Funny how they suddenly didn't seem to have any problems blowing those damn whistles.
Chapter Eight
Dylan
"Everything okay?"
"Hm?" Morgan looked up from the duffle bag she was going through, her face a mask of disinterest. Physically, she was maybe ten feet away from me but mentally, she was in a completely different universe.
"Yeah. Everything's fine."
"You sure about that?"
"Positive." She pulled some clothes from the duffel bag—the same skimpy pajamas she'd worn last night—then slowly descended the steps. I wanted to call bullshit but figured that might be pushing things. She'd been distant all night, ever since we'd hooked up after the game. I'd barely gotten a smile from her when I first saw her and it had only gone downhill from there.
My only consolation was that she had been just as distant with Addy and Jacqui when they tried to draw her into some conversation while we were at the bar. Morgan had been so quiet, uncomfortable even, that I finally suggested we go home. From the look that had flashed across her face, you'd think I suggested marriage or something—
Until I realized what I had said. Home. Like this was her place just as much as it was mine. Hard to believe I'd only known her for a little more than twenty-four hours. It was even harder to believe how quickly I'd become accustomed to having her around—which was beyond foolish, especially considering we'd barely seen each other all day today.
I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, uncapped it then turned back to her. "Did you want something to drink? I have soda or iced tea or—"
"No, thank you. I need to get to sleep. I have to get up early tomorrow."
"Yeah? Any particular reason?"
Her gaze darted to mine and I saw the shadows in her vivid green eyes before she looked away. "I need to get to the bus station early."
"The bus station?" I tightened the grip on the bottle and leaned against the edge of the counter. "You're leaving?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." I took a swig of beer and barely managed to choke it down. She was leaving. I shouldn't be surprised—she didn't live here, didn't have family here. There was, literally, no reason for her to stay. But hearing her say the words and knowing that I'd never see her again—
Yeah, it was a blow. I couldn't explain why, didn't even really understand why, it just was.
Apparently Morgan didn't feel the same way because she moved past me and headed toward the bathroom. The door closed with a soft click and I stood there, unable to do anything more than stare at it.
She was leaving.
I'd never see her again.
Why the hell did I care?
I shouldn't care. Hell, I didn't care. Not really. So she was leaving. So what? Big deal. I should be happy because that meant I'd get my bed back.
I drained the beer without really tasting it then stormed to the closet to grab the sheet and blanket and pillow I had used last night. By the time I'd made up the sofa for another night of torture, I'd pretty much convinced myself that Morgan leaving was a good thing. It had to be a good thing, if I was already overreacting to her news after twenty-four hours.
The sooner Morgan left, the quicker my sanity would return.
And then I made the mistake of turning around and practically ran right into her.
I grabbed her arms in an awkward attempt to steady her then just as quickly released her. "Sorry—"
"You take the bed, I'll sleep on the sofa."
"You can have the bed—"
"And I said I'll take the sofa." She brushed past me and reached for the pillow to fluff it. Her gaze slid to my face and I noticed the slight stiffening of her shoulders right before she looked away. "You're hurt. You should have the bed."
"I'm not hurt."
"Yes, you are. Take the bed."
"Morgan, I'm not hurt."
She slammed the pillow down then whirled on me. "Really? What do you call that? Or that?" She pointed to the butterfly bandage on my cheek first, then to the dark bruise just under my chin. "And God only knows what other cuts and scrapes and bruises you have that I can't see."
"Just a small one on my side. Did you want to see for yourself?"
"No!" She held her hands up like she was warding off some dark spirits then stepped back. "No, I don't want to see. I just—I just want to go to sleep. That's all."
"I'm not hurt, Morgan. Honest. It's just part of the game."
"It's barbaric. And brutal. And...and vicious. I never want to see another game again."
I started to tell her she was overreacting but stopped myself. This was more than just an overreaction. There was something more to it. Something personal.
Cold fury rushed through me and it took more control than I thought I had not to demand she tell me who hurt her. The thought of any man touching a woman was enough to set me off. But the thought of a man hurting Morgan? I suddenly understood what it meat to see red because if I found out who it was, I'd tear him apart myself.
And yeah, maybe my reaction was a bit overboard. In fact, I knew it was.
I stepped back and sucked in a deep breath then slowly released it. That did absolutely nothing so I went through the motions of removing my tie and jacket then carefully hung both up in the closet. I started unbuttoning my shirt, realized what I was doing and how Morgan might take it, then stopped.
Then I turned and pinned her in place with one single look. "Who hurt you, Morgan?"
"What?"
"Who hurt you? Was it your fiancé? Is that why you left him?"
She slid to the corner of the sofa and stared at me like I'd suddenly lost my mind. Maybe I had, because the urge to do bodily harm to the piece of shit who had dared touch Morgan still gripped me.
"Nobody hurt me. And no, that's not why I left him."
"Then who was it?"
"Nobody."
"Why are you protecting him?"
"I'm not protecting anyone because nobody hurt me!" She flung the blanket to the side and jumped to her feet. "Why are you so convinced somebody hurt me?"
"Because of how you're acting." I reached up and touched the bandage under my eyes then dropped my hand. "It's just a cut, part of the game, and you're acting like someone beat the living shit out of me."
"And maybe you got hit in the head harder than it looked because you're not making any sense."
"I didn't get hit in the head."
"No? Sorry, I couldn't really tell with the way the fists were flying."
"It's just part of the game!"
"It's barbaric."
I rounded the sofa and stopped a foot away from her. She was tall and slender but she still had to tilt her head back to look at me. Anger flashed in the depths of her eyes but there was other emotion in there as well. Sympathy. Sorrow. Regret.
Irritation.
I almost smiled when I saw that last one but stopped myself, figuring she might very well haul off and slug me if I did. Well, maybe not slug, not with her aversion to fighting, but I was sure she'd do something.
"It's just a game, Morgan. It's what we do. And it doesn't happen that often."
"Then I guess I was just lucky tonight, huh?"
"Why does it bother you so much?"
"I told you why."
"No, you told me what you thought of it. There's a difference."
"Not to me."
"Who hurt you, Morgan?"
"Nobody." I didn't miss the hesitation in her voice, or the way she chose that exact second to look away.
"Morgan—" I reached for her but she stepped away before I could touch her. Her gaze darted to mine then just as quickly darted away. She lowered herself to the sofa and grabbed the pillow, holding it in front of her like a shield.
"Not me." She tightened her arms around the pillow and focused on one of the prints hanging on the opposite wall. "My mother and one of her boyfriends."
"Your father?"
"No, not my father. I, um, I never met him. I don't even k
now who he is, Mom never told me. For all I know, she might not even know."
I filed that tidbit of information away without commenting on it. There was nothing I could say, no way to respond, especially since it was obvious that Morgan didn't want to talk about it.
I took a seat on the sofa next to her. Not so close that we were touching, but close enough that my presence might comfort her. Maybe. At least she didn't slide away or tell me to get lost. "He hit her?"
"They hit each other. Trust me, sometimes Mom was just as bad as he was. It was like having front row seats to a live wrestling match at least twice a month."
"How old were you?"
"Six, I think. Maybe seven. They weren't together for very long, just over a year."
"That doesn't change anything."
"Maybe not." She shifted and looked up at me for a few seconds. Then her brows pulled low over eyes flashing with more of the irritation I'd seen earlier. "I don't want your sympathy, okay? That's not why I told you."
"I wasn't—"
"Don't lie because I can see it clear as day in your eyes. I'm a big girl, Dylan. A survivor. And what happened then was a lifetime ago. I barely even remember."
"Obviously. That's why you were so upset tonight."
"I wasn't upset."
"Yeah, okay."
"I wasn't. And it's still barbaric if you ask me."
"It's just a scratch." I reached up and fingered the bandage, actually started to lift one edge of it. "Do you want to see?"
"No!" Her hand shot out and closed over mine. "No, I don't want to see."
"You sure? It's really not that bad."
"I'm sure." She glanced at her hand, still covering mine. Her fingers tightened for a brief second before she pulled her hand away. "Does it hurt?"
"If I say yes, will you kiss it and make it better?" And whoa. Holy shit. Where the hell did that come from? Whether I'd been teasing or not, this wasn't the time to go down that road. Hell, I shouldn't even be looking in the direction of that road. That road shouldn't even be here, not in this neighborhood.
I started to apologize but Morgan beat me to it—
And the words that fell from her mouth were anything but apologetic.
"Maybe. If you think it will help."
"Morgan—" I should say no. Tell her I was just teasing. Make a joke of it. Blow it off. Something. But then she was leaning toward me, those vivid green eyes focused on mine until she dipped her head and pressed her mouth against the bandage. It was a soft kiss, like the fleeting brush of a feather against my cheek. So soft, I shouldn't have even felt it.
But I did.
My entire body tightened in reaction. The blood rushing through my veins immediately heated and I suddenly wanted, needed, more than I had ever wanted or needed before.
This was a bad idea. Bad with a capital B. I turned my head, ready to tell her all the reasons why we shouldn't, but our lips met and every coherent thought fled from my brain. The only thing that mattered was Morgan.
Her taste. Her touch. Her smell.
I wanted her.
Here.
Now.
Chapter Nine
Dylan
I fitted my mouth more fully over Morgan's and deepened the kiss, expecting her to pull away. Maybe a part of me was even hoping she would.
Instead of pulling away, she slid even closer and wrapped her arms around my neck. The points of her small breasts pressed against my chest and it would have been so easy to tear at her clothes to get to them.
What the hell was it about her that made me want to lose control? I never did that. Never. Not even when I'd been a horny-ass teenager.
Well, okay, maybe then, once or twice—
I shook the thoughts of past escapades away and cupped the side of her face with the palm of one hand. Her skin was warm and velvety soft, begging to be caressed. A soft little sigh escaped her mouth and disappeared into mine, which was all the encouragement I needed. I deepened the kiss even more and swept my tongue against hers. She tasted like sweet tea and spicy remoulade and something even more delicious. I dragged my hand across her cheek and tangled my fingers in her hair. Thick, silky soft, with a hint of my shampoo. I hadn't noticed earlier but the realization that she had used my shampoo unleashed an unexpected surge of possessiveness in me.
It was just shampoo, for shit's sake. It shouldn't have this effect on me. It shouldn't have any effect.
But it did.
I tipped her head back and dragged my mouth along her jaw, teased the lobe of her ear with my tongue then playfully nipped the skin just below it. Her fingers tightened against my shoulder and her small gasp echoed in my ear.
I nipped again then softly kissed the tender spot and was rewarded with the same reaction.
"You like that?"
"Mm-hm." Her voice was a husky as my own, low and throaty and a thousand times sexier. I kissed my way down her neck then gently nipped the tendon at the base of her neck and shoulder. I was rewarded with an even stronger reaction this time: her gasp was sharper, needier, her back arching the tiniest bit as she pressed even closer.
I eased her against the sofa, following her down until I was half-resting on top of her. My cock was hard as a rock and straining for release and I wanted nothing more than to sink deep inside her. Or, at the very least, press the hard length against her. But I was still half-sitting, my lower body twisted at an awkward angle with my feet firmly planted on the floor.
My bed was six feet away. Three big steps and we could both stretch out against the luxury mattress and soft sheets of the king-sized bed. Six feet. Hell, the way I felt right now, I could probably jump that distance without giving it a thought.
But I couldn't bring myself to move, not when Morgan was clinging to me the way she was. Not when her fingers tangled in my hair and her hands gently guided my head further down her throat, to her collarbone and lower.
I reached between us and cupped one breast through the thin cotton of her tank shirt. The tight peak of one nipple grazed the skin of my palm and I swallowed back a growl when she arched her back and pressed herself more fully into my hand. The t-shirt wasn't much of a barrier but it was one I wanted gone.
Now.
I grabbed the hem of her shirt and dragged it up, shifting to the side to ease it up even higher. Her hands closed over mine and for one agonizing second, I thought she was going to tell me to stop.
She didn't.
Instead, she pulled the shirt over her head then lay back down, bared to me from the waist up.
And God, she was beautiful. Achingly beautiful, with pale skin flushed a soft rose and a small spattering of freckles around her collarbone. Her breasts were small and firm, her nipples tight and sharp and growing even tighter as I stared down at them. I cupped one breast with my hand, not surprised that she was a perfect fit. Then I dipped my head and pulled that perfect nipple into my mouth and sucked.
Slowly at first, teasing it with my tongue. Harder, pulling the tight peak against the roof of my mouth. Her cry was both sharp and soft; her fingers tightened in my hair and held me even closer, silently demanding that I don't stop.
I had no intentions of stopping. Not now. Not unless she told me to. But damn, this position was uncomfortable. I wanted to stretch out on top of her, let her feel my weight covering her. I wanted to feel flesh against flesh, wanted to see the differences in our bodies as they melded together, hers soft and pale and delicate, mine harder and sharper.
I reached down and fumbled one-handed with my belt, trying to get it undone so I could reach the damn button and zipper of my pants. Morgan's hand closed over mine and I damn near cheered in excitement that she was taking over. Just the anticipation of feeling her hand close over me, of having her stroke my cock, was enough to send sheer ecstasy shooting through my veins—
Until I realized she was holding my hand still. Stopping me—with no intention of taking over herself.
I swallowed back a groan of disappointment and eased awa
y from her. The heat of embarrassment filled my face and I dropped my gaze, afraid of what I might see if I looked at her. I cleared my throat, ran one hand through my hair, and slid back a few inches to give her room to get up.
"Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because I didn't mean to push."
"You weren't pushing."
I turned to look at her and, of course, my gaze went directly to her bare chest instead of her face.
Because I was a dog.
Of course, I was.
I quickly looked away and cleared my throat again, trying to remember what the hell she'd just said. Something about...oh yeah, me not pushing.
Which made no sense.
I looked at her again and this time, I actually managed to keep my gaze north of her neck. "But you wanted to me stop."
"Because I figured we'd be more comfortable in your bed."
I almost asked her if she was sure then decided it was a stupid question to ask. A second later, I scooped her into my arms and carried her over to the bed then kind of almost tossed her to the mattress. It wasn't really a toss, not literally, but the bed did bounce a little bit. Of course, that could have been from my own weight hitting the mattress when I quickly followed her and stretched out on top of her.
Most of my clothes were shed—shirt, shoes, pants and socks—when I paused again, uncertainty washing over me. I leaned back then stared down at her flushed face and glazed eyes and kiss-swollen lips. She was beautiful, her passion and need clearly written on her expressive face. She didn't look like she wanted me to stop but one horrible thought had lodged into my squirrel brain and now that it was there, I couldn't get rid of it.
I rolled onto my side and propped my head up with one hand. "Is this rebound sex?"
Her eyes shot open and she twisted her head to the side to look at me. "What?"
Her disbelief was clear but I'd already put my foot in my mouth. Might as well get a juicy taste of it. "Rebound sex. You know, when—"
"I know what it is."
"Okay then. Is it? I mean, I'm totally cool if it is." Not really, no. "I'd just like to know beforehand."
"No, it's not rebound sex."
"Are you sure about that? Because you did almost get married to some guy you were supposed to be in love with yesterday." And holy shit, was it only just yesterday? Maybe I was the one who needed to put the brakes on things.
Troublemaker (New Orleans Bourdons Book 2) Page 5