Page 8 of You Were Mine

I slowly take his cock into my mouth, and once it’s there, I’m only about seventy-percent sure what to do. I’ve done this before with him but not often enough that I really know how to do it well.

I try to mimic what he does, moving my tongue up and down his shaft, fondling his balls with one hand. But he’s a true artist. I don’t know if it’s how far down his throat he can take me in, or if I’m just over-eager. My efforts are sloppy and rushed, drowned out by my heart beating so loud I can hear it in my ears.

He groans and rocks his hips. His hands twist in my hair. I redouble my efforts, trying earnestly to make him come as first-rate as he’d made me. Logan’s muscles all clench, and he comes. His seed, hot and salty, fills my mouth. I tilt my head back and swallow half of it. The rest drips down my chin.

“I suck at this,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Logan is much better at getting me off with his mouth than I am at getting him off, and it just isn’t fair. It’s like being a mortal having sex with a god.

“Actually, if you want to suck a little harder, that would be great,” Logan quips. “Just saying.”

“Hilarious,” I reply, flopping onto the bed beside him. “I do this with you, again, why?”

“Because I’m so attractive you just can’t keep your cock in your pants,” Logan replies, smirking.

Logan rolls over me and straddles my waist. His eyes are dark, his wide-open pupils lingering as evidence of his orgasm. He trails a hand across my collarbone and leaves fire in its wake. I shiver. Everything about him is just so smoldering and makes my heart beat a million miles an hour.

He puts his lips to mine. Suddenly, I’m aware of how chapped mine are and how I taste like iron and spit. My head spins from the scent of the sweat and sex around us. My fingers tremble as I let them dance over the muscles in his upper back, tracing the familiar curves of his shoulder blades and down the curve of his spine. I am in heaven. I had my concerns about this “friends-with-benefits” thing when we originally talked about it, but I’m so glad we decided to do it with someone I know and trust.

Logan pulls back just a bit and presses his forehead against mine. “Seven out of ten. Do better next time,” he breathes.

“Seven? That was at least an eight. No, a strong eight and a half.”

“Sure,it was,” Logan says, rolling onto his back beside me. “I should have timed you. If I’d bothered to time you, it would have been more in the range of a ‘six’.”

I groan and whip a pillow at him.

Chapter Four

Mark

When I walk into painting the next week, the model is there. He’s wrapped in a fluffy, blue robe that complements his artfully tousled sandy blond hair. Although I was genuinely hoping he’d be here, I still freeze at the door.

Logan almost bumps into me. “Oh,“ he says, his tone insinuating so many things that are definitely not safe for work.

“Yeah,” I say.

I finally venture into the classroom. There are a few minutes before class officially begins, and it would be more than enough time to walk up to the model and justaskwhere I know him from. But how do I do that? What if I’m mistaken and don’t really know him? What if he doesn’t recognizeme? What if I just embarrass myself?

“So, are you going to talk to him or not?” Logan asks.

“I’m thinking about what to say.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “It’s easy. ‘Hey, do I know you from somewhere?’”

Sure, itsoundseasy, but the last time I walked up to a guy this hot, I short-circuited and started rambling about how his face was as expressive as a Hellenistic sculpture.Gawd! I doubt I’d get any better results with this guy. Probably doesn’t know ‘Hellenistic’ from a speed bump. Although being a nude model, he might have more appreciation for Hellenistic sculptures than most. That’s assuming, of course, he’s actually knowledgeable about the art world and not some dumb model who happened to get a job modeling at Bluehaven College.

“Sure. Easy for you. You talk the ear off anyone who gives you the time of day,” I reply.

“Well, I’m not letting you chicken out,” Logan says, walking right up to the gorgeous model.

“Logan, no!” I hiss.

My words do nothing. They never do. Damn him! “Hey,” Logan says. “My friend over there thinks he knows you from somewhere. Any idea?”

Logan jerks his head toward me, and I do my best to force a pleasant, natural-looking smile.

I’m going to kill Logan, kill him; as in dismember the body, snip off his fingers for fingerprints, carve out his teeth for dental identification, bury his body in multiple locations, and hang his fingers on fishhooks and save them to decorate a Christmas tree.

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