“Tip your head back.” His voice rumbled pleasantly in her ears.
Then she felt the spray as he wetted her hair from root to tip. The water went off and she flinched when he put his hands to her head.
“I’ll be careful.”
Despite his assurance, she wasn’t able to bring her shoulders away from her ears until he began to massage her sore scalp with his talented fingers.
“Oh.” She groaned. “Oh, so good.”
There was no response, only the continued play of his fingers over her head and every now and then the added caress of his hands under the fall of her hair and along the base of her neck. She felt so safe, so cared for, so completely loved under his strong and sure attentions. She thought she really should tell him.
But she must have drifted off instead because next thing she knew she was sitting on his lap. He was pressing a towel to her skin here and there, blotting her dry.
She wondered, briefly, at feeling no shame at being completely naked while he was completely clothed. It felt deliciously erotic, actually, making her squirm against him. He said something. It didn’t register in her foggy mind, but it quieted her body.
She was lifted and turned, the comforting support of a mattress replacing the security of Dylan’s arms. Soft sheets were drawn up over her and tucked beneath her chin. Warm lips brushed her forehead.
“You can’t go,” she whimpered. “You’re supposed to sleep with me.”
“Morgan.” He let out an exasperated breath somewhere close to her head. “I have to make some calls.”
“Calls?” she wondered.
“Yes. I think the Tibbes would appreciate knowing where you are, and I thought I’d get in touch with Ken and let him know what’s going on with Philip. He can handle the arraignment and see about posting bail.”
“Oh, Dylan.” She wanted to tell him how much it meant to her, but she was so tired.
“I know, sweet.”
His words came from far away. Morgan finally gave in to the heavy fatigue, letting it draw her into sleep.
* * * *
Dylan poured himself a brandy after his brief phone conversations. Mrs. Tibbe had been entirely too pleased for his liking to hear he had brought Morgan home with him. Apparently he was the only one with any qualms about his suitability as a life partner for her.
He drained the glass while still holding the decanter and waited for the spreading burn in his throat and belly to abate before refilling the snifter. Then he set down the bottle, replacing the stopper, before carrying his glass to the small study at the back of the house.
Sitting at his desk, he toed off his loafers then leaned back, propping up his bare feet. Absently rolling the bulb of the glass between his hands to warm the liquid, he closed his eyes.
What had he done? He’d brought Morgan home, poured her a bath, undressed her, bathed her, told her he loved her and tucked her into bed. And every part of it had felt so goddamn right and good.
He felt a peace, like everything jagged and misshapen inside him had found its purpose and was renewed. The things he’d thought he’d have to surrender: a wife, a family, contentment—everything seemed possible now. And it was all because he’d finally succumbed to loving Morgan.
He brought the glass to his lips and, throwing back his head, emptied the contents into his mouth. He let the brandy bathe his tongue, enjoying the butterscotch undertones. He swallowed thoughtfully then placed the snifter on the desk top. Propping his elbows, He pressed his palms over his eyes.
Admitting he loved her also seemed to have restored his self-control. He’d held her naked, touched every inch of her skin and listened to her sighs of pleasure and still restrained himself. Even when she’d instinctually moved against his erection, he’d quieted her with a simple command. He’d been intrigued when she’d obeyed him reflexively, almost on a subconscious level. He grunted at the memory, excited to discover exactly how good it would be with her.
His eyes flew open and he sprang upright in his seat. What a fool! Didn’t he think his parents had been filled with the same kind of hope and self-delusion when they’d taken the vow, “‘Til death do us part?” What made him and Morgan any different? He was the same sexually charged and preoccupied creature his father had been. And she was as willing to forgive and full of love as his mother had ever been. How long before he snuffed out the light in her eyes like his father had snuffed out his mother’s? What had he done?
Dylan’s arm shot out in frustration, hurtling the empty glass beside him toward the bookshelf on the far wall. He turned his head to watch as the fine glass shattered against the spine of Dante’s Divine Comedy.
The seven circles of hell. How appropriate. Any further contemplation was made impossible by Morgan’s screams.
He took the stairs two at a time, bursting into the room to find Morgan fighting wildly beneath the covers. The more she struggled, the more tangled, and hysterical, she became.
“Morgan!” He went to her, stretching out beside her, subduing her body with his own. “Wake up, sweet. Wake up.”
He called to her even as she continued to fight beneath him. Her cries turned to sobs and then heartrending weeping.
“Wake up, sweet. Wake up.” He was begging her now.
Slowly, her eyes opened, her pupils darkening in recognition. “I couldn’t get away.”
“I know.”
“It hurt.” She looked at him, her brow creased with pain. “It still hurts.”
“Your back.” He rolled away from her.
Circling the bed, he snapped on the lamp on the side table then gently straightened the blankets and sheets over her.
“Better?” He bent to kiss a tear from her cheek. “I should probably have a look. All right?”
“Yes.” She hiccupped and started to turn onto her side but winced.
“Let me help.”
Taking her by the shoulders, he brought her to a sitting position.
“It looks fine.” He reported with relief. “There’s no bleeding.”
“But it hurts.”
“I’m an idiot. I should have given you your pain medication before you went to sleep.”
“No. No, I don’t want it. Dylan…”
But he was already on his way down to the garage. Grabbing his keys off the front hall table, he pressed the button to pop his trunk before he’d gotten to door. With the pharmacy bag in hand, he headed back upstairs. He had the bottle of pain relievers in his hand as he walked back into the bedroom.
“I don’t want to take anything.”
He stopped to look at her, the flat of one hand twisting the child-proof cap off the brown cylinder in his other.
“Don’t you remember what Dr. Stephans said? She told you not to be brave. You have to stay on top of it to manage the pain.”
“I know. But it’s not so bad. I’m sure it’s mostly from being tangled in the sheets.”
Ignoring her objections, he headed to the bathroom for a glass of water. He wasn’t about to let her experience another moment of pain if he could do something about it.
Back at her side, he held out the glass in one hand and two small, white pills in the other.
“Here,” he encouraged.
“I don’t like how they make me feel.”
“Morgan,” he warned.
“No.” She turned her head away from him like a small child.
Dylan brought his hands down to his sides, lowering his head and growling in frustration.
I can’t force her, can I? For a moment, he considered pressing the pills on her, but it seemed counterproductive. After all, he was trying to get her to take pain medication and a physical scuffle would hardly help the situation. I have to get her to want to take them. How can I convince her? What kind of incentive…
He looked at her, a smug smile stealing over his lips.
“Do you remember asking me to get in bed with you?”
“I remember asking you to sleep with me.” She didn’t face him
completely, instead considering him from the corners of her eyes beneath half-closed lids, a shy blush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks.
“I will get in bed with you,” he qualified, reoffering the items in his hands.
“This is blackmail, you know.” She reached up to take the things from him.
“Yes. I know.”
“Where are you going?” she asked when he stepped back from her.
“Getting out some pajamas.”
Her arm paused in its route to deliver the first tablet to her outstretched tongue. Dylan watched with a twinge of concern as she closed her mouth and lowered her hand to her lap.
“I never pictured you as the pajama type.”
“I’m not, normally. But I do keep some around for emergencies. Take your meds,” he tacked on casually as he went to the tallboy on the wall adjacent to the bathroom door.
“Pajama emergencies?” she persisted.
“Yeah, like the few occasions I’ve been flattened by the flu. And every now and then on a really cold night in January or February I might throw a pair on,” he explained as he pulled out one drawer after another.
Where the hell are they? He distinctly remembered finding them a month or so ago and thinking he should get rid of them since they’d never been used. A gift from a grateful client, they’d been relegated to a back corner.
“Oh. Are you not feeling well?”
“No, I feel fine,” he answered absently, his hand frantic for the feel of satin in the recesses of the bottom drawer.
“What’s the temperature outside?”
“I don’t know.” He paused in his search to look at her over his shoulder. “Why do you…Morgan,” he finished with exasperation, finally figuring out the purpose of her questions. He returned to his quest. “I am putting on pajamas before I get into bed with you.”
“No.”
“No?”
He straightened. She returned his glare, her hands suspiciously still in her lap.
“Not if you want me to take these.” She lifted an arm, opening her fist, palm-up, to reveal the pills she had yet to take. “Please, Dylan, undress.” Her voice became gentle, coaxing. “I want to feel your skin next to mine.”
“I don’t think you appreciate what you’re asking me to do.”
“I’m asking you to lay naked with me. I think you can handle it.”
“Well, you have a lot more faith in me than I do. I’m not the least bit sure I can simply lie there. I think one of us being dressed would be a good idea, an excellent idea, in fact.”
“I’m tired.” She closed her fingers over the disputed medication and let her hand drop. “Please get undressed and get in bed.”
He was dumbfounded. She continued to watch him, expectancy and exasperation fighting for control of her features. Like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen wheeler, every coherent thought and rational plan of action abandoned him.
“Here,” she offered, one pill held between her thumb and forefinger. “Take off your sweater and I’ll take this.”
With his brainwaves flat lining, his body took over, automatically responding to Morgan’s bargain. Muscles and limbs contracted and extended and his sweater was pulled over his head and tossed onto the chair by the dresser.
“Okay.” Without hesitation, she swallowed the pill. “And this one…” She held it up for him to see. “…when you’re lying next to me.”
Still in a surreal state of disassociation, his notoriously nimble fingers made quick work of his belt and zipper. His legs had him stepping out of his pants as his foot flicked them to the side. His hands were fisted in his undershirt, his crossed arms having reached his chest, when the sound of her soft panting served to resuscitate his debilitated intellect. He stopped in mid-strip.
“Would you mind not enjoying this quite so much?” he asked her through the white haze of his tee.
“But you’re so beautiful,” came her unguarded reply.
It was not the unbefitting words, but the solemn innocence with which they were said. There in his one hundred percent cotton cocoon, the reason for his extreme and uncharacteristic awkwardness became clear to him.
He was comfortable with his body and had bared himself unabashedly in front of, probably, too many women. None of them had ever looked at him like Morgan. She watched him, not with lurid curiosity or sexual anticipation, but with a reverential respect bordering on awe. He couldn’t make sense of it.
He finished removing his shirt and looked to her. For the first time, he experienced his own sensuality as it was reflected back to him in the eyes of someone who loved him.
Morgan loved him.
A heavy calm settled over him. With slow deliberation he slid the last barrier between his body and her regard to the floor. Her small gasp only made him smile.
He stood there for her. After a time she pulled the covers back on the side of the bed nearest to him. Before joining her, though, he walked across the room to shut off the light.
He’d never been so aware of the fluid flow of his muscles beneath his skin. Morgan stared openly, following his progress. He stayed his hand on the switch, dipping his chin to his chest, and flattening his other hand to the wall in surrender to the intensity of the experience. He felt her gaze as it ran over his shoulders, along his spine, and dropped to his bottom.
He was trying to stifle his moan when he heard hers. Lifting his head and giving up a silent prayer for strength, he shut the light off with a flick of his finger.
He settled in beside her, his head propped in his hand while he watched her take the second tablet and place the empty water glass on the bedside table. She slid down under the covers, molding her warm, soft length to him. Bending her arms between them, she tangled her fingertips with the hair on his chest. She put her lips, briefly, to the spot below his Adam’s apple then nestled her head beneath his chin.
“Thank you for this,” she whispered against him.
“Thank you for taking the medicine,” he countered, straightening his arm and lowering his head to rest on his bicep.
“There’s something I was supposed to tell you,” she murmured sleepily.
“What, sweet?”
“What?” she questioned him, snuggling closer.
“You said there was something you needed to tell me.”
“You’re very warm.” She pressed her palms against him. “Did you know that?”
“Morgan.” He tried to look down at her, to focus her attention, but she had her face pressed against him.
“Mmm, this medicine isn’t so bad. The throbbing’s stopped.”
“I’m glad. But, sweet,” he tried again. “What did you need to tell me…Morgan?”
The steady, quite rhythm of her breathing was her reply. He would have to wait until morning. Her slumbering weight soothed him, and Dylan laid his cheek on Morgan’s hair then closed his eyes.
Chapter 15
Morgan came awake slowly, something tickling her nose. When she became aware it was the hair on Dylan’s chest, a smile stole across her face. She leisurely took stock of her position.
Her head tucked beneath his chin, she was lying on her stomach. She felt the weight of his arm draped over her back and couldn’t resist rolling her bottom against the hand he had cupped over one cheek. She had a leg slung low over his hips and an arm curved over his muscled abdomen. Her body had assuredly asserted what her mind continued to struggle to accept: Dylan Drumlin was hers.
Shifting slightly, she lifted her head to look at him. He was deeply asleep. Tentatively, she put her lips to his. There was no response except a curious stirring beneath the inner thigh she had across his body. Ever so lightly, she ran her tongue over his bottom lip. His mouth came open in an unconscious invitation and the quickening beneath her leg was no longer a mystery. He was becoming aroused.
She felt a thrill of power. Desire came to her, hot and wet and insistent, making her want to move over him in a blind frenzy. Squeezing her
eyes shut, she tamped down the impulse. She wasn’t about to waste such a unique opportunity.
Slowly, she repositioned her leg. Her breath caught in her throat when he moved beneath her. Helpfully, he angled his leg and unwittingly opened himself to her. Watching him carefully, she moved until her knee was snug against the interestingly fringed and yielding bulge of his scrotum. His brows came together as if he was trying to figure something out. She held her place until his features relaxed, her pulse pounding in her ears and the palms of her hands becoming damp.
She put her head back on his chest, willing herself to relax while listening to the steady beat of his heart. She took in the length of his sculpted body. His skin looked so much darker against her fair complexion. Everywhere they touched, she felt his warmth. It made her want to cover his body with her own and draw in his heat. His erection angled away from the firm plain of his stomach. It looked exposed and vulnerable. She was anxious to have it tight in her fingers once more, but there was something else she wanted to do first.
She angled her head and her lips brushed Dylan’s nipple. She felt a low growl echo within his chest. She smiled then kissed the tightening bump. He moaned and shifted under her. She knew she didn’t have much longer to enjoy unfettered access. With gentle suction, she drew his nipple into her mouth while she skimmed her hand over the length of his body before curling her fingers around the hard length of him, settling her thumb daringly and possessively into the slit at the very top.
He didn’t move or make a sound, but she knew he was wide awake. She continued to suck and nip at him, her hand still but applying a steady pressure, waiting for his inevitable reaction. For several intensely charged moments, there was no response aside from the sound of his harsh breathing and the feel of winding tension in his muscles. She began to fear she’d gone too far.
“Look at me.”
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