

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