by Wicked Ties
Damn it, he’d picked the worst possible time to be logical. “Of course not. You’re just making me uncomfortable.”
“The truth is making you uncomfortable; I’m merely making you aware of it. I want you. You want me. It’s pretty simple.”
“It’s oversimplified, big boy.”
He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took a long swallow. Morgan watched in fascination as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his tight-muscled throat.
When it was empty, he set the bottle on the table. “You can’t lie, cher. Your eyes, they tell me you want to be cuffed and clamped and fucked often. And you want me to be the one doing it.”
Mind trying to outrace the desire searing her brain, she shook her head. “Look, we both had an itch this morning, and we scratched it. After, you ran as if I was diseased. You couldn’t get away from me fast enough. If you hadn’t, I would have. We’re done with each other.”
“You think, little girl? What we did, it was powerful, yeah,” he said, those dark eyes boring into her, forcing her to listen, willing her to understand. “If I hadn’t left, I would have carried you to the bed, tied you down, and not let you up until I’d fucked all of your perfect pink entrances and found each of your hidden sensitive spots and every way possible to drive your body insane.”
Morgan gasped. That should not arouse her. The idea that he would have touched her anywhere he pleased, demanded a blow job and, if she look him literally, anal sex, absolutely shouldn’t make any part of her leap with excitement. Curiosity and wicked fantasies were one thing. Actually indulging . . . No.
But there was no denying the desire that charged through her with the force of an invading army, pulsing need and heat into her clit, making her beaded nipples ache.
Just like there was no denying that if she tried to leave here and return to Houston, the person after her would very likely try to kill her again. And this time, he might succeed.
She let out a shaky breath. What a hell of a place to be, trapped by danger with a man capable of giving her amazing pleasure while making her submit to every wicked desire she’d ever denied. Damn it, she’d been fighting her wants since Andrew’s rejection, warring against her dark side until she hurt. She couldn’t just roll over and spread her legs for a dominant stranger—no matter how appealing her newly awakened body might find that notion.
“I grant you that I’m much safer here than in Houston or Los Angeles. I’m not stupid, and I know I can’t fight a man I haven’t seen and don’t understand.”
“But?”
“I want things platonic. I’m supposed to interview you. You’re supposed to protect me. Nowhere in those job descriptions is the wild thing mentioned. We got waaaaayyy off track this morning.”
Jack leaned closer, until she felt his breath on her mouth, smelling faintly of whiskey and something spicy. “Platonic?”
“You know, polite. Friendly.” Morgan tried to scoot her chair away. “No sex.”
He wasn’t budging. “I know what it means, Morgan. Why do you think we shouldn’t be having the most amazing sex of the year with each other?”
“I don’t want what you want. I’m just not into your . . . scene.”
She focused on her gumbo. It would be easier if she could tell him she thought his desires were twisted and wrong. Hurting him might make him go away faster. But having been on the receiving end of such slurs, she couldn’t do it to him.
You’re not a talented liar, either, a voice in her head whispered. She shut her eyes against it.
“And,” she went on, “despite what happened earlier, I’m not a casual-sex person.”
Jack said nothing for the longest minute. He simply stared, as if trying to decipher her every thought. He didn’t touch her. He just stared—hard, hot, as if he was picturing and plotting to do every wicked thing to her she’d ever imagined. The explosive desire on his face ripped past her defenses, searing her clear to her unruly imagination, to her throbbing clit still so hungry for him, to the inexplicable draw she felt in her soul to him.
Damn it, she had to get away from him, now. Morgan wrapped the robe’s lapels tightly around herself and started to rise.
He clamped a hand around her arm, holding her in place. “Those are the only reasons? You’re not into casual and you’re going to keep lying to yourself that you don’t like the way I fuck you?”
“I want you to stop saying such outrageous crap and agree to keep our interaction professional.”
“You want me to promise not to touch you?” His grip tightened on her arm.
“I’ve been saying that, yes.”
Chin high, eyes declaring her resolve, Morgan hoped she looked convincing. She hoped Jack had no idea that inside, her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. That his nearness, scent, and touch just brought back the rush of pleasure and exhilaration she’d felt when he’d been deep inside her.
“You’ve been saying it; I just don’t believe it.” Jack laughed, an ironic chuckle, complete with a mocking smile. “What are you afraid of, cher? If I don’t excite you, then, when I touch you, say no. If you’re not interested, that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“I shouldn’t have to!” Morgan gaped. “You’re pissing me off. Can’t you just be a gentleman and agree?”
“With chemistry like ours, no. Even if I wanted to keep my hands off you, which I don’t, it would only be a matter of time before I was balls deep inside you, pounding away.”
“Stop, damn it! That’s not true. I don’t say yes to every man who snaps his fingers.”
He slid his palm up her arm to her shoulder, then diverted to her breast. His thumb encountered a hard nipple and flicked it, as if to make a point. She gasped, then bit her lip as she realized her huge error. Jack gave her a long, wicked smile—the kind that only made her more wet. Between that and his touch, he turned her on as easily as he flipped on a light switch. The hard pulse between her thighs was something she couldn’t ignore.
“Sure it is. The street is going both ways, here. I can tell,” he said. “As I see it, my job is keeping you safe. But I’m going to show you what your body craves and help you be honest with yourself. That,” he caressed the hard point of her breast again, “is my pleasure.”
Then he released her and rose, gumbo bowl in hand.
“Maybe you’re lying to yourself about what I want,” she blurted to his retreating back. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe you’re totally off base.”
Jack paused, turned, and pinned her with a blunt stare that made her heart stop. “If that was the case, you wouldn’t be wet enough for me to smell, and I wouldn’t know that you’d soaked two thongs in one day.”
HAZY morning. Sunlight slanted across the swamp in lazy golden rays to settle on his porch, illuminating the small figure of a woman and her fiery tresses as they cascaded down her narrow back, covered by a man’s dark shirt. His shirt.
Contentment and yearning. Hope and need. And lust. It all hit him as she tilted her head. A corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. Happy. He wanted to see her happy, protected.
He’d never loved anyone so much in his life.
The woman, a mystery, was his. Jack knew that as well as he knew his own name.
Just once he wanted to see her face. After six months of futile dreaming and waking up hard with no relief in sight, of feeling this yearning for a woman he’d never seen, he needed to know who she was.
Turn around! he silently demanded.
Slowly, so damn slowly, she began to turn his way. A delicate ear, a graceful neck, a stubborn slope to her jaw, fair skin like porcelain. That was more than he’d ever seen of this woman, but the greedy part of him wanted more bared to his gaze. He wanted everything. She kept turning. A hint of apple in her cheek . . .
Jack jolted awake. Damn it! So close this time. So close . . . but he still couldn’t see her face.
Stirring from a fitful sleep on the sofa, Jack opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. Just after midnight. Now what?
<
br /> He laid back on the couch, breathing hard, gritting his teeth against a steel-inspired erection that always followed the dream. The fucking thing tormented him more frequently these days—nearly every night for the past two weeks. Why?
Certainly, his grandfather and the old man’s crazy theories about soul mates and dreaming of destined lovers was all bullshit. It had to be. If there was any such thing as a woman destined to be his, he wouldn’t torture himself with a dream. He’d simply find her and claim her. And prove she was just another woman he could walk away from. End of story.
Jack was perfectly happy with that explanation except . . . why did the woman in his dream have the same hair as Morgan if the dream was irrelevant? Why did Morgan feel like more than the means to his revenge when he touched her?
Shoving the stray thought aside, Jack blinked, trying to rid tired eyes of the grit of exhaustion. Last night, he hadn’t slept even a handful of hours. Tonight was no different. Having these nocturnal visions haunting his sleep and Morgan under his roof wasn’t helping him catch up on his beauty rest.
And judging from the erection throbbing inside his boxers like an insistent toothache, along with vestiges of the dream, he wasn’t likely to get much more sleep tonight.
Rising with a stretch, Jack sighed and donned his jeans with a grimace. Immediately, his thoughts turned to Morgan.
Why couldn’t he leave her alone? He’d tackled a big part of his revenge and emailed Brandon Ross the proof that he’d been as deep inside his enemy’s woman as a man could get. Now, his revenge would be complete as soon as Morgan left the disloyal asshole she planned to marry.
But what if she didn’t? Lots of women wanted to be married to one of the esteemed Senator Ross’s sons. Money. Power. Connections. Good looks. Brandon had all that, but he’d never have a political career of his own. Jack had made damn sure of that.
Still, that didn’t solve his problem. If Morgan and Brandon didn’t part ways, revenge would be incomplete. That had to be why he didn’t feel more victorious now.
Jack paced, spearing hands tense with frustration through his hair, too short to be ruffled by such a mauling.
Maybe he was looking at this all wrong. After viewing the little video he’d sent, sooner or later, jealousy would start eating Brandon’s gut. No question about it. When a man had a woman like Morgan, he wanted to keep her safe and whole and so sated that the idea of sex with another man never crossed her mind. Once Brandon had time to gnaw on the visual evidence that Morgan had strayed—and with his enemy—the idiot’s pride would demand he let her go.
Frowning, Jack realized a tactical error in that plan. Brandon dumping Morgan could cause her pain. The thought of her anguish made him want to flay himself with a whip of self-censure.
Not only would Brandon leaving Morgan hurt her, it wouldn’t satisfy the writhing mass of hate he had in his gut for Brandon. In order for Jack to get closure, Morgan must realize that she deserved someone who understood her, a man who could give her what her mind and body craved. She had to acknowledge that Brandon couldn’t satisfy her. And Jack figured it was his job to prove that very fact to her.
How could he tempt her to leave Brandon?
Pacing across the room, toward the cottage’s lone bedroom, Jack pushed open the door.
Holy shit. Morgan had pushed off her covers, baring herself to the night. He wished she was bare to him. While that wasn’t actually the case, it was close. She wore next to nothing, only the golden-lace camisole and thong. Moonlight spilling into the room bathed the sweet blush-pink nipples and fiery fringe of her pussy in a soft silver light. It called attention to things he loved about her body and made him want to howl at the moon, absolutely.
Coaxing his way into that bed, into her body again, was as necessary as drawing his next breath. It was the eye for an eye the vindictive part of him craved.
But his desire hardly stopped there. And he feared it was about more than revenge.
His cock gave a greedy leap at the thought of having Morgan again, in any way that would bring them both to screaming pleasure . . . The want was a blast of heat drilling straight through his erection and his brain. Damned odd, really. He didn’t fixate like this. A willing woman was cause for a good mood and good times, always.
This was . . . more.
His body went wild at the thought of teaching Morgan about her sexuality, about the desires that haunted her to sweating resistance and whimpering wails of pleasure. He ached to show her how to take anything he dished out, give the burn back to him, and share in the mind-blowing mental and physical satisfaction.
The likelihood of that happening . . . Jack shook his head. She wasn’t going to surrender easily or without a fight, and he wasn’t out to break her. Just show her how much satisfaction she’d find in submission.
Stalking into the bedroom, Jack lit a few candles throughout the room, then dropped himself into the chair in the corner and stared, absently adjusting the unyielding length of his cock in his jeans.
How did he tempt her to take a walk on the wild side with him so he could prove to her she could be just as free and submissive as she yearned and still be okay with herself—all while convincing her to leave Brandon so he could achieve the vengeance he’d plotted for nearly three fucking years? How did he get her to give him that part of herself she’d held back from him before, the part he was sure she’d never given any man?
A mischievous smile lifted his lips as an idea occurred to him. Simple, direct, effective. Eager to put it in motion, he jogged back to his locked enclave and retrieved two pairs of heavy velvet ropes.
Let the games begin . . .
Chapter Seven
MORGAN woke slowly, drifting on the haze of an erotic dream where she lay on the grass naked to the moonlight, arms tossed above her head in abandon as tender pulls at her nipples created a pool of sweet pleasure between her legs. She writhed. Silvery moonbeams worshipped her, caressing the undersides of her arms, her belly, the tops of her thighs with a feathery touch. She moaned.
Leaves fell from the trees above in a light summery breeze, drifting down to glide over bare breasts, sensitive nipples. Again and again the leaves dropped from their trees and found their way to her body, the gentle abrasion of their texture on her skin slowly awakening her sensual need.
One leaf had a sharp edge as it drifted across her body. A slight sting in the hard peak of her breast surprised her. She tried to dodge the leaf, but it was gone, replaced by a glide of heat, then a sudden well of desire between her legs. Another sharp leaf pinched at the other nipple. Another swelling of desire bloomed inside her. She arched to the gentle pain and was again rewarded with a fresh flood of heat and moisture.
The ache between her thighs became a throb, a drumbeat inside her body calling for release. Morgan moaned, shifted.
Beneath her, the grass seemed oddly smooth. She tried to sit up but was unable to move. Another leaf drifted over her left breast, smooth, silky, gently rousing. It was quickly followed by a sharp leaf that curled around her nipple and bit.
Pain faded an instant later, replaced by a merciless need in the tight tips of her breasts. She arched, seeking more, as another leaf drifted down her abdomen and brushed over the top of her mound.
Sensations mounted, one on top of the other, until her body demanded more. She struggled to move, to touch herself—only to find she couldn’t. Another leaf clamped down on one nipple, this time harder than before. She cried out. Perspiration dampened the skin between her breasts and thick, liquid want converged into a unending ache between her legs.
Morgan opened her eyes and threw off the last vestiges of sleep.
And quickly discovered that her breasts weren’t being tormented by leaves but by the smooth slide of Jack’s tongue, followed by the erotic nibble of his teeth.
Before she even knew what she was doing, Morgan arched up, her body silently offering her sensitive nipples to a hot-eyed Jack, overruling anything her mind might have said.
<
br /> “That’s it. Good girl,” he murmured hotly across her breasts.
Candlelight glowed softly as she looked down her body and realized that he’d unlaced the camisole and pulled it wide, completely exposing her twin mounds and their hard peaks.
As if in slow motion, Morgan watched him lower his mouth to her again. His wide, bare shoulders bulged, a pulse-raising shadow in the moonlit room, as he eclipsed everything else. She pulled at her arms and legs, desperate to embrace him. Instead, she found them bound firmly to the four posts of Jack’s bed.
God, she was totally at his mercy. That realization jolted her with a rush of dark pleasure—and that scared the hell out of her.
A warning boomed in her belly like thunder. The hard clamp of desire plaguing her drowned it. The man made her want, so badly that dragging in a steady breath was difficult, so much that finishing a coherent thought was impossible.
What was it about Jack Cole and the way he touched her?
He ignored her writhing and peppered the full sides of her breasts with soft kisses, laved the nerve-heavy tips with a bold swipe of his tongue. The hard heat of his chest brushed over her belly, and her body fevered for more of the silky burn of his skin, his mouth. Her nipples tightened more, until they became pointed red nubs that begged him to continue with anything, everything, he wanted.
In response, Jack pinched her nipples, twisting slightly. A sharp mix of pain and pleasure had her crying out his name.
“I’m here, cher, to fulfill every forbidden fantasy swimming in your mind.”
Desire jolted her body, making her buck under his tongue as he resumed the sensual torture on her nipples. She drew in another shuddering breath as his tongue curled around the throbbing tip. She whimpered. The man was twisting her inside out, turning her into a wanton stranger. Into a woman nearly willing to say yes to anything.