Shayla Black - [Wicked Lovers 01]

by Wicked Ties

  Jack couldn’t tell his grandfather that Morgan belonged to the man who had been with Kayla in the videotape. Brice would know that he’d lured Morgan under his roof in the name of revenge. He’d have a pretty good idea of what Jack had done to her to obtain that revenge. And the old man would flay the skin off Jack’s back with his old hunting knife and pour Tabasco in the wound.

  Grimacing, Jack couldn’t deny an unsettling sense of shame bubbling in his gut.

  And if Morgan ever found out . . . Oh, God, she would find out. The minute she talked to Brandon. And stopping it was damn near impossible.

  He let loose a vile curse. There was no way he could take back the email he’d already sent. Damn! He wished he’d heeded his instinct at that moment, which told him emailing the video was a mistake. And once Morgan and Brandon talked . . . he’d lose her for sure then. The thought filled him with a snarling, towering panic.

  Unless he found some ironclad way to bind her to him before he told her the truth . . . Yes! He had to.

  Brice shrugged. “Now, boy. Why worry? She and this man, they is not married. And why not? Maybe she knows this other man is not for her. Yeah? Maybe she gives you a kiss or two because her heart and her body know what her mind don’t.”

  “That she doesn’t love her fiancé?”

  “Exactement.”

  Was it really that simple? That Morgan was his . . . soul mate, and that she responded to him, had allowed him so much liberty over her body because somewhere deep inside her she knew he was meant for her? It seemed so . . . surreal. Fucking hocus-pocus.

  Was it possible she wasn’t a cheating sort of woman, just a confused one?

  Just as confused as he was?

  Jack sighed and held his head in his hands.

  A slur of disgust rose from Brice’s throat. “Ah, you young now. No sense of romance. Keep resisting. Make yourself miserable. Love will wear you down.”

  Love? The thought couldn’t have been more alien if it was green and sported antennae.

  “I want her. I don’t love her.”

  “You know that, do you? You already know that you will always not love her?”

  Jack slumped back in his chair. Damn the man and his questions. “No, I don’t know that.”

  Brice sent him an all-knowing nod. “I brought some jeans and shirts for Morgan. You can fix me some mornin’ grub, yeah. After that, you tell me if you want me to get them from the boat . . . or take ’em back with me.”

  Leaving Morgan in nothing but tempting lingerie.

  Immediately, the memory of her in that golden camisole and thong bombarded his brain, engorging his cock. Oh, yeah, Morgan looked hot in that getup. But just the visual alone shouldn’t fire him up to something between a boil and a blaze that quickly. Hell, he’d seen hundreds of naked women, especially hanging around Alyssa and her girls. They’d get a rise from him every so often, but this feeling scraping at his logic and peace of mind until he felt raw . . . Jack could only term it a caveman urge to claim. Like he had to know she was his and be secure in the knowledge that he would always keep her safe and happy. The thought of succeeding, of being able to convince her to be his in every way, jacked up his temperature another ten degrees.

  Holy shit.

  At this point, he couldn’t think of a single argument that might prove his grandfather wrong.

  In fact, if he wanted to have Morgan, and keep her, he was going to have to form a stronger bond between them right away. Something that might shake but wouldn’t break when she learned why he’d agreed to be on her TV show—and that he’d bribed her buddy Reggie to make it happen.

  That he’d done it all for revenge. And he’d tell her . . . but not yet. Not until they were solid.

  First, he had to earn her trust on a visceral level, teach her body that he would always put her care first. The bedroom was a good place to start breaking down her barriers. Once she’d surrendered, then they could talk. The rest would fall into place.

  Knowledge, rightness, and a plan clicked into place in that moment, like the pieces of a puzzle that had been hovering just out of reach.

  Finally, he said, “I don’t need time to think about it. Take her clothes with you, Grand-père. Don’t bring them out here again.”

  Brice smiled wide, showing crooked white teeth against Cajun-dark skin. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

  Oh, yeah. Let the good times roll . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  WE will finish this later.

  Jack’s vow rang through Morgan’s head as Brice charmed her through breakfast.

  She chastised the older man for bringing her lingerie and nothing else. With dark eyes twinkling, he gave her a sanguine grin and a shrug but wasn’t apologetic in the least.

  But Jack . . . his gaze burned, telegraphing his earlier words. We will finish this later.

  Morgan wished she could close off the memory, drown out the voice in her head. Over scrambled eggs, which both men doused with Tabasco, Jack stared at her as if she were a cross between a confounding puzzle and a tasty treat. And above all, something he coveted. Someone he meant to possess.

  Damn it, why had she ever said yes to Jack and his playroom? Trying to say no after the exquisite pleasure he’d given her seemed nearly impossible.

  But saying yes in that moment had been easy—imperative—with his mouth hovering over her and an enormous climax pending. Now that pleasure wasn’t destroying her ability to breathe and think, Morgan wasn’t sure that giving in, giving him everything he wanted, was a good idea. It would not only change everything between them but change her forever. Since being around Jack, her fantasies had become more urgent, more explicit. Impulses she’d always had now came with remembered sensations—and the memories also came complete with Jack’s sigh-worthy face to haunt her.

  On the other hand, she wanted him—and was beginning to crave having every wild pleasure he could give her. Something about giving in to the impulses he roused in her body made her feel more alive, more . . . complete. Did that even make sense?

  We will finish this later. Given the weight of his stare right now, Morgan knew he still meant it.

  Should she? Shouldn’t she?

  Like everything else about Jack, the promise he’d given her filled her with hot shame, even as it made her ache and shake with need. This morning, on the porch . . . God, she could still feel his mouth on her sex, forcing his tongue inside her, taking tender possession. Driving her out of her mind. He’d suffused every nerve in her body with speech-defying ecstasy, making it impossible to run away from the sensations he poured over her like sweet, warm honey.

  But she was so damn curious—and excited—about whatever he did on those racks and tables with the cuffs and clamps . . . and other items she was too naïve to name. The more she tried to run away from her wants, the more insistent they grew, slowly overtaking her will like a clinging vine overtaking the garden.

  What if she let him follow through on his threat to finish what they’d started? Would it be so terrible if she did? Just for now? No one but her and Jack would have to know.

  Biting her lip, she watched Jack’s taut posture grow more tense as Brice lingered for after-breakfast coffee. His dark eyes promised pleasure, prepared her for a hint of pain. His vow to totally possess her shone in his seductive gaze. She swallowed against a belly-tightening mix of fear and thrill and anticipation. Attraction layered over that, luring her directly to him, as if an invisible string lay between them, growing shorter and shorter with every hour.

  It made no sense that she could want someone so desperately who brought out her very worst impulses. Someone who would take her places far beyond the norm, into a realm that would horrify her mother and sicken men like Andrew. If she let Jack, he would ruin her for every other man’s touch. Worse, living with herself after he had molded her into a submissive wanton would be impossible. Doormat wasn’t her style. She didn’t take orders well, didn’t like being told what to do. Her mother had started calli
ng her an independent hoyden about the time she turned twelve.

  But with Jack . . . Morgan sighed. His commands seeped inside her—not just her body, but her mind, her soul. The things he demanded of her never failed to shock her, and yet, he often ordered her to do exactly what she’d been secretly craving. Sometimes, she wondered how he could read her mind. It startled her. It shamed her. It made her ache for him beyond anything she’d imagined.

  And she didn’t think she had the will to keep fighting what they both wanted.

  Maybe . . . just maybe she should embrace this time together, find out the truth about her desires. Jack wouldn’t intentionally hurt her beyond a little erotic pain. Her mother’s and Andrew’s opinions wouldn’t matter way out here, a world away from civilization. It could be her time, their secret time, before her stalker was caught and she returned to reality.

  Just after noon, Brice rose to leave. Morgan knew Jack wanted to pick up where they’d left off earlier that morning. Like any nervous female, she wanted to look her best. Retreating to the bathroom when Jack walked Brice to the dock, she indulged in a decadent bath and spent extra time drying her hair. She lamented the fact that she had no makeup, which gave her absolutely no way to soften the smattering of freckles on her too-fair face. She licked her lips, pinched her cheeks, and shrugged. That was the best she could do.

  A set of regimented footsteps started down the hall, pulling her out of her thoughts.

  Jack. He’d be pounding on the door soon, demanding to pound at her.

  Her breath caught. Was she ready? Could she handle it? She released a shaky breath, torn between her rational mind and her demanding body. Her mind had always prevailed before, but since Jack . . . game, set, match to her body.

  She was as prepared for a man like Jack as she’d ever be, considering she wore nothing more to shield her from his penetrating gaze than his bathrobe and bloodred undergarments with wicked cutouts designed not to cover the essentials.

  Instead of being repulsed by the revealing exploitive lingerie, Morgan simply felt herself growing ever more wet at the thought of Jack seeing her in them.

  “Morgan?” he barked through the thin barrier of the bathroom door.

  Showtime. “Jack?”

  Anytime he looked at her, she felt sure those dark, knowing eyes could see every sinful secret in her soul. But today, her voice trembled merely because she spoke his name.

  Before he could say or do anything, the phone rang. He uttered a ripe sibilant curse and stomped back down the hall. Morgan sagged with an odd mix of relief and disappointment . . . but she couldn’t deny that the ache between her legs had ratcheted higher.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the hall and lingered in the shadows. And listened.

  “What the hell do you want?” she heard Jack snap.

  A rumbling laugh over the speakerphone in the cottage’s front room echoed down the hall.

  “I’ll take three guesses as to why you’re so crabby. And I don’t need the last two.”

  Deke. She recognized his teasing voice, could picture the crinkles of laughter around those dancing denim-blue eyes . . . so seemingly at odds with that tall, hard body.

  “Did you call just to annoy me?”

  “Hell, no. You know I never go for anything easy. Where’s the challenge in that?”

  “So you called because . . . ?”

  “I need to talk to Morgan.”

  Jack hesitated, his hands curling into fists. “Why?”

  In that one syllable, he sounded somewhere between suspicious and downright pissed.

  “Did that hard cock of yours make you forget all about the stalker trailing her sweet ass?”

  “No, you SOB, I haven’t forgotten. And you get your mind off her ass.”

  “It’s not as if I’ve perfected the ability to reach my cock through the phone line and fuck her, Jack. It’s a conversation. Lighten up.”

  Morgan frowned. Deke acted as if he thought Jack was jealous. The thought would have made her burst out laughing if she hadn’t observed Jack’s odd behavior around Deke before and he hadn’t looked so . . . tense.

  With a deep sigh, Jack uncurled his fists. “I’ll get her.”

  “I’m here.” Morgan took those few steps out of the shadow, into the light, then down the hall toward Jack.

  He whirled to face her, his eyes grasping onto her like a vise. Morgan felt her nipples, bare from the cutouts in the bra, beat against the soft, thin jersey knit of his robe. Based on the way his eyes widened and his nostrils flared, she guessed he noticed.

  “Morgan,” Deke greeted over the speakerphone. “Hi, doll.”

  “Hi, Deke. Do you have news?”

  “Yeah. We weren’t able to lift any prints off the photos. I’m sorry. But we did learn some interesting information about them, so I have a few questions.”

  Disappointment trembled within her. When would this nightmare be over? And how would it ever end if Deke couldn’t track this lunatic down? She wanted to feel normal again, return home and not worry that someone had breached her personal space and violated her bed with semen. She wanted her old life back. Clearly, she wasn’t going to get it anytime soon.

  To her surprise, Jack eased beside her and curled her suddenly cold hand into his larger, warmer one. Warm. Solid. Secure. He enveloped her in that simple embrace, and instantly Morgan felt stronger.

  Until she realized that getting her old life back meant losing Jack. The disappointment that crashed in on her stunned her. She clung tighter to him. Why didn’t the thought of getting away from him make her want to celebrate? She ought to be contemplating how many margaritas she could get out of her blender. Getting back to her old life would mean no more stalker, no more bondage, no more questioning herself. Instead, she latched onto Jack’s hand and refused to let go.

  “What do you want to know?” Morgan asked Deke.

  “Anyone you know really into photography, like it’s a big-time hobby?”

  “Reggie, my production assistant. He mostly dabbles, but he’s very good. He’s had a few shows in the past.” Morgan frowned. “You don’t think Reggie would . . . ?”

  He hesitated. “After my FBI buddies analyzed these pictures, we discovered they were taken by someone who knows his way around a camera. They weren’t developed in a standard lab, like someone had taken them to a one-hour photo place. They weren’t printed from a digital image to a photo printer. This is old-school, likely developed at home, using a pretty rare set of chemicals, and printed on photo paper that’s made in Europe. This is someone who takes photography seriously. And while you may just feel threatened when you look at these, a couple of the psych profilers felt like he was trying to . . . make it art. He didn’t just snap pictures. He looked for symmetry, lighting, interesting angles. There’s no sloppy work here.”

  Reggie? Her friend, Reggie? No . . .

  But she didn’t know anyone else with a passion for photography, who thoroughly disdained the photo printers popular for digital cameras. Total crap, he called them. Not worth wasting an image on. She didn’t know anyone else who had a darkroom in their apartment.

  Morgan went numb. Breath rushed from her body. Reggie, who was like a father?

  No!

  Not many people knew her address in Los Angeles. Reggie did—along with her schedule. He could have snuck in and masturbated on her bed in her absence. Reggie was one of the few people who knew exactly when she’d gone to Houston and exactly where.

  She rubbed her forehead against a sudden ache. Reggie? Could he have been in Texas to take pictures of her in Brandon’s backyard a few days ago? She always talked to Reggie via cell phone . . . so she didn’t know exactly where he was. Anything was possible. And if Reggie had come that far to stalk her, well, he alone had known she’d intended to go to Lafayette to meet Jack. Following her a bit farther wouldn’t have been that difficult.

  Had Reggie, the father she’d never had, taken secret, sexual pictures of her? Had Reggie stalked he
r, masturbated on her bed, tried to shoot her? No! But . . . who else could it be?

  Just Reggie.

  “Oh, God.” Shock hummed through her body, buzzed in her brain. Morgan’s knees buckled. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand to keep a scream in. “Wh . . . I don’t . . . Why? I trusted Reggie. Completely.”

  As she staggered, Jack wound his arm around her waist.

  “Steady,” he murmured.

  She stared at Jack in sudden horror. If she couldn’t trust Reggie, a man she’d known for three years as the protective lout with a heart of gold, could she trust Jack, a man she’d only known for days?

  “Morgan?” Deke’s concern resounded through the phone wire.

  She turned to look at Jack through wide eyes, pouring out uncertainty and panic. What did she know about him? Just what Reggie had told her . . . and that he’d tried to twist her sexuality into something she didn’t want to accept.

  She struggled to escape Jack’s hold. Flee. Squirming and writhing, she tried to break free. Now. Go someplace where no one could find her.

  “Steady.” Jack used that patient but commanding voice Morgan knew so well.

  Something deep inside her responded instantly, wanted to heed that voice. Another part of her feared . . . She didn’t know what exactly. That virtually anyone could wish her harm, especially someone she trusted. Reggie only proved she couldn’t judge the characters of those around her. What if she’d mistakenly trusted a stranger, not just with her safety, but with her body, her soul?

  The stranger she only knew because Reggie had passed Jack’s information her way.

  An icy chill of fear blasted through Morgan. She kicked at Jack’s shins, throwing an elbow into his stomach. He clasped her tighter and dodged her sharp jabs.

  “I’ll call you later,” Jack growled into the phone. Then he slammed a finger on the button and ended the connection with Deke.

  Jack picked her up around the waist. Morgan struggled harder, panic streaking through her belly, down her legs. He grunted when she managed to land a heel in his shin. Hope sprang inside that he’d let her go.