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The door closed behind me as he called out the time. I figured I had
twenty-two minutes to ask him about it.
After grabbing my stuff, I went through the always-but-actually-neverlocked
door and into his suite. His laptop was open on his desk, with a big
clock on the screen counting down to something. The room smelled like
him, and I smiled, allowing myself to enjoy it for a moment before running
a bath.
The water was delightfully scalding and the tub was heated to maintain
the temperature and agitate the water so the bubbles stayed bubbly. Fucking
rich people really knew how to live.
Logan came in and sat on the edge of the tub just as the pads of my
fingers were wrinkling. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah. Just a good art day.”
“Ah.” He laid his hand on my knee. “You going to show me?”
“Nope.” I sucked in a breath when his touch inside my thigh went
below the water.
“Why not?”
He opened my legs, and the rush of hot water on my folds made me
gasp.
“It’s not ready. I have to protect it.”
“But I’m your husband.” His fingers found another kind of wetness.
“You’re safe with me.”
“Am I?”
“Probably not.”
When he pushed inside me, I slid down the tub, resting my head on the
porcelain with my knees up, groaning his name.
“Star,” he said, thumb circling my clit, “I’ve wanted you all day.”
“I’m already naked.”
He got off the edge and kneeled at the side of the bath. His arm was so
deep in the water, his rolled cuffs were soaked. Bubbles rested in the ridge
of the fold, and I was watching them pop when he took his fingers out of
me and—leaving his thumb on my clit—pushed deeper.
“Get—” The sentence ended in a gasp as he increased the pressure.