“Do you?” India’s gaze darted to his and held. “Really?”
One unshielded moment and Morgan saw so much. Vulnerability, sadness, curiosity, strength. And loneliness. For someone who was always surrounded by people, she seemed so alone.
Maybe he was crazy, but Morgan wondered. Did India Curtis need a friend? Tomorrow, she wouldn’t know he was alive. But for tonight, he was willing to play the part.
Taking a deep breath, taking a chance, he broached a subject he’d never discussed with anyone.
“My father works for yours.”
“Laird McCloud,” she said, nodding.
“You know what he does?”
“Whatever my father wants.”
India did know. Hell, everyone in Lake Darwell knew. Laird McCloud earned a living as Rance Curtis’ muscle. The secret wasn’t what Morgan’s father did, but how far he went to keep his boss happy and the Curtis empire intact.
Thuggery. Laird was an expert. Murder? Morgan couldn’t say for certain, but he had his suspicions. He feared his father knew exactly where the bodies were buried because he put them there.
While knowledge was power, it could also be dangerous. When you worked for a powerful man, there was such a thing as possessing too much information.
Often, Laird came home, his knuckles bruised and swollen, his face not much better. One night, chances were, he might not come home at all.
Girls like India, her friends, her crowd, avoided boys like Morgan. In his case, the reasons went beyond money and social status. He was the town bad boy. Not for anything he did. But the sins of his father saddled him with guilt by association.
“You should go, India. If your father found out we spent time alone, he wouldn’t be happy.”
“He’s never happy,” she said. “But you’re right. And I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble for something I did. Dad keeps a tight rein on his golden girl.”
Morgan could see how the description could get old. However, in his eyes, the color suited her. Even now, in a darkened room, with the rain falling outside, India glowed, her light drawing him like a moth to a forbidden flame.
Oh, boy. She needed to go. He should make her. In a minute. Two at the most. Besides, if he didn’t discover why she sought him out, the mystery would drive him crazy.
“What do you want, India.”
“In general?” she asked with a smile.
“With me.” A thought occurred to him, leaving a lead weight in his gut. “If you want someone beaten up, I’m not your guy.”
“Holy crap,” India gasped. “You went to a dark place awfully fast.”
Morgan shrugged. Wouldn’t be the first time someone from India’s social circle asked. Usually an asshole without the balls to settle his own problems.
“Nothing sinister,” she assured him.
“Then what?”
“A kiss. Just one.”
“Wait. What?” Morgan tried to wrap his mind around what she said. And failed. Miserably. “Who do you want me to kiss?”
“Me, of course.”
“Nothing of course about it.” He stepped back in case India made a move, in case he let her. “You avoided me like the plague for eleven years. Hell, you felt the need to introduce yourself.”
“Manners dictated that I—”
“Fuck manners. Sorry. Didn’t mean to cuss. Now, or when you came in.”
“I’ve heard the word. Even said it once or twice.”
India Curtis? Drop an f-bomb?
“Doubtful,” Morgan scoffed.
“Fuck,” she said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“I get the picture,” he chuckled. “You know how to curse.”
“And the world didn’t stop turning.”
“Not yet. Maybe someone’s on a coffee break.”
“Maybe.” She met his gaze, and Morgan’s heart skipped a beat. “More likely the fates, or whoever’s in charge, could give a rat’s ass if I have a potty mouth.”
India was probably right. But he suspected her father cared. He cultivated a certain reputation for himself and his family.
“I doubt Rance Curtis would like to know his daughter went around shaking the foundation of his perfectly constructed—”
“House of cards?” India finished with a snort, the shook her head. “We go off track.”
“My fault,” Morgan said.
“Yes. But I helped.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s start over. We’ve been classmates for most of our lives. Seems, after eleven years, we should get to know each other.”
“A kiss is an awfully intimate way to get acquainted.”
Certain he saw her lips twitch, Morgan’s gaze narrowed to her mouth. Then realized she wanted him to kiss those lips and quickly looked away.
“Are you laughing?” The image of her full lower lip burned in his brain, he cleared his throat and swallowed. “Seriously?”
“Probably.”
“Then the whole thing is a joke.” Morgan didn’t know if he felt relief or anger. “What am I, a dare?”
“No!” India said. “The kiss yes, you no.”
“I don’t understand.” Morgan’s entire world was suddenly a mystery.
“Two of my friends, Laura and Prudence. You know them?”
“No.” India seemed to keep forgetting they didn’t run in the same circles. “But I know who they are. What about them?”
“Today, they dared me to kiss a boy, any boy, because I don’t. I haven’t.”
Finally, Morgan thought he understood. But the truth seemed impossible.
“You’ve never been kissed?”
“One sloppy attempt during spin the bottle when I was in the seventh grade does not count. So, the answer’s no. I’ve never been kissed. Want to help me remedy the problem?”
“But— Why me?”
“Why not?”
Morgan knew the list of reasons was endless. He couldn’t think of one.
“Will you, or won’t you? Make up your mind.” Suddenly impatient, India tapped her watch. “I don’t have all night.”
“Didn’t realize I was on the clock.” Morgan raised an eyebrow. “You came to me, remember?”
“My mistake.”
When India turned to leave, Morgan panicked. Was he crazy letting her go? She was his fantasy, his dream girl. Knowing he would never have another chance, he’d be a fool to say no. The hell with her motives, he was in. All in.
“Wait! Yes!” he shouted. “I’ll kiss you.”
Afraid she might change her mind, he reached for her. India shook her head.
“Not here.” She picked up her umbrella and smashed her hat onto her head. “In the rain.”
“Why? Morgan asked, his suspicions coming back. “Someone out there with a camera?”
“Not on your life. I don’t want anyone to see.” India let out an exasperated sigh and took his hand, tugging him out the door. “Tonight, is for me, no one else.”
There were no security cameras in the parking lot. But the lights were bright, even in the pouring rain. India had parked her car away from the building, in the shadows. The brand-new Mercedes, black with silver trim, blended into the night.
When she said she didn’t want anyone to see, she wasn’t joking.
Stopping next to the driver’s door, India kept hold of his hand as she tipped her head. Her hat fell to the ground, unnoticed. Blinking the rain from her lashes, she looked him in the eyes.
“Ready?” she asked.
A student of kissing since the age of eleven, Morgan considered himself a master of the art. Because the girl was India, he felt a twinge of nerves. Quickly set them aside, determined to make the most of a once in a lifetime opportunity.
Before he even took her in his arms, Morgan knew he would never forget. He wanted India’s experience to have the same impact. She may never talk to him again, but she’d remember. Always.
“If tonight is a
ll about you, what about me?” he asked with a teasing smile. “You get to enjoy our kiss. Don’t I?”
India frowned. When Morgan gently cupped her cheek, she hesitated, then leaned into his touch and sighed as if starved for the slightest show of affection.
“I don’t expect to enjoy the kiss,” she said with startling candor.
“Then why ask for one?” Morgan demanded as he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close.
“I want something that belongs to me. Only me. Something my father’s money can’t buy.” India licked her lips. “I know a kiss is fleeting. But…”
“What we do, here, now, is between us. Given freely. Something money can’t buy.”
Again, Morgan saw a fleeting moment of vulnerability flash through her amber-colored eyes.
“Yes.”
“You want a memory?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”
“Me, too,” Morgan admitted.
“Why?”
Because, damn it, I think I love you.
Lying to himself would be pointless. He’d loved her for a long time, telling himself one thing, feeling another. Knowing he could never tell India, the revelation was something Morgan would take to his grave. But he could show her. With one, single kiss.
Morgan brushed his thumb over her lips. When her mouth parted, ever so slightly, he kissed her. He wanted India and was determined to use his skill to make her want him with the same intensity.
Yet, the second she melted into him, her arms going around his waist, her lips pressing hard against his, he forgot about technique and style. He forgot everything. All he could think about was her.
India tasted like cherries—wild and sweet. Her little gasp of pleasure as he changed angles made him weak in the knees. A first for him. To steady them both, he shuffled forward until her back was pressed against the car. He threaded his fingers through her hair, the wet curls wrapping themselves around his skin, welcoming his touch.
India might not realize, and he would never say, but they were exactly where they were meant to be.
“Again,” she whispered when Morgan raised his head.
Again? Another kiss? Was he dreaming?
“Are you sure?” he asked.
With eyes half-closed, lips half-open, India nodded. It was all the answer Morgan needed.
Reversing their positions until he felt cold, wet steel against his back, Morgan opened the front of his jacket, pulled India inside, and fastened two buttons, effectively trapping her body next to the warmth of his. She didn’t protest. Instead, she rubbed herself against him, like a sultry cat trying to get as close as possible to the source of heat.
Perhaps his scrambled brain misled him, but Morgan swore India purred.
They kissed again. No longer worried he might frighten her, he deepened the connection, using his tongue and teeth to heighten the intensity. She moaned; Morgan groaned. When she bit his lip, a sign she wouldn’t let him have all the fun, he swore the gates of heaven opened and angels sang.
India became the aggressor, and Morgan was happy to let her take the lead. She tempted, she teased. He knew the moment she realized the power she had over him. Her inexperience didn’t matter. She became bold and brazen. And he loved every second.
Anything India wanted, if she asked, Morgan would have moved mountains to make her wish come true.
“You…” she gasped. “I… We shouldn’t.”
“Share a kiss? Too late.”
India laughed. “Two kisses. If we stay here any longer, the count will up to three.”
Was she so innocent, Morgan wondered. If they stayed much longer, there were a long list of things they could do. Because she wanted one favor, a kiss, he kept his hands on her back, traveling no lower than the swell of her hips.
As for her breasts, if he wanted to feel their weight somewhere other than pressed against his chest, nothing would stop him—except India and his own moral code. She, and he would never push his desires on her, or any woman.
Morgan considered yes, a blessing. No, meant no. Every time.
As he unbuttoned his jacket, Morgan noticed the rain had stopped. India held out her hand with a bemused expression.
“When?”
“Beats me,” Morgan grinned, satisfied to know he hadn’t been the only one lost to the impact of outside forces. “Keys?”
“Hm?” India frowned. “Oh. Keys. For my car. Right. Here you go.”
Morgan opened the door. Reaching in, he pushed the key into the ignition and started the car. Checking to make sure the heat blew hot at full force, he stood back. Then, taking her hand, helped her behind the wheel.
“Such a gentleman,” she said with a warm, grateful smile. “You could teach etiquette lessons to the other boys in our class.”
Morgan leaned against the open door, not in, not out, as India buckled her seatbelt.
“Any other classes I could teach?”
“Probably.” She laughed. “Then again, I haven’t kissed anyone else. Perhaps they could teach you.
“No,” he assured her. “They couldn’t.”
“Arrogant.”
“Confident.”
A moment passed, several clicks of the clock, as they looked into each other’s eyes. Morgan wanted to ask India out on a date. He didn’t. Whatever she wanted—if anything—she kept to herself.
“Good night,” he said and shut the door.
The Mercedes rolled a few feet forward, then stopped. The window opened.
“Morgan?”
“Yes?” he asked from where he stood, feet firmly planted on the ground. Any closer was a bad idea. India was temptation personified.
“Thank you.”
Waiting, Morgan watched as she pulled onto the road, the red taillights disappearing around the corner. Now, he knew how India Curtis felt in his arms. The answer went beyond any fantasy, into the realm of legend.
Would he be better off not knowing? Maybe. Probably. Morgan didn’t care.
Breathing deep, he laughed aloud as the clouds opened again. Morgan lifted his face toward the sky and let the water run down his face unchecked. From now on, he would always think of India when it rained.
As for the two kisses they shared? He wouldn’t trade them for anything. Not for a million dollars. He grinned again. Not even for a gold record.
CHAPTER EIGHT
♫~♫~♫
STILL RIDING AN emotional high from the night before, Morgan was up early the next morning. Truth was, he hadn’t slept more than an hour, maybe two. What if he closed his eyes only to discover everything that happened with India was another dream? Better, more vivid than the others he’d experienced over the years, but still a lie perpetrated by his overly vivid imagination.
Morgan licked his lips and smiled. Cherries. Realistically, he knew he didn’t taste India, but her sweetness lingered, if only in his mind.
Sleep deprived or not, be jumped from bed, bursting with energy. Looking down at his tented pajama bottoms, he sighed. Morning wood wasn’t news. He was young, and his dick often had a mind of its own. Thinking about India didn’t help. Or hurt.
Ignoring the problem, he dressed. Sneakers, sweatpants, a t-shirt, and hoodie. His mind and body needed a release. With plenty of time before class, he’d run to school, hit the weight room, then shower in the boy’s locker room.
But first, breakfast.
“Someone has a bounce in his step. Get lucky?”
Well, shit. Morgan thought, his happy mood taking a major hit. He assumed his father would still be in bed. Or, better yet, spent the night with his current lady friend.
Instead, Laird McCloud sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a white ceramic mug, his elbows propped on the warped Formica surface. By the look of him—still dressed in yesterday’s clothes—he hadn’t been home for long.
Morgan sniffed the air. Whiskey-spiked coffee. Laird was in his neutral zone. Somewher
e between drunk and a hangover.
No new bruises, Morgan observed. No blood marring the front of his shirt or fresh scrapes on his knuckles. His father seemed to be in a decent mood. However, Laird was a mercurial man. Anything could set him off, including an innocent good morning greeting. Morgan learned to speak as seldom as possible. A one-syllable answer worked best. Yes or no topped the list.
Often, like now, Morgan chose complete silence. He grabbed an apple from the refrigerator, hoping for a quick exit.
For some reason, his father wanted to talk. Rather, he wanted Morgan to listen. Laird nodded toward the only other chair in the room. The one opposite him.
“Sit. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Knowing he was stuck, he stifled a sigh and followed Laird’s instruction.
The wobbly old metal chair groaned under Morgan’s weight. One day soon, he imagined the ancient piece of furniture would collapse. But not today, damn it. He and the chair remained upright, right in his father’s crosshairs.
“Answer my question.” Laird’s blurry gaze sharpened. “Speak up, boy.”
Boy. Morgan couldn’t think of the last time his name passed Laird’s lips. Perhaps his father didn’t remember. Or simply couldn’t be bothered. Honestly, Morgan was past the point where he gave a shit either way.
However, until he graduated high school next spring, he was stuck. He lived with a man he hated—who hated him. Yet, now and then, like now, Laird went through the awkward motions of an interested father.
Morgan’s only consolation was that the attempt at patriarchal concern never lasted long. Laird lost interest quickly, lost his temper soon after. A few colorful words delivered at the top of his lungs, and he would storm from the room.
Any minute now, Morgan hoped. If not, he was skilled at helping the process along.
“Well?” Laird demanded, his patience already fraying a bit around the edges.
“Nothing to say.” Morgan took a bite of apple. “Same old, same old.”
“Girlfriend?”
The image of India, lips wet and parted, popped into Morgan’s mind. She wasn’t his. Not by a longshot. However, if his father knew what took place last night in the pouring rain, he would go ballistic.
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