Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  It’s the only other room with furniture.

  She crossed the threshold, still holding hands with Cole. His hands were warm. Dry. Soft.

  Mind your hands, Morgan.

  The last thing she wanted in her head was her mother.

  She stopped.

  “Morgan,” Cole said.

  She loved when he said her name. He said it so many different ways. Stern, hesitant, comforting. There was an underlying hesitation this time.

  “You’re in charge,” he said. “I won’t do anything you don’t want to do. If you need a friend, I’ll sit with you. Listen to you. If you want more ... I’m here, but it has to be what you want.”

  “I don’t know what I want. I mean, I know what I want, but I don’t know why. Or if it would be fair to you. I just know I really, really don’t want to be alone.”

  “I said it before. I’m here for as long as you want me to stay.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped between her thighs. “Do you want to ... you know ... have ... sex with me?”

  “More than I want to draw my next breath, but only if you think it’s right.”

  “I don’t know if it is.”

  “Then it’s probably not,” he whispered. “This has all been fast, and so much has happened. I like you, Morgan. A lot. I think we could have something, but I’m okay with waiting.”

  “You don’t know who I am,” she said. “If we’re going to have anything, be it friendship or something deeper, you should know the truth about me. Then, if you want to walk away, I totally understand.”

  She dared to look up, meet his eyes. She saw mild curiosity. And warmth. Whoever said blue was a cold color had never seen Cole’s eyes the way they looked now.

  He sat beside her, not facing her. He rested a hand on her thigh. “If you want to talk, I’m listening.”

  Where to start? At the beginning, she guessed.

  “I’m adopted. I never knew my birth parents. All I know from my mom—and I consider my adoptive parents my real parents, because they raised me from infancy—is that my birth mother’s mom said that there was no way she could accept a mixed race granddaughter into the family. My birth father was half black, and, as my mom put it—from a different social class. I think my mom told me this to show me that it wasn’t my birth mom’s fault or even her decision to give me up. She was only sixteen when she got pregnant. According to my mom, she died a year later in a drive-by after she rebelled against her parents and went to live with my birth father.”

  The pressure on her thigh grew ever so slightly, and Morgan put her hand atop Cole’s. “My parents had tried for years and years to have a child. They’d done everything. They found my birth mom’s family through a private agency. They paid for all medical expenses, plus—although they never said so—a lot of money to adopt me. They were much older than the acceptable—” she crooked her fingers— “age for adoptive parents. They wanted a baby, and I was it.”

  “None of this bothers me, Morgan. I don’t know why you thought it would. Being adopted, being mixed race. Why would it matter?”

  “It would to some people. Family history, being accepted. After all, I’m who I am because someone else’s family wouldn’t accept me.” She drew in a lungful of air, held it, and squeezed it out. “There’s more.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I had a happy, normal childhood until I was five. School, friends, birthday parties, vacations to the beach, Disney. I was—spoiled isn’t the right word. Doted upon, maybe.”

  “Makes sense. The child they’d waited so long to have. What happened when you were five?”

  She wrapped a curl around a finger. “We were visiting my parents’ friends. They were engrossed in grownup talk—the other couple didn’t have kids, and I was bored. They had this piano sitting in the middle of the living room, so I went over and played.”

  “And?”

  “No, I mean I played. They had background music on, and I started to pick out the melodies of what I was listening to. All of a sudden, they got up and chose different things for me to copy. I thought it was a game, and was thrilled to be included. Plus, playing the piano—I had moved from one-finger melody picking to playing chords and full passages—gave me this sense of ... happiness. As if I’d just discovered a new part of me, and I wanted more.”

  Cole moved his hand from her thigh and draped an arm across her shoulder. She leaned into him, inhaling his scent, absorbing his warmth.

  “I’m still not understanding why I should think less of you,” he said.

  “It’s more a matter of whether you can deal with my past.”

  “You were adopted, you played the piano at an early age. Not seeing a problem.”

  “I’ve buried my past, and I want to keep it that way. When you know who I was, you’d have to agree to keep my secret.”

  Cole shifted so he met her eyes. “You’re not going to tell me you robbed banks, or are a serial killer, are you? I am a cop, remember?”

  Morgan almost laughed at Cole’s attempt to lighten her mood. She’d built a tall, thick, highly reinforced wall around her past, and she wanted to keep it there. Randy Detweiler had found a crack when he’d recognized her, but he’d agreed to honor her wishes.

  “Nothing that bad,” she said. “No laws were broken. Once my parents discovered my talents, they went the whole nine yards. Bought a piano, had me take lessons. I outgrew three teachers in less than two years, and my last one encouraged my parents to—his words—share my talent with the world.”

  “How did you feel about that?” Cole asked.

  Morgan snorted. “I loved it. They created an entire new persona for me. I became Tatiana Morgan. I thought it was a cool, exotic name. I pretended I was a Russian princess. For privacy, my mom worked hard to keep my true identity hidden. She changed my look.” Morgan tugged on her curls. “Mom played down my black heritage, but I didn’t realize it. Straightened my hair, gave me fancy clothes to wear. I was a guest on television shows. People thought I was special. Important. I was doing what I loved. Making music. The fact that other people liked it was secondary.”

  “So, I’m not supposed to tell anyone you had a secret identity as Tatiana Morgan, is that it? I don’t see an issue.” He caressed her cheek.

  Could it be that easy?

  “Tatiana Morgan dropped off the face of the earth when I was seventeen. I don’t want to end up in one of those What Ever Happened To? stories. I absolutely don’t want to have people whispering about me, calling attention to the life I used to live. That life is over, and I can never go back.” She massaged her wrists.

  “Do you think people in Pine Hills would recognize you?”

  She studied her hands in her lap. “One already has.”

  COLE PULLED MORGAN’S head against his chest. Clearly, she thought he’d be upset about her past, but honestly, he couldn’t see why. Unless whoever had discovered her wanted to exploit the knowledge.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Randy Detweiler.”

  He jerked, shifted so he was facing Morgan again. “Detective Detweiler? My boss? He’s not going to give away your secret.”

  “That’s what he said, but—”

  He cupped her cheeks, forced her to meet his gaze. “I know the man, and if anyone can keep a secret, he can. If he told you he wouldn’t tell anyone, he won’t.” Cole tried to imagine how Detweiler would have recognized her, if she hadn’t been seen as Tatiana Morgan in over a decade. People changed. But the detective played the piano, and he had an excellent eye for faces.

  “This is why you feel so strongly about mentoring Austin,” he said.

  “My mom meant well, but she made mistakes. Austin’s already older than I was. I want him to share his talent, which needs nurturing. I want him to be part of the decisions.”

  “I take it you weren’t.”

  “No. In the beginning, it was all an adventure. I was a kid. I never thought to ask if I could offer input. I
gave concerts all over the world. I had no real home, just hotel rooms. Nobody invites a bunch of other kids to cocktail parties and receptions. I was surrounded by adults all the time. I never had a childhood.

  “I knew how to behave with royalty, with celebrities, but I was clueless about how to get along with kids. I wasn’t into the fads, what was popular, not even the music. I was a classical pianist, and my mom thought listening to pop music would corrupt my playing. And forget boys. I didn’t go on a real date until I was nineteen.”

  “Morgan, stop. You turned out great. You’re a caring person. I like the Morgan I’ve met, and everyone’s present is shaped by their past. Whatever your past was like, whatever mistakes were made, they’ve turned you into today’s you.”

  She was quiet for several heartbeats.

  Cole waited. It had taken courage for her to share, and that made him like her all the more. He ached to hold her, to let her know everything was fine, that he accepted every part of her. To show her with his body what he couldn’t express with words. First, she had to ask.

  He raised her hand, palm up, and kissed it, then folded her fingers over the spot.

  Her eyes half-closed, her lips parted. Her breathing accelerated. She opened her hand, touched her palm to her mouth. “Nice. But I think I’d prefer the real thing.”

  Cole angled her head, brought his lips to hers. She’d asked, at least for a kiss. Promising himself he’d stop whenever she said to, he allowed the kiss to go where she took it. Tongues danced, plundered. She’d kissed him before, but this one was magnified tenfold. His erection strained against his jeans. Tentatively, he laid a hand on her breast. Not moving, not exerting pressure, simply letting it rest there. She could pull away.

  Instead, she leaned into his hand, moving her torso back and forth, exerting pressure. He trapped her soft moan with his mouth.

  She broke the kiss.

  “Cole?” she whispered.

  “Morgan?”

  “I think I want more. But...”

  Thinking wasn’t good enough. “But?”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  He released her, sat next to her again, side by side, staring at the blank wall. “What do you mean?”

  “I ... I don’t think I’ll be very good. I haven’t had a lot of experience.” She gave a quick huff. “Sheltered upbringing, remember.”

  “Do you want me to stay, Morgan? Because the experience thing is a non-issue for me. And no, it’s not because I’m a man and expect to jump into bed with any woman who indicates the slightest bit of interest. For the record, I haven’t found a woman I’ve wanted since I moved to Pine Hills a year ago. That’s a long dry spell, and I might be out of practice myself.”

  “You want me? For me?”

  He took her hand, placed it on his erection. “Especially for you.”

  Morgan let her hand stay where he’d placed it. She glanced around the room. “Not very romantic.”

  “All it needs is you and me.” And a damn condom. He doubted Morgan had any. If he left for the first aid kit in his car, would she change her mind?

  If she did, having sex tonight wasn’t meant to be. He’d been a year without. What was one more night?

  There are other ways.

  Might as well be honest. And practical.

  “I hate to break the mood.” Did he ever. “Protection. In my car.”

  “Right,” she said. “Yes. Protection.”

  Which meant she was on board with going all the way.

  He gave her a quick kiss and dashed for his car.

  All the way? What are you, back in high school?

  The thought brought Jazz to mind, how they’d never gone all the way, promising to wait until they were married. They’d never had the chance. Now, thinking of Morgan, he realized that although he and Jazz had sworn always and forever, his feelings for her had been first love, young love, puppy love. In a few short days, he’d felt so much more with Morgan.

  Love?

  He’d deal with that later.

  With no curtains on the windows, moonlight illuminated the bedroom. His heart plummeted when Morgan wasn’t sitting on the bed the way he’d left her, then skyrocketed when he realized she was waiting under the covers. She’d pulled them up, but not high enough to hide the skinny straps and lace of a bright red nightgown.

  Chapter 27

  SITTING UP IN BED IN semi-darkness, Morgan let her alternate persona take over. The one who knew what she wanted, and wasn’t going to sit around and hope things would happen. The one who changed into the sexy nightie she’d bought on impulse for her twenty-fifth birthday.

  Once she was on her own, she’d made a point of losing her virginity. Morgan had regarded it as a life lesson, like learning how to do the laundry or choose the right produce in the grocery store. Cole made her feel like ... he made her feel, period.

  Was she doing the right thing? When she’d asked him to stay, it was because she wanted a way to take her mind off Austin’s predicament. Sex had crossed her mind—she wasn’t dead—but it wasn’t at the top of her list.

  When Cole held back, said she was in charge—something none of the other men she’d slept with had done— every female part of her wanted, no, demanded, more.

  She could still back out. Cole had said so.

  Then he walked into the room.

  Smiling, but with a hesitation to his step. Did he not want to do this? No, if he was going to back out, he’d have driven away.

  He walked to the side of the bed and put a strip of foil packets on the card table. And his gun.

  Morgan stared at it. She considered asking him to put it somewhere else, but that wouldn’t be right. It was part of Cole. Who he was. She couldn’t pick and choose which parts she accepted. She scooted lower in the bed.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress, pulled his shirt over his head, and let it fall to the floor, displaying broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist.

  He stood, unbuckled his belt. She watched, transfixed at the way his eyes never left hers as he finished undressing. He left his underwear on—cotton briefs. Pale blue. There was no denying he was still aroused. After getting rid of his shoes, he lifted the edge of the bedcovers and slipped in beside her.

  She took one of her pre-performance calming breaths.

  He lay on his side, propped on an elbow, facing her. “Any time you want me to stop, say so.”

  Morgan touched his chest, her fingers exploring the dusting of hair, the ridges of his muscles, as if she was testing the keyboard of an unfamiliar piano.

  “Turnabout’s fair play.” He slipped a finger under a strap of her nightie and lowered it down her arm. His finger traced her collarbone, then lower, to the edge of the lace trim.

  She sucked in a breath. How did his touch up here make her respond down there? Moisture pooled between her legs. His finger wandered to her breast, circled her nipple.

  Her head fell back. She closed her eyes. She wriggled, intensifying her pleasure.

  “You like that?” he whispered, nuzzling her neck.

  She’d lost the capacity for speech. “Mmmh.”

  He kissed his way along her jaw, down her neck, until his mouth replaced his finger, sucking and teasing her nipple.

  Her hips arched upward, demanding his touch there, too.

  When his mouth moved between her legs, she gasped. After the briefest Who is this wanton woman? moment, she succumbed to his touch. Which she couldn’t get enough of.

  Her hips directed the rhythm of his tongue. Her hands gripped his head, pulling him tighter against her, release building to an explosive crescendo.

  Panting, slicked with sweat, she released him. “What about you?” Her words came out between gasps for breath.

  “LADIES FIRST.” COLE stared at Morgan, washed in moonlight. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could have satisfied her if she’d as much as touched him, much less been inside her. As it was, his control was teetering on the edge of a tripwire, ready to explod
e at the slightest disturbance.

  He laved her breasts again, tugging, nibbling, nipping gently, studying her for a reaction. She wasn’t a one-and-done woman, evidenced by the way she moaned with pleasure and pulled him tighter against her breasts.

  With his hand, he caressed her from neck to the soft curls of her femininity, smiling inwardly as her hips lifted. He slid a finger between her folds, all slick, wet, and hot. Found her swollen nub and rubbed lazy circles. When her breathing shifted and her hips moved in rhythm to his touch, he broke away long enough to sheath himself and position himself above her.

  When she reached for his balls, he almost lost it. He guided himself to her entrance, moving slowly—tortuously slowly—as he slipped inside, bit by bit.

  “Morgan. If you want me to stop, say it now, because I’m not going to be able to in about three seconds.”

  “Don’t. Stop.” She moved her hips, taking him further inside her until he was hilt deep in her heat.

  “This feels so good,” she said.

  Between it being Morgan and his long abstinence, Cole was on the edge far too quickly. He reached between her legs, touching her, stroking her, until all he could do was pray she was with him as he groaned with his release.

  He flopped onto his back to get his weight off her, sucking air until his breathing came close to normal. They lay in silence several long moments, his fingers dovetailed through hers.

  She spoke first. “I didn’t know ...”

  He waited, still incapable of coherent speech.

  “...That it could be like this. So good.”

  Okay, he was a guy, and allowed a quick moment of pride before he answered. “I’m glad. It can be even better. I was a bit too ... quick. Let me recharge and I’ll make it up to you.”

  COLE GRABBED HIS PHONE before the alarm went off the next morning, crept out of bed for the bathroom, taking care of bare necessities. He’d shower at the station.

  Before he left, he put on a pot of coffee for Morgan, took Bailey for a quick pee, then found a piece of paper for a note.