Page 57 of The Opposite of Romance
The storm rolls in faster than I can get up and draw the curtains back, with menacing clouds moving in. A flash of lightning dances across the sky, followed by ground shaking thunder.
My gaze falls to Logan, who continues working as if nothing’s going on. He’s moving those boards again, the ones that keepmultiplying in numbers each day he arrives, while the storm rages above him.
“He’s going to get himself killed,” I mutter to myself, and start for the kitchen. Slowly opening the sliding glass door to the backyard, I peek my head outside, trying to be louder than the storm.
“Logan! You should really get inside!”
His face lifts, transforming into a smirk. “It’s fine. Just a quick summer storm.”
“I’m not a meteorologist or anything, but I’d take a wild guess and say the thunder is equally dangerous no matter the season.”
That makes him chuckle, but he continues with those goddamn boards, bringing them from his little canopy covered workstation to the spot where he’ll place it for the deck. “That’s ok, Sadie. I can handle a little rain.”
“It’s not the rain I’m worried about,” I say, stepping out of the safety of my house, when the first drops of rain fall from the sky.
A drop. Two. Three.
And the downpour starts, getting me soaking wet in the three steps I made.Maybe itwasthe rain I should’ve been worried about.
“Can you please go back inside? You’ll catch a cold or something,” he says, doing his thing, not even looking at me. His own shirt is now drenched, and I can see the outlines of his pecs through it.
“If I need to go inside, you should, too.” I stomp toward him. Any effort to stay dry would be futile.
“Just need to finish this up.”
I grab his arm to make him turn around. “If this is a quick summer storm, then come inside until it passes.” My voice trails off because his eyes are a storm on its own.
His jaw clenches as his dripping wet chest heaves with quick breaths. My heart pounds out of my ribcage, the tension of the moment almost too much to bear.
“Wh…” I say, but he slams his mouth onto mine. A silent ‘oh’ escapes me as my lips part for him, letting him in. The rain is still pouring down on us, but my nipples tighten with something other than cold, thunder and lightning coursing my body.
His hand snakes behind my head, leaving me no place to escape. Not that I’d want to. This feels like a long time coming.
His tongue explores my mouth with passion and confidence, as if he’s competing with the rain on who’s going to make me wetter. His teeth nip my bottom lip, making me whimper. A growl escapes him in response, the sound shooting straight to my core.
He pulls away an inch, letting me catch my breath, but it’s way too far. “Fuck, I should get you out of this rain.”
I barely hear him, already scratching at his shirt to take it off. “No time,” I mumble and as soon as it’s off, my lips connect back to his.
My hands explore the planes of his chest and stomach, and I tingle with anticipation.
“We should … we should stop this?” His words are more of a question than a statement, and I respond with only a slight shake of my head.
I’ve been craving this for too long. Pandora’s box has been opened. And Pandora is a horny motherfucker. He makes the right decision, thank God, lifting me by the back of my thighs and I lock my ankles behind his back.
His fingers dig into the flesh of my ass, and I moan into his mouth. My pussy doesn’t wait for attention. No, she grinds herself on the hard bulge in Logan’s pants, getting me close to the finish line when we haven’t even started.
“Fuck, fuck,” he grunts into my mouth, bringing me under the canopy to shield us from the rain. He pushes the blueprints and tools from his work desk, setting me down on it. I should be freezing, but my skin is on fire, led only by the pure lust it currently feels.
He holds my gaze, his pecks rising and lowering, before bringing his hands to my chest. The sound of cotton rippingbrings my gaze down, only to realize he ripped my t-shirt in half. A mewl-like sound escapes me as I try to pull him closer to me, my pussy in desperate need of attention.
But no, he’s not done with ripping my clothes off. Next up is the sports bralette I’m wearing. It was already doing a poor job covering anything, what with the fact that it’s soaked through, but now my breasts are fully exposed to him.
He gives each nipple a harsh lick before moving to the shorts I’m wearing. Sparing them, he rolls them down my legs, instead of ripping them, too.
I should be anxious. I should be insecure. I should want to cover myself or turn the lights off (damn you, sex out in the open). This is, after all, the first time someone other than David is seeing me naked in twelve years. It’s also the first time someone other than him is seeing my episiotomy scar and the effects of breastfeeding on my once perky tits.
But as he stares at me, embarrassment is nowhere to be found. It’s drowned by the hunger in his eyes, extinguished by his obviously painful erection and shot by him muttering, “Fuck, I’ve thought about this for too long.”
