Exiled (A Madame X Novel) by Jasinda Wilder Page A

want to go. I don’t want to sit through a dinner and an opera. I want Logan. I want him to finish what he started.
    There’s a long black limousine waiting, a driver at the open passenger door.
    Logan waits while I lower myself in, and then he’s beside me.
    I lean close, whisper in his ear. “Logan. I’m not wearing any panties.”
    He nips at my earlobe. “I know.”
    “I don’t like it.”
    “You will.”
    “I haven’t done my hair.”
    “Don’t need to.”
    “I don’t have any makeup.”
    He hands me the case, unzips it. My makeup, all of it, including my compact mirror. “Gotcha covered. Anything else?”
    I take a moment. Breathe. Focus on applying makeup, just a little. Lipstick, blush, mascara. Check it in the mirror, and then close the leather case, set it aside. Breathe in silence for—I don’t know how long, trying to gather myself.
    “You stopped,” I say, at last.
    He checks that the privacy glass is in place, and then turns to me. Faces me. Leans against me. Presses his face into my cleavage and inhales. Tugs the straps of the dress off my shoulder, pulls the bodice down to bare my breasts.
    “Logan!”
    “Keep quiet, Isabel.”
    His fingers slide into the slit of the dress at my thigh, steal inward.
    God, here?
    Oh God.
    I slide lower in the seat, spread my legs. I want it. I don’t care. I can’t think of anything but the orgasm I almost had, of getting there.
    There’s no toying, no hesitation. He slides his finger into me, and I gasp.
    “Hush, baby.” His breath is warm on my nipple. “No sounds.”
    I bite down on my lip until it hurts.
    He nibbles at my nipple with sharp teeth. Slides his lips over it. Tugs. Licks. It’s already hard and standing tall, but every lick and touch of his teeth and tongue make my nipple harder, more erect. Until it aches. And then he moves to the other, and works it the same way. And all the while, his fingers are busy. Sliding in and out, pressing against my clit, circling, pinching, sliding in.
    Lips, fingers, breath.
    They are my world, Logan’s lips, Logan’s fingers, Logan’s breath.
    When I come, I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, and Logan kisses me, swallows my whimper and licks at my lip, soothing the hurt. But his fingers continue to circle my clit as I come, working me harder, faster, bringing my climax higher, pushing me to heights of wildness that leave me breathless, that leave me aching and limp.
    And then he withdraws his fingers from my core, lifts them, dripping my essence, to his mouth. Licks them clean.
    “Better?” he asks.
    I can only gasp against his tuxedo coat, smelling his cologne and the faint acridity of cigarettes, the tang of cinnamon gum.
    Logan scent.
    But I am still afraid of this night. Being out, with Logan, in public. Not just to a movie or a little diner. Something . . .
public
.
    On his arm. There will be pictures, probably.
    I’m not wearing any underwear.
    I’ve just had an orgasm, so I’m flushed and breathless and feeling on edge, wild, rife with lust.
    I’m scared witless.
    But I feel beautiful, because Logan’s touch always does that. Makes me feel needed. Wanted. Beautiful. Even when he doesn’t say a word.
    He adjusts my dress so I’m covered.
    There is silence, then, in which I attempt to quiet my nerves.
    The limo pulls to a stop, and there is a moment of waiting as the driver exits and circles, opens the door. Logan rises up out of the limousine elegantly, easily. Extends a hand to me, lifts me out. A black awning, doormen in uniforms with brass buttons on their coats stand to either side of the doorway. I adjust the drape of my dress, feeling the soft swish of the fabric against my backside, against my bare, still-tingling core. I feel as if everyone who sees me will know I’m not wearing anything under the dress. I even glance down at myself, but . . . it isn’t as obvious as it feels to me.
    Logan threads his fingers through mine, pulls me closer to his body, so I’m