by Wicked Ties
Morgan thought about self-pleasuring again, but refrained. She didn’t want to be caught again. The mortification had nearly killed her once, but twice in one day . . . She grimaced. Still, she might have risked it if she had believed it would douse the fire raging inside her.
But the fire was one she feared only Jack could put out.
A knock at the cottage’s front door startled Morgan. She whirled to the clock on the little cypress bedside table. Nearly four-thirty in the afternoon.
Jack tore open the door to his hiding place and streaked down the hall. On his way past, he cast a heated glance into the bedroom, right at her, a glance that said he remembered every kiss, every touch between them—and that as far as he was concerned, they weren’t done. A quick glance down his muscled chest covered in a tight black T-shirt, past those six-pack abs . . . Oh, hell. He was hard. There was no mistaking that bulge.
Need slammed into her belly. Her gaze flew back to his.
“We’ll talk later.”
About sex. He didn’t speak it, but the words hung in the air.
“I have nothing to say,” she protested automatically.
Talking about sex would only make her want to have it with Jack again. Bad idea. Already, she was more fixated on him than was smart, more than she’d ever been on a man—even the one she’d agreed to marry once upon a time. She just needed to evade this stalker, figure out who it was, and get back to her job and the sanity of her life in L.A.
“We have plenty to discuss. Now come meet my grandfather.”
Morgan crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to budge.
Any satisfaction she got out of watching Jack grind his teeth came to a halt when he stalked across the room, his intent to grab her and drag her to the door written all over his face. If he touched her, she would only want him more. The scalding desire inside her was already too hot, too dangerous. And it made her so angry she could spit.
“Don’t touch me.” She jerked away from him. “I can walk on my own.”
“Then get your pretty ass moving before I paddle it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”
He snorted. “Wanna try me?”
No. No, she didn’t. His hard determination to lift her purple skirt and spank her ass was etched into the dark challenge of his eyes, into the hard lines of his aggressive stance.
The thought outraged her. Unfortunately, it aroused her, too. More of the cream from her arousal soaked the little thong she wore, coating her sex thoroughly with every step she took. She prayed he couldn’t tell.
“You’re a bastard,” she muttered as she walked past Jack and into the cottage’s main room.
“If you were expecting Prince Charming, I’m sorry. He’s with his boyfriend,” Jack quipped as he sailed by her and pulled the front door open.
An old man entered, carrying two shopping bags in hand. Instantly, she saw what Jack would look like in fifty years. Tall, lean, with thick silver hair and dancing dark eyes, the man ambled into the cottage with a smile teasing the corners of his lips.
“Jack.” He greeted him with a nod. “Your aunt Cheré sends her love and a loaf of homemade bread.”
He reached into one of the sacks and retrieved a plastic container. Morgan smelled the yeast of the bread blend with the spice of the swamp’s vegetation lazing in the temperate February day. It was unlike anything she’d ever smelled. Which fit. Nothing about being with Jack was like anything she’d ever experienced.
Before she could process the thought, the old man approached her, wearing a mischievous smile. “Morgan, I’m Brice Boudreaux, Jack’s grand-père on his maman’s side.”
He stuck out his hand, and she clasped his to shake it. Instead, he brought her hand to his lips and gave her a gallant kiss. Despite her discomfort in meeting an old man while wearing skimpy purple leather, Morgan couldn’t help but smile. She’d bet that in his day he’d had a lot of luck with anything in a skirt.
“Morgan O’Malley.”
His sharp brown gaze lifted to her hair. “A bonny Irish lass with fiery tresses. Jack loves red hair, don’t you?”
She didn’t dare look at Jack, not when she felt a flush climbing up her cheeks. Did he have a thing for redheads? That would explain the odd conversation she’d overheard earlier.
“Grand-père . . .” Jack warned. “Stop making mischief and give her the bag.”
A glance at the bag told Morgan there were clothes inside it. She itched to get her hands around it, to wear something besides a getup that encouraged her recklessness and made her more aware of her sexuality than mere garments should.
Brice was in no hurry to hand the bag over.
“In due time. Can’t an old man sit down for a minute and talk to a pretty girl?”
He cast Jack a challenging glance, then shuffled over to the sofa, making a big show of easing his weary bones down onto a cushion. Then he set the bag on the floor between his feet and patted the spot beside him.
“Come,” he said to Morgan. “Sit next to an old man, yeah, and let him remember the days he could have asked such a jolie fille for a dance.”
Morgan sliced her gaze to Jack for translation, brow raised in question.
“Pretty girl,” he supplied in a long-suffering sigh. “And don’t be suckered in by his old-man routine. He’s sharp as a tack, that one.”
Brice harrumphed. “Boy forgets I’m eighty-two.”
“Grand-père forgets I’m no idiot,” Jack said with a fond smile.
Morgan watched their byplay with an awareness of their love and affection for each other—and not without a bit of envy. Her biological father had never wanted anything to do with her, so she’d bet his parents knew nothing of her. And her mother’s parents had disowned Mama when she’d become pregnant while unmarried. They’d died shortly before Morgan’s tenth birthday, the rift unmended. She’d never had a grandparent, much less a character like Brice in her family.
The old man patted the sofa beside him again and sent her a hopeful glance. Unable to resist, Morgan gave in to the charmer.
Jack groaned. “He’s a master fisherman. He just baited, hooked, and lured you in.”
Must run in the family, she thought bitterly.
“Maybe I’m catching her just for you, yeah,” Brice countered. “Thanks to the army, those nice manners your maman taught you ain’t what they used to be. Without my help, I don’t think Morgan would let you near her.”
She froze, then forced a relaxing breath. The old man couldn’t tell what had happened between her and Jack this morning. Thank God . . .
But one glance in Jack’s direction, and Morgan knew she was in trouble. He sent her a hard, hot glance that forced her to remember and promised more, much more, until she drowned in pleasure. A ravenous ache resounded in her gut, echoed between her legs, and she felt her nipples swell again.
Morgan bit her lip to hold in a gasp. Too bad she couldn’t contain the flush crawling up her cheeks.
Brice glanced away from Jack, over to her. A new smile danced at his mouth, moving the salt-and-pepper moustache above it. He looked mighty pleased. “Are you Catholic, Morgan?”
The question took her aback. “I—I was raised in the Church. Yes.”
Jack groaned. “Grand-père, Morgan’s religion is none of our business.”
“Given enough time, it might be.” He slapped his knee and rose to his feet in a surprisingly spry move and handed her the bag with a Cheshire-cat smile.
Wondering what the heck he meant by that comment, Morgan couldn’t escape the feeling that the old man had pulled the wool over her eyes. He might be eighty-two, but he wasn’t slow—mentally or physically. Jack had warned her . . .
“Put those to good use.” Brice gestured to the bag with a jerk of his head and a wink.
Then, with a slap on Jack’s shoulder, the old man practically skipped out the front door.
PUT those to good use, Jack’s grandfather had said. Fingering the golden silk of the lace-
edged camisole and matching thong, Morgan could take a wild guess at what Brice thought good use would entail. And it probably involved indulging in lascivious acts with Jack—acts she’d only vaguely heard about.
Cursing under her breath, Morgan stood in Jack’s bedroom still wearing Alyssa’s slut-in-purple costume and tried to decide what to change into. Brice had brought her three sets of undergarments, each sexier than the last. Nothing else.
“Damn it, Morgan!” Jack shouted through the door. “I called you to dinner ten minutes ago. How long does it take to get dressed?”
“Long enough to figure out how to cover all the essentials with the items your grandfather brought.”
“What the hell?” Jack flung the door open and barged into the room.
When he saw the garments all spread out on the bed, he stopped and stared.
His gaze roved over the golden lace-up camisole, drifted to the black corset with garter belts and thigh-high stockings, then settled on the burgundy bra trimmed in champagne lace—with cutouts so her nipples could poke through. It came with matching crotchless panties.
“Is this all he brought?”
“You got it.”
“Son of a bitch.” Jack’s expression showed his inner war between annoyance and amusement.
“These aren’t warm or practical,” she pointed out, sharing his annoyance but none of the amusement.
With a turn of his head, Jack pinned his stare on her. Oh, sweet heaven . . . Heat infused the dark depths of his eyes, tempting as melted chocolate, alive like the rich earth. She knew in that moment he was doing his best to picture her in each set of undergarments.
Worse, Morgan could imagine herself wearing them for Jack. Imagine his reaction. If the hearty erection currently straining his jeans was any indication, he was more than a little interested. The thought aroused her far more than it should. Her vagina clenched, spasming with need. Beneath the leather, her nipples stabbed at her bra.
“They definitely aren’t warm,” he agreed. “Practical . . . well, that depends on the purpose.”
“Since I’m not here to reenact a porn flick, they aren’t practical for my purposes. Was this a joke or a mistake?”
“Neither.”
“He wants us to . . .” Morgan’s eyes widened even as shock raised her blood pressure.
“Fuck like rabbits? Absolutely. He’s all for anything that might persuade me to remarry.”
Remarry? Her first thought was that she’d only met Jack in person twenty-four hours ago, so leaping to the concept of marriage seemed extreme. Her second thought was that she never would have guessed he’d been married before.
“You’ve been married?”
Beside her, he straightened, tensed. “It was short. We divorced three years ago. End of conversation.”
She frowned. That might be the end of the conversation, but that wasn’t the end of the emotions for Jack. Clearly, his divorce still had the power to hurt or piss him off. But wisely, she let it go. Jack’s personal life was none of her business. Digging into the man’s past was only going to make her more curious about the man as a whole. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened.
“Choose one of those getups,” he snapped, gesturing to the lingerie on the bed. “I’ll give you my robe and a pair of socks, then come eat. The food is getting cold.”
Morgan wanted to say she’d just wear what she had on, but as the sun had fallen, the temperature had dropped too much for that. And it wasn’t the best outfit to wear if she wanted to diffuse the awareness between herself and Jack. Not to mention, the thong she currently wore was uncomfortably wet and clinging to her swollen folds—a constant reminder of her arousal.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He grunted as he retrieved his robe and socks from a nearby wardrobe, tossed them her way, and left.
Morgan chose the items that seemed the least racy. She crossed the hall and let herself into the bathroom, golden cami and thong in hand, and set about changing.
The new thong was tiny. All lace as it wound around her hips, bisected the cheeks of her ass, and edged the legs of the garment. The fabric covering everything else . . . totally sheer. The mirror in the bathroom showed her the explicit way the outrageously feminine lace framed the red curls over the delta between her legs, showcasing the fiery color. It was designed to make a man’s eyes latch onto a woman’s mound immediately. Jack’s eyes.
A hitch of both fear and arousal ticked in her belly.
No, bad, bad reaction . . .
Chastising herself, Morgan peeled off the bra Alyssa had given her. This camisole covered less than the bra, if that was possible. Again, trimmed in golden lace, it dipped low, half an inch above her nipples. It was formfitting and offered gentle support below her breasts but was cut low in between to reveal cleavage. Delicate lace decorated the top and bottom edges of the utterly sheer garment and served as the tie in the laces between her breasts, accentuating her tight nipples poking the thin fabric.
Morgan was pretty sure she’d never looked sexier in her life. Knowing that Jack could incite her to massive, broiling orgasms was surely making her feel hyperaware of herself as a woman. Imagining his reaction to this . . . outfit was arousing the hell out of her.
Her imagination needed to take a vacation.
But it was more than the orgasms, as much as she hated to admit it. With Jack, she’d felt a dizzying freedom unlike anything she’d ever known with a lover. A freedom to want whatever she desired. And utter acceptance of her longings. Despite her head telling her that her needs were wrong, her body ached. She didn’t even fully comprehend what she craved, but Jack knew. Knowledge sizzled in his eyes, in the things he said to her. Jack could give her everything she’d ever fantasized about. All of that coupled with the feeling of security she had here with him, as if her stalker were a million miles away, encouraged her to explore her dark side with her infuriating, enigmatic protector.
She had to get a grip on herself. Fantasies weren’t reality, and she didn’t really want to perform all those acts that were springing deep from her imagination. Really, she didn’t.
With shaking hands, Morgan grabbed Jack’s robe. She belted the enormous thing around her waist, put on the sweat socks that were double the size of her feet, and marched to the eat-in kitchen’s bleached wood table, hoping she looked frumpy.
When she reached the kitchen, she saw that Jack had laid out some thick soup that had an orangish base with lots of rice and chunks of meat, his aunt’s homemade bread, and a slab of butter. A small salad sat in another bowl. A big glass of ice water sat above her silverware.
Jack, on the other hand, was fisting a bottle of whiskey and eyeing her as if she were a tempting treat, unable to completely shield the feral hunger in his eyes that told her he wanted to strip her, cram her full of himself, and make her scream. Apparently, he didn’t see the robe as frumpy.
“I made chicken and sausage gumbo,” he rasped as his gaze roved over her face, down her bare neck, to the hint of skin visible between her breasts. He shifted in his seat. “Ever eat gumbo?”
She shook her head, wondering—though she shouldn’t—if he was still incredibly, mouthwateringly hard.
“It’s thick and spicy.”
Like the air between them. Like the flesh he’d filled her with this morning.
Trembling, Morgan looked away and stared into her gumbo. She had to stop thinking like this, with nothing but her hormones. But she couldn’t eat, all too aware of Jack’s stare fixed on her as he held the whiskey bottle in his hand.
Morgan swallowed, feeling her pulse accelerate. “You’re staring at me.”
He inclined his head. “I am, cher.”
“All you can see is this overlarge bathrobe.”
Jack set the whiskey aside. Suddenly, she felt her chair being dragged along the hardwood floor, closer to him. She looked down to find his foot hooked around the leg as he pulled it beside him, right next to his heat and spice.
Morgan sucked in air as desire slammed into her, leaving her short of breath. Clearly, any restraint exhibited here would be up to her.
Not good news, since she didn’t have much.
He leaned down and nuzzled the sensitive skin below her ear. Morgan shivered as he said, “You were slick and tight, cher. So amazing to fuck. You responded to my commands like you were born to submit. Like it was so natural. I’ve thought about nothing all day long except tying you down and spending morning, noon, and night finding ways to make you come until you scream your throat raw, then beg for more.”
Blunt. Graphic. Unapologetic. His words should have been a turnoff. The feminist in her thought she should be offended that he found her so purely sexual. She wasn’t that lucky.
Jack was her mind’s nightmare—arrogant, demanding, difficult. But he was her psyche’s fantasy—hot, untamed, determined to have her and force her to experience every naughty fantasy her fevered mind had ever conjured up.
A fresh rush of moisture dampened her new thong, and her clit began to ache anew.
Morgan closed her eyes. This had to stop. Had to. Or she was going to give in. She wasn’t sure she could live with the repercussions—or herself—if she did.
“Jack, I’m interviewing you for a TV show about your lifestyle, not inviting you to tell me every one of the thoughts lurking in the dark corners of your mind. If you can’t keep it to yourself, you should take me back to my car. I—I’ll return to Houston and—”
“And wait for your stalker to find you? Rape you? Shoot you? Kill you? We’ve been over this. You’re in the middle of a swamp and much safer here, surrounded by sophisticated security systems and a bodyguard, than you are anywhere else. My buddy Deke is putting together a profile. Once we have it, we can figure out who your psycho is and nail him. Until then, I think you’d be wise to stay. Unless you’re more afraid of sex than a stalker?”