“Sure.”
Logan repeats his process and the result is the same.
“Best of five?” I offer with a laugh. Or seven?
“No,” he says in mock dramatics. He then smiles wryly at me, “I know when I’m beat.”
My heart is pounding as I sit on the bed next to where Logan lies down, his erection protruding, waiting to be taken. He closes his eyes and furrows his brow, concentrating hard as he takes his penis in his hand and pistons himself once.
“Which of our sexploits has been your favourite?” he asks me, seeking an image of inspiration.
“Impossible to choose,” I tell him, gazing down at him.
His eyes dart open. “I need something to think about, baby. My mind is blank. I’ve never done this with another person before,” he admits.
I lean down and kiss his lips. “Neither have I,” I breathe. Then I take his free hand and use it to touch my sex. “Think about this,” I smile, wholly aroused.
He groans, his other hand moving already. He starts to pump himself furiously, coaxing him to his release. His guttural moans make me even damper, and I have to force myself to hold back.
I
’
ll have plenty of opportunities to touch him like this
, I tell myself, but this moment is supposed to be different. This is supposed to be a personal, private, individual experience that we’re sharing with each other for the first time. This is another boundary that we’re letting one another cross, and watching him not only turns me on to the max, but it also makes me feel closer to him than ever before.
He keeps stroking himself forcefully. Several heightened minutes later, his wandering hand searches for me and when it glides over my sex again, I whimper sensitively, the sound of which pushes Logan to the edge. He works himself for a few moments more and then groans loudly as he comes. He shakes it out, his sounds of pleasure penetrating every part of my psyche.
Holy shit
, this is hot!
Breathing rapidly, Logan’s eyes open once more and he smiles as he sees me biting my lip, my eyes wide with arousal.
“Your turn, baby,” he pants eagerly.
My nerves are nonexistent as Logan and I swap position. I lie back and he sits up, a look of intense enthusiasm on his face.
“You look like it’s Christmas morning,” I laugh, stroking his face with my hand.
“I feel like it too,” he grins back at me.
Taking his lead, I close my eyes to begin with, moving my hands steadily south. I touch myself and writhe immediately, already so wet and so sensitive. I set my keen pace, moaning airily. The images I see in my mind’s eye are certainly gratifying, but Logan in my imagination is no match for Logan in real life. I’m halfway to heaven when I open my eyes and gaze at him instead. The look on his face tells me how impressed and satisfied he is that I can do this with my eyes open. He looks as captivated by the sight of me as I am by him. He is so enchanting beautiful. Sexy, handsome, manly, and the unequivocal love of my life.
“
Logan
,” I moan quietly.
My whole body changes as I look at him. Somehow I relax even more and my pleasure increases in droves. My moans and motions become heavier as I spur myself onwards. Down below, one hand works over my clitoris, faster and harder, while I slip a finger on my other hand inside of myself. I open my legs wider and arch my back against the bed, reveling in the incredible sensation.
Oh
, yes!
Yes
! I’m so delectably close now. I scrunch my eyes shut, powering on to my climax.
“
Ah
!” I call effusively, as my orgasm ricochets through my body, causing it to tremble violently.
“
Oh my god
,” Logan breathes, sounding more stimulated that I’ve ever heard him before.
When I’ve ridden my orgasm to the last delicious quiver, I retreat my hands, unable to keep myself from giggling.
We should do that on a regular basis
, I think, out of my mind with pleasure. I open my eyes and smile at Logan. He looks at me like I’m the goddess on his shrine.
“Gemima…” words fail him.
I put my hand over his mouth, my smile even broader. “You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him. I know exactly what he’s feeling, I felt the same way watching him. “Just come here, Logan,” I ask him, wanting more. Always wanting more.
* * *
On Sunday morning I’m awoken by the sound of howling winds and heavy rain. Logan is snuggled behind me, and I roll over, facing him, and turning my back to the window. His arm naturally encases me, and I tuck my face between his stubbly chin and chest, snuggling as close as I possibly can, relishing the memory of last night. Logan took me deeply and rapidly, bringing me to my second release of the evening with his trademark attention to detail. The result being that this morning every cell in my body feels good.
In this state, I drift off to sleep once more but am woken again when my phone starts ringing loudly.
Logan groans and I reluctantly jump to life, wanting to silence it before he’s fully roused. Staring at the clock on the bedside table, I see that it’s only eight AM.
Too early
, I think grumpily. Hurriedly finding my phone, the caller ID tells me that it’s my mom. Strange, I think, it must be past midnight in Brazil where she’s currently holidaying.
“Hi, Mom,” I whisper, scurrying to the bathroom and closing the door.
“Darling!” she cries loudly, alerting me straight away to the fact that she’s well and truly drunk. “Darling, I’m at a disco,” she shouts.
I grin into my phone, and pull on a bathrobe to stave off the cold. Outside the hotel I can hear thunder rumbling, and down the phone line I can hear loud music thumping away in the background. “I can hear that,” I say. “Are you having fun?” I ask needlessly.
“It’s
brilliant
here. Everyone is
so
friendly, and I just wish I could stay longer,” she says.
“Why don’t you stay an extra few days?” I suggest before remembering that I’ve promised Mary-Gene an appointment with her.
“Alas, my booming business needs me,” my mom explains. “How are you, sweetheart?” she then asks.
“I am excellent,” I say enthusiastically, smiling into my phone. “I’m in the south of France this weekend,” I tell her. “Logan surprised me by bringing me to the Hotel Beaux Rêves.”
“Uh…” she thinks back, “is that that fictional hotel you’re obsessed with?” she wonders.
I laugh out loud. “It’s not fictional.” Obviously, I’m sitting in it. “But, yes, the one I’ve always wanted to come to.”
“He’s trying to get into your pants,” she says hastily, as if trying to warn me off a conman.
I laugh again. Oh, mom! “He succeeded sometime ago,” I confess, only doing so because I suspect she’ll remember little to none of this conversation after she’s had a good nights sleep.
“I see...” she sounds disapproving. It’s the exact reaction I’ve come to expect from her. The only feelings that she has for men since her divorce from my stepfather six years ago are disdain and disrespect. That a man could be honest and genuinely affectionate is beyond her capacity to comprehend. “And you still think you love him?” she asks, inadvertently telling me that she received my email last week during which I professed my love for Logan to her for the first time.
“Definitely,” I smile again.
She’s silent for a long, telling moment.
I roll my eyes. “Just be happy,” I say, irritated. “It’s a
good
situation, I promise you.”
“Hmm…”
“
Mom
!” I exclaim, my irritation turning to anger.
“Alright,” she says in surrender. “I trust you,” she tells me earnestly. Then changing the subject — which automatically picks up her mood — she says, “So, I just called to say hello, and I figured you’d be up early on your way to work, but obviously you’re playing hooky.”
“I never work on Sundays…”
“It’s
Sunday
?” she shouts.
“Yes,” I tell her, my annoyance all but gone and my grin back in place. Discoing a little too much, maybe?
“Not Monday?” she checks.
“It’s Sunday,” I confirm.
“Oh, goodness, I must be having even more fun than I thought,” she giggles.
Fun
being codeword for
alcohol
more like!
“Stay safe,” I impress, “and I’ll see you later in the week,” I say, electing not to tell her about Mary-Gene’s salon appointment, now certain she won’t remember it.
“Si! Take care, darling. Say hello to Logan from me,” she says.
Ah
,
progress
, I think gratefully. “I will,” I smile. “Love you.
Bye
!”
A little too inebriated to hang up the phone swiftly, I hear her order another round of drinks before the line finally goes dead. Laughing to myself, I turn my phone on silent — no more early morning wakeup calls, thank you very much — and then I creep back into the bedroom as quietly as I can.
It’s pouring rain outside, and so for the next several hours Logan and I just lie in bed, entwined, semi-awake. Hours of making out, falling back asleep, holding one another, listening to the heavy rain, and making out some more. It’s utter bliss! We’ve never given ourselves the time to spend so long like this, but being on holiday is the perfect excuse for our laziness.
It’s past noon when we finally order up room service, our stomachs grumbling loudly. I call down to make the order while Logan stands at the window, surveying the weather. After I hang up I join him, hugging him from behind. I’m almost shocked to see a blue sky outside. The storm has evidently passed.
“I have something planned for this afternoon,” he says, running his hands up and down my arms. “I thought I’d have to cancel, but the water has settled.”
“We’re going out on the water?” I ask, excitedly.
He turns around and nods. His stomach grumbles again, and smiling, he says, “But first the skipper needs to eat.”
* * *
An hour later we walk out along the hotel’s signature, picturesque jetty, and I sigh happily as I take in the view that I’ve waited years to see.
So
this is what Fitzgerald saw when he wrote my favourite book
, I muse, taking in the stunning vista. Joy rises in me. I’m finally here, I’m finally seeing what he saw…and all because of Logan. Feeling full of gratitude, I reach up mid-step to kiss his cheek.
“I love you,” I tell him, and before he can respond, I repeat my words half a dozen times.
I’m eventually quiet enough for him to say, “I love you too, baby. I love seeing you take in this view, knowing that it means so much to you.”
Oh
,
Logan
! I swoon at his words. His thoughtfulness in bringing me here is so much more than I’ve experienced in my life before now.
“That’s why I’m taking you somewhere special,” he continues.
We’re going somewhere specific, I wonder, I thought the experience was simply going out on the ocean. “Where to?”
“C’est une surprise,” he smiles.
It
’
s a surprise
.
At the end of the jetty our boat sits in the water and a man stands on the dock, patiently holding a silver tray with two flutes of champagne on it.
“Bon après-midi,” he nods at us.
Good afternoon
. “Appréciez s’il vous plaît,” he says, as we take the flutes.
Enjoy
.
Logan helps me step into the boat, which I do carefully, willing myself not to spill the champagne; this stuff is too good to waste. Once Logan’s onboard as well, the butler-cum-waiter walks back up the jetty drawing my line of sight with him, and I gaze at the charming-looking hotel with admiration.
I can
’
t believe I
’
m really here
, I muse again, brimming with love for the man sitting next to me.
Before I miss my chance, I quickly finish my champagne and while we wait for our skipper to arrive, I take out my phone, hit the camera app, and capture the view in every direction. One attempt at a panoramic shot, which includes the hotel, the ocean vista
and
Logan on the boat, results in a photograph that I know instantly will end up on my wall.
“La plus belle vue,” I smile at Logan.
The most beautiful view
. And he really is. No amount of architecture or Riviera views, stunning though they may be, come close to how heart-achingly beautiful Logan is. He is rare amongst men, and certainly unprecedented to me.
He enjoys watching me play the tourist, grinning back at me, before he stands up and puts both of our champagne flutes back onto the dock. “Alright, well… I guess we should get moving,” he says, walking right up to the control deck. He starts flipping switches and pushing buttons and the boat comes to life beneath us.
I stare at him incredulously, my mouth open in surprise, and when he glances over his shoulder to check my reaction, he laughs jovially at what he sees.
“Surprise!”
“
What
?” I exclaim. “You can
drive
this thing?” When he quipped earlier about
the skipper needing to eat
, I assumed he was joking.
“I can, and I will be,” he nods, walking away from the controls, and opening a few side latches until he finds what he’s looking for. He hands me a couple of blankets. “It’s going to be cold on the open water,” he tells me.
I take them gratefully, wrapping them both around me, covering up my outfit, which is comprised of my favourite boots, my dark blue jeans, and one of Logan’s shirts.
“Are there, uh, any lifejackets? I ask tentatively, not wanting to insult his skipper skills.
He grins at me. “Of course, but you won’t need one.”
“If you say so.” I stand next to the controls and pretend to start pushing buttons and pulling leavers. “But
you
may need one,” I play with him.
“Can’t you keep your hands off of my goods?” he teases me right back, and I laugh out loud at his double entendre.
A few minutes later, the jetty shrinks behind us, as Logan points us out to sea. When we’re a good distance from the shore, he turns the steering wheel south. He seems proficient, though knowing so little about boating myself, I wouldn’t know if he weren’t. We’re still safely onboard after the first ten minutes, a good sign by all accounts, so after that I push any doubts to the back of my mind, reminding myself that Logan would never take me out like this if he weren’t sure of his own abilities.