Chaos series by Kristen Ashley

No one liked boring.

Not even little girls.

I jumped when two arms closed around me and I felt a face in my neck.

I lifted my hands and curled them around Logan’s forearm at my chest.

“Logan.”

“Know you’d be up in Paris,” he said to my neck. “But you’re gonna be down in Denver.”

He then started shuffling me back.

That day, I’d done okay. I’d crashed but not for long.

When I woke, Logan fed me again. He moved us out to the living room (hauling the TV back) because he didn’t think it was good I was in bed, too easy to slip away. We chatted about nothing, him resolutely keeping things light. Likely because things had been so heavy, we both needed it. I continued to have the mild but nagging nausea, though after my nap, I was more clearheaded. We’d watched more TV. We’d snuggled, which felt oh so good to have back. Logan had turned on the fire.

I lost it again around nine thirty, totally unable to keep my eyes open. When that happened, Logan helped me stumble to my room and went to bed with me.

I thought I’d done okay.

But right then, my body clearly thought I was in France because I was wide awake.

He turned us, keeping his arms around me, shuffling me toward the bed.

“I’ll come back to bed with you, Logan, but I’m wide awake,” I told him. “You sleep. I’ll see if I can drift.”

“Who said shit about sleepin’?”

My inner thighs quivered, my breasts swelled, and Logan got me to my side of the bed, where he took us both down on our sides, then immediately moved back so he could shift me around and up, head to the pillows, and he followed me.

Then he dipped close and I stared up into his shadowed face.

“Reunion time, Millie,” he murmured.

Oh man.

He tilted his head and kissed me.

I didn’t fight it. There was no reason to fight it.

Words needed to be spoken. A conversation needed to be had. Several of them.

But I was taking this.

I’d earned it.

I’d forced him to earn it.

So I was taking it and I was giving it.

With no anger, no game playing, it was different. The kissing. The touching. It was hungry but it wasn’t desperate. It also wasn’t tentative but it was slow, exploratory, like we were getting to know each other. Like we’d never done this before.

Then when we found the years hadn’t changed this—my sensitive spots, the things I liked, the things I loved, his sensitive spots, the things he liked, the things that made him start to lose control—we slid into it.

I found myself wishing I could turn on the light, see him, all of him, discover with my eyes any ways he’d changed that I hadn’t had it in me to discover the times before.

But once we were into it, it wasn’t about light. It wasn’t about anything but each other’s bodies. Him going for the moan. Me going for the groan. Him pulling off my pajamas. Me yanking down his briefs. Taking in the familiar taste of him that had smoothed out and mellowed in a way I loved. Giving him tastes of me and glorying in the noises he made that told me he liked it, the urgency he built because he liked it a lot.

We stroked and we petted and licked, sucked, dragged, nipped, until the urgency he built took over because Logan took over and all I could take in was his scent, all I could do was clutch him to me, my face in his neck, my hips riding his fingers thrusting into me, rolling against the thumb he was using to work my clit.

“Baby,” I panted.

“You breathless?” he asked.

God, was I.

We were again on our sides and Logan threw a thigh over my legs, pinning me, hindering my movements so I couldn’t help. What he was doing to me was all him.

Better.

Oh God.

So… much… better.

“Logan,” I whimpered.

“Breathless, Millie?”

“Yes,” I breathed.

He drove his fingers deep and pressed hard with his thumb.

I shoved my face deeper into his neck and dragged my nails down his back.

“Logan,” I wheezed.

“Now I got it,” he growled, rolled into me, his fingers gliding out.

I opened my legs and felt his cock glide in.

“Oh yes,” I whispered as he rode me, slow and gentle. I slid a hand up his spine into his hair and wrapped my other arm at an angle across his back. “More, Low.”

He kissed me, long and wet, but that was all the more he gave.

So when he broke the kiss, I lifted my knees and begged, “Please, more, baby.”

He buried his face in my neck and worked his mouth there, still thrusting his cock deep, rhythmic, but slow, his hand gliding up my side and in. His finger and thumb finding my nipple and rolling gently.

Torture.

I’d take it.

I’d kill for it.

Die for it.

Anything for a million more moments like this or anything I could get with Logan.

But still, I needed more.

“Snooks.” I swung my feet in, digging my heels in his ass and using him to lift up. “More.”

I didn’t need my second word.

On my first, he went faster, pounding, like he’d lost control.

Then he took my mouth and I knew he’d lost control.

And there it was. What we’d had while playing our game. What we’d always had. Never going through the motions. Connecting fiercely, even savagely, with a hunger that couldn’t be quenched. Clutching, thrusting, gasping, grunting, scratching, clamping, joining.

“Logan!” I cried, and felt his hand in my hair tug sharply, yanking my head back and it began to move over me.

“Never forget, Millie.” His voice scratched the words into the skin at my throat. “Never forget this ever.”