Page 41 of Winter’s Fire

As had her research. For all his gruff abrasiveness, Logan was an honourable man—he wouldn’t harm her. Lucy lined her hand up with his, thumb to thumb, fingers to fingers. A moment or two ago, that hand had been poised to make her climax in public. His forefinger was still damp with her juices.

“Hell, Lucy.”

She kissed him as she guided his hand beneath her excuse for a skirt. “Do it,” she whispered, her lips moving against his cheek as she nestled closer.

“How about if we make it a game?” he whispered back. “I’m going to make you come, but it’s our secret. No noise, no physical reaction. Only we know. You up for it?”

Lucy chuckled, and wiggled her hips against the telltale bulge next to her thigh. “Feels like you’re already up for it, Sir.”

“Cheeky.” His hand in her hair pulled her head back and lined her mouth up for another bruiser of a kiss that sent shockwaves all the way to her toes. “You want to repeat that when we get home?”

Before she could process more than the connection between home and Logan, the forefinger on his other hand slipped between her folds, and stroked lazy, maddening circles around her clit. Her body reacted instantly, as if she hadn’t already come half a dozen times just a couple of hours earlier.

“Remember, princess—not a move or a murmur. Hold onto me if you need to.”

She needed to, even if she didn’t need to. Besides, the man didn’t play fair, but she wasn’t about to complain about it, not when the trade-off was orgasms that blew her apart. Lucy linked her arms around his neck and manoeuvred close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Do your worst, Sir.”

He didn’t look at her, but the crease in his cheek told her he was smiling. “You sure about that?”

Unless she gave him her safeword, he was going to do it whether she was sure or not. She answered the question anyway.

“I’m sure, Sir.”

~~*~~

“Moll’s here.”

Lucy stirred. Time to resume her battle against the sex-sated lethargy that had stolen over her after her last covert orgasm in Logan’s arms. As far as she’d been able to establish, no one in their immediate vicinity had been even remotely aware of his skilled demonstration of how to make a woman without an exhibitionist gene in her body climax in public.

By the time she’d enjoyed her third orgasm in twenty minutes, she was beyond caring about anything, up to and including a zombie apocalypse.

She detached herself from Logan’s chest long enough to look up and frown. Did multiple orgasms induce hallucinations? She could have sworn Logan had said something about his friend arriving, but the only person approaching them was a tall, well-built, walking explosion of scorching masculinity.

Like so many of the male club members, he sported a haircut that screamed military, and a body that rippled with lean, hard muscle, enhanced by a scattering of dark hair and the crisp lines of a discreet selection of tattoos. What he also had that she hadn’t noticed on any other men—not that she’d been particularly looking—were pierced nipples. After an initial, sympathetic wince, Lucy found the sight surprisingly erotic.

She also recognised him from the photo in Logan’s bedroom, and like Logan, he looked older, jaded by what he’d witnessed and had to do in the name of duty.

“He’s Moll?”

“Sure is.”

“I was expecting a woman.”

Logan chuckled. “You’ve heard of the song Molly Malone, right?”

“Of course.” Who hadn’t? She remembered the song from music lessons at school.

“His full name’s Sean Malone. Sean Malone—Molly Malone.”

“And ‘Moll’ for short.”

“You’ve got it.”

Lucy glanced at his wrist, only to be served another helping of confusion. “That’s funny. He looks like a Dom, but he’s not wearing the right colour wristband.”

“That’s where you’re wrong—it’s the right colour for Moll.”