Has your sexual activity ever caused problems for your family?
Even when you’re in a relationship, do you still masturbate two or three times a day?
There were dozens and dozens more questions, but I stopped there. I was confident that I was most definitely not a sex addict. Who knows? Maybe I was just a normal woman with healthy sexual urges.
Munching on my pretzels, I liked that thought. Curiosity drove me to keep searching, and this time I Googled sex drive. The first article I read stated that the majority of Americans in their late twenties and early thirties have sex with their partner two to three times per week. There were tons more articles, all stating the same thing. Interesting. I was pretty sure Logan and I might have sex two to three times per day if we could.
That put a huge smile on my face.
I was biting down on another pretzel in fascination when I heard the lock. The sound caused my heartbeat to step up.
Slowly, the door opened.
My eyes were glued to it and then glued to him the minute he stepped through it. He paused in the doorway. Right away the air felt thick—just the way I seemed to like it as of late.
I licked the salt off my lips and stared at him. When he flew out of the bedroom this morning, he left so fast, all I saw was a flash of gray. Now, I could see him, really see him, and he looked edible in the designer suit he had on. And the tie loose around his neck with the first few buttons of his white shirt open only made him look even sexier.
I was becoming obsessed with this man.
Was obsession one of the questions in any of the quizzes I’d looked at, I wondered?
If so, I didn’t care. I wanted this man. And that had to be a normal, healthy, and happy reaction.
Logan looked over at me—his eyes on me like they had never been. “Hey.” His voice was smooth like honey.
Something fluttered in my belly—butterflies? No. I was a grown woman. I didn’t get butterflies. Yet they felt an awful lot like them. “Hi,” I said back. “How was work?”
“I spent the day at the waterfront,” he said, striding toward me, tugging his tie off as he walked.
My pulse raced. “Why were you at the waterfront?”
I breathed him in. I hadn’t realized it, but I think I might have missed him.
Logan moved my computer aside and bent to brush his lips against mine. “I’ll tell you later.”
I accepted his answer—for now.
His mouth felt warm above mine, and I closed my eyes, reminding myself this was only supposed to be about the fucking. And it was normal.
He pulled away and smiled at me. The way he was looking at me made my skin tingle.
That was when I knew I was lying to myself—this was about more than just the fucking.
I was falling for him.
“What are you reading?” He nodded his head toward my computer.
I quickly moved to slam the screen down, but he was faster. He grabbed it and sat beside me. With a wiggle of his brows he read the name of the article I had been reading: “Sex Drive: How Do Men and Women Compare?”
“Give me that,” I said, reaching for the laptop.
With a boyish grin that melted me, he shook his head. “You’re looking at porn.”
“Please,” I said rather haughtily. “I am not looking at porn. I’m doing research.”
“Number one,” he said. “Men think about sex more. Number two,” he went on. “Two-thirds of men admit to masturbating three to four times a week.” He chuckled at that.
The thought of watching him do it seemed highly erotic. “Do you?”
He sat back and ran his fingers through his hair and grinned. “Well, yeah, sometimes.”
“The answers to that question are either ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ not ‘sometimes.’”
His coyness was adorable. “I don’t really count how many times. Do you . . . masturbate three to four times a week?”
“Next question,” I said, feeling oddly embarrassed by that one. It wasn’t that I was immature; it was just that my reasons for masturbating in the past weren’t the same as Logan’s, and admitting that wasn’t something I was proud of.
His laugh was low. “It’s okay if you do. In fact, I wouldn’t mind watching you sometime.”
Suddenly it felt like 1,000 degrees in the room. The thought of that turned me on as much as the thought of watching him pleasure himself.
He laughed again, and it was low, and growly, and deep. “Number three.” He cleared his throat as if trying to ward off the laughter. “Sex drive increases with exploration.” There were a couple of clicks and then he turned the screen toward me. “Wow, look at that.”
My hands moved instinctively to cover my face. I wasn’t really feeling embarrassed, though, so I peeked through my fingers and saw he had clicked a link to demonstrate various unusual sexual positions. Dropping my cover, I commented, “Kinky.”
His grin widened and he pointed to a picture. “We’ve done this,” he scrolled down, “and this,” he scrolled some more, “and I think this. Oh, we should try this one.”
Rising on my knees, I leaned over and snatched the computer, closed the top, and set it on the table. I was really close to him. Really, really close.
He breathed in deeply and when he turned his head, his lips grazed my throat.
Heat flooded me.
“You smell so good.” Logan’s voice was hoarser than it had just been, the playfulness replaced with something more lustful.
“It’s lavender,” I told him, my voice husky too.
He breathed me in again. “I really like it,” he said, and dragged his tongue up my throat to my mouth. His lips felt so soft against my skin, his tongue so wet. He was easing me closer now and I was putty in his hands.
The fabric of my simple white blouse seemed to come alive as soon as his body covered mine. My nipples tightened and strained against it. The denim of my jeans also seemed to give way as my knees got weak with his legs between mine.
As soon as I felt his erection straining through the fine fabric of his pants, instant arousal spread through me like a wildfire out of control.
His tongue flicked my lips. “You taste good, too.”
“Pretzels,” I said, a little breathy.
Our mouths parted and the onslaught of needing to be closer, needing to consume each other, took over.
His tongue stroked mine.
I stroked his back.
Wet, wild, pleasure. That’s what I felt with his mouth on mine.
The kiss broke and left us both breathing hard.
He lifted a little to look down at me. “I know you have a lot going on in that mind of yours, but Elle, you don’t need to try to categorize yourself as asexual, sexual, or anything else.”
“You don’t understand,” I said and then leaned forward, my mouth seeking his. When I reached it, I found it closed to me. I felt a little disappointed.
Did seeing me reading that article worry him?
Logan’s eyes glittered green with small flecks of brown. “Let me finish.”
I blinked my stupid fears away and smiled at him. “Go on.”
He sat up.
I gathered myself together and sat up too.
He looked at me. “I don’t care what you were or thought you were. All that matters is what we are—together. And that is pretty great.”
“Do you really think so?’
He tilted his head to the side. “I’m pretty certain you know I do.”
We looked into each other’s eyes for a long silent moment.
“I don’t know why it matters to me. My whole life I’ve tried to figure myself out and just when I thought I had, whatever this is between us happened and I feel like I have to go back to the drawing board and figure myself out all over again.”
“Then let me help you.”
I gave him a huff of laughter. “I think I am.”
He wasn’t laughing. “You said this thing between us was just about the fucking. What if I told you I thought it was more?”
There was a feeling of ease with Logan. One where the truth was the only thing that needed to be spoken. No games. No beating around the bush. “I’d say I think it is too.”
“So can we agree to figure out what we are—together? Because I have to admit, this is all new to me too.”