by Naima Simone
Jesus. The taste of her. Sultry. Sweet. Like ripe, delicious fruit. He entwined his tongue around hers, licked the roof of her mouth, drawing on more of her flavor. Burying his other hand in her hair, he fisted the strands and tilted her head to the side and dove deeper. Demanding she give him what he needed, wanted. Not that she was holding back. She opened wide for him, meeting him thrust for thrust, lick for lick, suck for suck, groan for groan. Her fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, and she rose on her toes, grinding her mouth to his.
The kiss was wild, a little messy, a lot raw, carnal. Addictive. And not enough.
He lowered a hand from her neck to her ass, cupping the curves he’d been admiring and fantasizing about for over two damn weeks. Even through her tight skirt, she filled his palm, and damn, she was perfect. Squeezing her ass, he moaned, grinding his cock against her lower belly. Still not enough.
With a growl, he dropped his hands to her thighs and clutched the hem of her skirt. He worked the material up her legs, gathering it in his fists. Oh Christ. The more skin he revealed, the more he hardened. The more he needed. Smooth, golden, fucking lickable. And goddamn, did he want to lick. With hands that were probably rougher than he intended, he gripped her hips and hiked her onto the desk. The skirt bunched around her upper thighs, but still not high enough that he could get her to spread those endless legs.
And more than his next breath, he needed into that soft flesh between her thighs…
A loud rap sounded on his office door, penetrating the lust-soaked haze that fogged his brain. With a will he didn’t know he possessed, he dragged his mouth from hers. Lungs working overtime, he stared down into her passion-glazed eyes and swollen mouth, nude of the red lipstick that had taunted him like a flag with a bull. His throbbing cock and flexing hand called him all kinds of asshole as he stepped back, depriving them of close contact with this woman.
Their harsh breath peppered the silence, and slowly, the arousal cleared from her gaze, a stunned but sharp awareness creeping into them.
The knock reverberated in the room again, more insistent.
Morgan shifted backward, stumbling a little as her hip hit the edge of the desk. She steadied herself against the furniture, never removing her guarded contemplation from him. They were even. He couldn’t rip his off of her, either. Not when color flagged her cheekbones, her lips parted around her low pants, and her eyes remained dark with need.
“I-I’ll get that,” she murmured. Then, after another long instant, she turned and crossed to the office door.
Not if his next breath depended on it could he have prevented his scrutiny from lowering to the flesh he’d cupped and shaped only moments ago. He could still feel the imprint of it on his hand. He curled his fingers into his palm, capturing the sensation or trying to blot it out…he didn’t know. Didn’t want to analyze it.
He didn’t move from his spot as she opened the door and revealed Kim on the other side, hand raised and obviously poised to knock again.
“Oh, hi,” she said, lowering her arm, her curious gaze moving from her to him, then back to her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I…”
“You didn’t.” His paralysis broke, and he returned to his office chair, lowering into it. Hoping like hell his sister hadn’t spotted the erection trying to blast a hole through the front of his pants.
“I’ll just let you two have quality time, then.” Morgan stepped back and let Kim enter the office before she exited without a good-bye or backward glance at him. Good. Given the hunger still clawing at his gut, he didn’t know if he wouldn’t have pushed Kim out and yanked Morgan back in to finish what his sister had disrupted.
“Um.” Kim tossed a look over her shoulder at the closed door before she faced him again, a grin tugging at one corner of her mouth. “I have to say…I’m really liking that particular shade of red on you.”
Shit. He rubbed his fingers over his lips and peered at the crimson streaks that tinged the tips. Snatching a tissue out of the box on his desktop, he wiped his mouth and the area around it clean.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you two are getting along?” Kim drawled, crossing her arms.
Getting along?
Was that a euphemism for a kiss that had him rock hard and aching?
If so, then yes. They were getting along.
Famously.
Chapter Eight
“Wow,” Morgan whispered.
She stared up at the towering, Upper West Side building that had the nerve to be labeled a townhome. Against the backdrop of the dark, cloudy November sky, the stone structure soared like a glowering sentinel. Warm, golden light shining from the large, arched windows, along with decorative wreaths, helped to soften the imposing exterior.
If not for being minutes away from joining a dinner party where she would meet Alex’s father for the first time, she might have enjoyed spending a Saturday night exploring the place.
“You grew up here?” she asked the silent man beside her. She couldn’t help comparing the man with the building. Both commanding but with a stony reserve that could be daunting.
“Yes,” Alex said after a few moments. “Every generation for the last 130 years has. It was built twenty years after the Civil War and has been in our family ever since. The male heir inherits it after he marries and begins his family.”
“So when you marry, you would move here with your wife?”
“No.” The answer was abrupt, stark. Final. And didn’t invite more questions.
That had never stopped her before.
“Why not? Isn’t it tradition?” she pressed.
She didn’t miss the tick along his jaw, but when he cupped her elbow and guided her up the front steps, his touch was gentle. Okay. So he wasn’t going to answer—
“Tradition doesn’t make a home.” The explanation, though short and given in the same flat tone, might as well have been a dissertation. She understood what he meant. Tradition didn’t kiss you on the forehead and tuck you in at night. Tradition didn’t laugh or hold you while you cried over your first heartbreak. Even after her father died, at least she’d had her sister. While she hadn’t heard details of Alex’s childhood, she could only guess what environment had nurtured—or hadn’t nurtured—a boy who had grown to be a man who kept most people at arm’s length. A man she’d yet to see smile. Or laugh.
What would he look like with those smoky eyes bright with humor? What did his laughter sound like? A roll of booming thunder? A low rumble? He was already gorgeous with his stoicism.
Lines crinkling the corners of his eyes, those sensual lips curved in amusement?
Devastating.
Maybe she should be careful what she wished for.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his fingers lightly squeezing her elbow.
She inhaled, blew the breath out. “I was born ready.” The boast sounded cocky, but it belied the butterflies that were playing kickball with her organs. They were about to face their most important hurdle as an “engaged” couple. Everything hinged on this meeting. His assuming reins of Bishop Enterprises. The Phoenix House. “Let’s do it.”
They stepped into the recessed doorway, and he pressed a doorbell next to the glass front entrance. Seconds later a black-suited, older man appeared, unlocking the door and ushering them inside. Morgan couldn’t contain her awe as they went in the cavernous entryway. It wouldn’t have been out of place in a Catholic church. Oak flooring, stone mantels, antique furniture… It all stole her breath.
“This is…amazing,” she murmured. “How many rooms are there?”
“Fourteen. Six floors including the roof terrace. Five bedrooms, eight bathrooms, two dining rooms, a library, gym, and media room.” He recited the layout of the townhome by rote as if unimpressed by its grandiosity. Maybe he was. Growing up here had probably immunized him to this kind of wealth.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” the butler greeted.
“You, too, Tom.” Alex’s hand slid f
rom her elbow to the middle of her spine. “I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Morgan Lett. Morgan, this is Thomas Boston, our family butler and, at more than a few times, my disciplinarian.”
She tried to imagine the older gentleman who had only a couple of inches on her manhandling the giant next to her. More difficult than that was picturing even a younger Alex misbehaving enough to earn boxed ears. If that mischievous boy had existed, very little of him remained in the man today.
She extended her hand toward the older man. “You’re named after my favorite city, Tom, so that already makes us fast friends.”
Smiling, Tom shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.” Releasing her, he swept an arm toward an oak, elegant staircase. “Everyone’s gathered in the formal living room.”
“Thanks. We’ll go up in just a minute,” Alex said.
Tom nodded and headed down the hallway toward the back of the house.
“Are you ready?” he repeated his question from moments earlier, grasping her shoulders and turning her to face him. “It isn’t too late to back out, Morgan. But once we walk up those stairs, there’s no going back.” His silver gaze roamed her face as if searching for any sign of indecision.
“I’m ready. And I’m in.” Inhaling, she lifted an arm and closed her fingers around his hand on her shoulder. “Now… Let’s go get our fake engagement on.”
He studied her an instant longer, and maybe she imagined it, but she caught a glimmer of admiration and—gasp—humor in his eyes. Yes, she definitely must’ve conjured the glimmer.
“Okay.” But he didn’t move. Didn’t release her shoulder or shake free of her hand. “Thank you, Morgan,” he murmured.
Pleasure trickled through her like a watery beam of sunshine. It left her warm…and uncomfortable. She and Alex shared a grudging respect, a tenuous working association. Pleasure didn’t factor into their relationship.
Oh, but didn’t it?
Before she could shush that traitorous voice up, pictures from Monday evening skipped through her mind. With one thrust of his tongue, one nibble of his teeth, one rumbling moan, he’d twisted her inside out, sent her reeling. Even now, her lips tingled with the phantom press of his mouth to hers. Who knew that when someone so bottled up just barely released his constraints to indulge in a kiss, he burned?
There had to have been a time in her past that she’d bitten off more than she could chew. But right now, nothing as colossal as asking for that kiss came to mind.
This charade might call for the PDA expected of a couple, but they couldn’t take it any further than that. She couldn’t allow it to go any further.
Alex—he could shake her to her foundation with a kiss and walk away unscathed. But her? Scorch marks and charring were surely in her future if she didn’t keep her emotional distance. Troy had taught her well about becoming invested in a man who didn’t return the same passion and feelings.
She’d made a mistake.
She wouldn’t again.
“Thank me after you’re seated in the CEO chair.” She dipped her head toward the staircase. “Let’s go. I have a future father-in-law to impress.”
Nodding, he released her and led the way up the steps. As they cleared the landing, the low drone of voices and higher-pitched laughter reached them. She’d been in circumstances like these hundreds of times over the years, but she’d never experienced nerves that had her belly fluttering like hummingbird wings.
She could do this. The women…they were counting on her to do this.
He needs you, too.
Either she learned how to shut that bitch in her head up, or a lobotomy was going on the Christmas list.
They treaded down a hallway and soon paused in the doorway of a huge, opulently appointed room that contained about thirty people, and yet still didn’t appear crowded.
A tall, dark-haired man broke away from a small circle near the fireplace and approached them, a wide smile lighting his face.
Huh. So that’s what Alex would look like if he smiled.
Alex’s father.
He couldn’t be anyone else. Not with that face with its sharp cheekbones and solid jaw. Not with the same bottom lip-heavy mouth.
Not with those stunning grey eyes.
Malcolm Bishop stretched his arms out in welcome, and she couldn’t help but admire his showmanship. Every eye in the room was on them.
“Alex,” he greeted, clapping his hands around his son’s upper arms. “About time you arrived. I’ve been eager to meet my future daughter-in-law.”
Malcolm turned that beaming smile on her, and she didn’t have any more time to wonder when Alex had informed his father about her or what his reaction had been.
“Welcome, Morgan.” He clasped her hands in between his and brushed a kiss over her cheek. “Alex has spoken so highly of you. I’ve been excited to meet you. I was certain you couldn’t be as perfect as he described. But now I see, if anything, he wasn’t effusive enough. You’re gorgeous.”
She tried not to wince under the flattery. No one could ever doubt Malcolm Bishop’s charisma.
“Thank you.” She looped her arm through Alex’s and cuddled against his side. Tipping her head back, she smiled up at him. “I see where Alex gets his looks and charm from.” She patted his chest. “Well, looks anyway. We’re working on the charm, aren’t we, pumpkin?”
Malcolm arched a dark eyebrow. “Pumpkin?”
“Morgan,” Alex warned.
“What?” She blinked. “I told you I love you regardless. Although, I must admit. The growly thing has grown on me.”
“Behave yourself,” he murmured, his hand lowering to her hip and squeezing. This time, she didn’t have to hide the shiver that worked through her. One that Alex probably believed was for show. Good.
Malcolm glanced from her to his son, and back to her. Then back to his son. “I can’t wait to hear the story of how you two met,” he said, a half smile lifting the corner of his mouth, though his gaze narrowed on Alex’s face.
“Eh.” She flicked a hand. “Just your average story of insta-love. You know, girl sees guy across a crowded room, girl asks friend who the scowl-y hottie is, girl relentlessly hunts him down until he caves and admits he loves her forever.”
“I gave in. It seemed the easiest course of action,” Alex drawled.
Gasping, she splayed her fingers over her chest. “You made a joke,” she whispered, teasing him, and yet…not. “I’m starting to rub off on you.” Rising on the toes of her heels, she pressed her lips to his jaw.
Leaning down, he nuzzled her hair above her ear. To his father and any other onlooker, the gesture probably appeared affectionate. The “Like a virus,” he murmured in her ear? Not so much.
Still, when she grinned as if he’d just shared the most romantic thing ever with her, not all the delight was for show. Alex. Had. Made A. Joke.
Wow.
“Hey, you two.” Both she and Alex turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Kim stood to the side, a glass of wine in her hand and a slightly strained smile on her face. Joy at a familiar face—and ally in this bunch—warmed her like a friendly embrace. Yes, Kim was Alex’s sister, but Morgan really liked the other woman. Too bad she wasn’t “marrying” Kim instead of her brother.
“When did you get here?” Alex asked, momentarily releasing Morgan to slide an arm around his sister and hug her to his side, brushing a kiss over her cheek. “And where’s Matt?”
At the mention of her husband’s name, something flickered in Kim’s grey eyes, but it disappeared in the next instant. But not quickly enough. Huh. Morgan had never met the football player signed with the Miami Dolphins, but even with the distance, she’d assumed Kim had a happy marriage. That quickly concealed emotion in her gaze, though? It hinted that all might not be so happy.
“He couldn’t get away,” she explained, voice as flat and smooth as glass. “I haven’t been here too long. Maybe twenty minutes.”
“It really wasn’t necessary for you to t
ravel the distance from Boston, Kimberly,” Malcolm said, motioning to a server bearing a tray of tall, slim glasses filled with the same pale gold champagne Kim drank. He selected two glasses, handing them to Morgan and Alex, then accepting one for himself. He sipped the alcohol, his gaze leveled on his daughter. Though from the chilly manner in which he’d addressed her, she could’ve been a guest. An unwanted guest. “This is just a small dinner party for friends…and family.”
Oh damn.
The shot hadn’t even been directed at her, but it struck her right in the chest. Propelled the breath from her lungs on a pained gust she barely managed to trap. Beside her, Alex stiffened, then tensed, as if two seconds from pouncing on his father in a roomful of guests.
But, Kim… Jesus. Kim’s reaction nearly tore Morgan’s heart from her chest. Because there wasn’t one. Nothing. Not a flinch, a gasp, or sharp comeback.
The lack of reaction saddened her as much as if Kim had stormed away. Maybe saddened her more. Because it declared that she was accustomed to his attitude toward her. And accepted it.
“Are you fucking kid—” Alex snapped, leaning toward his father, a cold, furious mask tightening his features.
But before he could finish, Morgan grabbed his arm, squeezed. Leaving Alex’s side, she crossed the few inches separating her and Kim, and slipped her arm around the other woman’s waist.
“Of course she had to come,” Morgan said, pouring so much sugar into the tone, all of them should have cavities. “She’s not just my future sister-in-law and friend, but my maid of honor. How can I not include her in the festivities?” She cocked her head to the side, wincing. “Sorry to pop the question on you like that, Kimmy. I meant to ask you with roses, wine, and lotsa begging a little later. But now is as good a time as any. Will you be my maid of honor?”
A grin tugged at Kim’s mouth, and some of that emptiness in her eyes faded. “Of course, bestie,” she agreed.
She bumped Kim’s hip with her own, laughing, then turning her smile on Malcolm, as if unaware of the effect publicly claiming Kim as family and Malcolm’s daughter wreaked on the room. The chatter dipped significantly, and she didn’t give a hot damn. He and these so-called friends might not recognize Kim, but fuck if she wasn’t going to.