Wicked Lovers 01 Wicked Ties (14 page)

How is that career in politics going, old friend? Jack

How long, he wondered, before his “pal” got an eyeful of his former Army Ranger squadron leader fucking his fiancée? And what would he do?

He didn’t fight the cold smile of satisfaction.

But Morgan crept back into his thoughts. His smile slipped when he fantasized about having her spread out, tied up, on his bed for his taking. Utterly at his mercy and utterly his. Wet. Begging. Willing and eager to have him fuck her in every way possible.

And he wondered what he’d have to do to persuade her not just to leave Brandon, but to surrender that part of her she withheld.

He had to know. This urge wasn’t going to go away, and he knew himself too well to believe otherwise. Screw everything else. For now, time was on his side. Morgan was safe at the moment. Her stalker likely had no idea where she was. It was hard for someone who wasn’t Acadian to follow a son of the swamps into this untamed wilderness.

So Jack would seduce and coax Morgan into submission again. And again. She’d leave Brandon. And he would have that part of her she hadn’t given him before. That part he suspected she’d never given to any man. Jack planned to make sure she gave it to him—whatever it took.

Twenty minutes after Jack slammed the door in Morgan’s face, she stood in front of the antique mirror hanging from the bedroom wall and studied her appearance. She looked remarkably calm for a woman whose knees were still shaking from orgasms so strong, seismic equipment had surely felt the tremors.

Scrubbed face, hair whisked back in a single, severe braid down her back. Nothing sexy…if she didn’t include Alyssa’s tight purple submissive-maiden leather get-up in the picture. That, unfortunately, was hard to ignore.

She wasn’t about to go prowling through Jack’s closet for something else to wear. Too intimate. Chewing her lip, Morgan hesitated. She couldn’t afford to have the bastard to think the outfit was the closest thing to an engraved invitation for sex. Maybe if she gave off her best get lost vibes, he’d buy a clue. If not…

She could find herself screwed—literally—again.

And worse, she’d probably love it every bit as much as she had the first time.

Sighing, Morgan paced the room. What the hell was wrong with Jack, anyway? They had fabulously mind-blowing sex and he ran away? Of course, if he hadn’t beat her to it, she would have darted behind a door and slammed it between them in world-record time. But, still...

Jack was confusing the crap out of her. She should be the one freaked out. After all, she had a stalker after her. She’d just let a dominant man impale her against a door and drive her to two dizzying orgasms—after inspiring the two she’d given herself—all in about fifteen minutes’ time.

Her desire to submit to him, to obey his raspy voice, thick with need in her ear, was so new—yet felt so natural that she hadn’t been able to resist. She’d responded to every whispered command as if he’d poured pure liquid desire all over her skin and let it seep into her blood. In those moments, Jack had made what they were doing feel…amazing. So perfectly normal. So right that she’d ached. She hadn’t just been accepted as she was, but needed because of it. The sense of connection to Jack had swept common sense aside and made her cling to him like a life raft in a hurricane.

She’d barely been able to keep herself together while the pleasure Jack gave tore her barriers down. Something about him demanded the surrender of more than her body. She’d refused, clinging to her defenses by her fingernails—barely. He’d left her reeling and stunned. But not broken.

Then Jack had all but run from her, tearing off her rosecolored glasses. She was in the middle of who-knew-where with a man she’d only really met yesterday, wearing borrowed clothes, with no end to the nightmare in sight. Yet he ran away. Gee, she guessed that having sex with a client was a bodyguarding no-no.

The more she thought about his behavior, the more it pissed her off. And it hurt—way more than she wanted to admit.

With an impatient huff, she turned away from the mirror. Mr. Cajun Macho had another thing coming if he thought they were going to have sex again. So he had a touch that sizzled desire through her blood, intoxicating her like the most potent wine. She wasn’t going to risk addiction with a repeat performance.

But just the thought of it had her body clamoring for more, turning soft and wet at the prospect of experiencing all his determined sexual fire and tightly controlled power again.

So damn stupid. Not only did Jack have temporary written all over him, the only message about him that was even more clear was the one that pronounced him a very bad boy.

Honestly, she didn’t need this!

Down the hall, Morgan heard the click of a lock, the opening of the door. From the heavy footsteps, she knew he’d emerged into the hall. Maybe it was very thirteen year-old of her, but she wasn’t in the mood to face him. Not now. Not yet. Let him see how the rejection felt.

Cringing, she dove onto the bed and quickly feigned sleep as Jack made his way down the hall. He paused at the bedroom door, but Morgan wasn’t about to open her eyes. Seeing that toosexy face taunting her with the carnal knowledge of her body or annoyance—or both—was not her idea of a good time. Let Romeo eat breakfast alone. The thought of food right now held all the appeal of dog shit à la mode.

After a long moment, Jack’s footsteps continued down the hall. She heard a series of electronic beeps, then a ringing. A speakerphone. Who was he calling at seven-thirty in the morning?

She rose and tiptoed across the bedroom to peek around the corner. Jack stood there, cup of coffee in one hand, making toast with the other. And standing by the cracked headset with an annoyed expression.

“Jesus, Jack!” rasped a scratchy male voice. “Is sleeping in against your religion or did you just figure that if you’re up, everyone else should be, too?”

Morgan couldn’t help but overhear the conversation. It wasn’t as if he was trying to be quiet. Who in the heck was Jack talking to and why? And she had to agree with the other guy; why had he called at this early hour?

“I didn’t sleep at all last night, Deke. So whatever you got in the way of Z’s is way more than I got. Quit whining.”

“Have you turned vampire now?”

“Want to slit your wrists and make a donation to find out?”

“Oh, biting wit. You are cranky this morning. Get too little sex lately…or too much?”

Morgan felt the thick rush of embarrassment flood her skin. Please, please don’t let Jack have called some friend to do some locker room bragging. That would be the final insult to having her fantasies exposed, her common sense stripped away in a haze of desire, then being left naked, wet, and used against a virtual stranger’s door.

Jack growled, “Stop being cute and try being a business partner. I’m out at the swamp cabin. I’ve got a woman with a stalker. I need you to do some research.”

Morgan breathed a sigh of relief.

“No shit. A woman with a stalker?” said the man Jack had identified as Deke. “When did she become a client?”

“Yesterday, when he took a shot at her in broad daylight in a crowd. I was sitting less than two feet from her.”

“Holy… What info do you have?”

Quickly, Jack ran down the information Morgan had given him at dawn. All the information—the minute details of her sexual history, thankfully excluding himself. Despite that small favor, the rush of mortification returned, along with foot-stomping fury. Gee, why not take out a billboard along the highway just to make sure everyone knew who she’d done the wild thing with in the past.

And now she had Jack to add to the list. What on earth had she done?

After offering to fax copies of the latest pictures her stalker had left, Jack hung up. He paced across the long, narrow room once, twice, then turned his gaze to the hallway, his face, barely visible through the crack in the door, alive with purpose.

Morgan leapt back onto the bed and feigned sleep again as his footsteps sounded his approach.

“Merde,” he snarled, then turned away.

She didn’t know much French, but she knew enough to realize he’d said something that her mother would be happy to wash out his mouth with soap for saying.

Moments later, she heard the dial tone, the beeping and ringing again. Another call? Did he expect everyone to be awake at this hour?

#

“Oui?”

“Grand-pere, good morning.”

“That it is, dear boy. How is ta jolie fille?”

“Her name is Morgan,” he said with forced patience. “I told you before, she’s not mine.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Time tells, yeah? She got red hair under that wig?”

Jack hesitated. Brice was going to make entirely too much of Morgan’s hair color. It didn’t mean anything.

So what was that jolt of connection you felt to her when you were buried balls deep within her slick, wet heat? What was that sensation of wanting to crawl inside her and own her?

Really good sex and the knowledge that she’d been holding something back he was determined to have? Had to be that…or insanity.

“I didn’t call to discuss Morgan’s hair.”

“She does, doesn’t she!” The old man crowed, then laughed.

“Grand-pere…”

“I told you. Just yesterday, I told you. Those dreams, they mean something.”

The old man was not going to give this up. “Okay, yes. Her hair is red. Happy?”

“Tres bon,” Brice said smugly. “She dressing any better today, ta jolie fille?”

“Actually, that’s why I called you. Can you pick up a few things for her to wear in a size six and bring them out to the cabin?”

“This I can do. I’m having lunch with your Aunt Cheré, then I’ll be out.”

“Fine. Warm, practical clothes, Grand-pere. No surprises.”

“Why you worried about surprises? I’ll bring what you need.”

#

Time dragged by. Morgan bathed again. Paced. She skipped breakfast.

Jack stayed in his locked room at the end of the hall, pacing with heavy footsteps she couldn’t help but hear.

What did he have to be disturbed about? The stalker hadn’t caught up to them yet, and Jack had gotten laid. From his angle, it had to look like a win-win situation.

Morgan hadn’t been quite so lucky. She’d managed to hold a part of herself back from Jack—or thought she had—but as time passed and she couldn’t shake this damn yearning for him. It sank deeper, growing, urging her to touch him. Morgan feared she’d given Jack a chunk of her psyche. Not a good development.

As noon approached, she made herself a sandwich. The only drinks in Jack’s refrigerator were bottles of water and beer. Normally, Morgan would opt for the water. Today, she gratefully took a beer and disappeared into the bedroom again, lying listlessly on the bed. She spent hours trying not to think about Jack, the way he’d touched her, the way his voice crawled inside her head and her body, then seemed to challenge her, own her. Forgetting the pleasure that seared her was proving impossible, not when she could close her eyes and still feel the pull of his mouth at her nipple, the width of his cock stretching her. Not when she couldn’t forget that demanding, compelling voice, those seducing dark eyes.

The thoughts brought on fresh desire. Thick, bubbling desire, swirling inside her to form an insistent throb. Her clit ached, and she could not believe how wet she was, how swollen her folds felt. She’d never been ruled by her hormones. Why now?

Morgan thought about self-pleasuring again, but refrained. She didn’t want to be caught again. The mortification had nearly killed her once, but twice in one day… She grimaced. Still, she might have risked it if she had believed it would douse the fire raging inside her.

But the fire was one she feared only Jack could put out.

A knock at the cottage’s front door startled Morgan. She whirled to the clock on the little cypress bedside table. Nearly fourthirty in the afternoon.

Jack tore open the door from his hiding place and streaked down the hall. On his way past, he cast a heated glance into the bedroom, right at her, a glance that said he remembered every kiss, every touch between them—and that as far as he was concerned, they weren’t done. A quick glance down his muscled chest covered in a tight black T-shirt, past those six-pack abs… Oh, hell. He was hard. There was no mistaking that bulge.

Need slammed into her belly. Her gaze flew back to his.

“We’ll talk later.”

About sex. He didn’t speak it, but the words hung in the air.

“I have nothing to say,” she protested automatically.

Talking about sex would only make her want to have it with Jack again. Bad idea. Already, she was more fixated on him than was smart, more than she’d ever been on a man—even the one she’d agreed to marry once upon a time. She just needed to evade this stalker, figure out who it was, and get back to her job and the sanity of her life in L.A.

“We have plenty to discuss. Now come meet my grandfather.”

Morgan crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to budge.

Any satisfaction she got out of watching Jack grind his teeth came to a halt when he stalked across the room, his intent to grab her and drag her to the door written all over his face. If he touched her, she would only want him more. The scalding desire inside her was already too hot, too dangerous. And it made her so angry she could spit.

“Don’t touch me.” She jerked away from him. “I can walk on my own.”

“Then get your pretty ass moving before I paddle it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

He snorted. “Wanna try me?”

No. No, she didn’t. His hard intent to lift her purple skirt and spank her ass was etched into the dark challenge of his eyes, into the hard lines of his aggressive stance.

The thought outraged her. Unfortunately, it aroused her, too. More of the cream from her arousal soaked the little thong she wore, coating her sex thoroughly with every step she took. She prayed he couldn’t tell.

“You’re a bastard,” she muttered as she walked past Jack and into the cottage’s main room.

“If you were expecting Prince Charming, I’m sorry. He’s with his boyfriend,” Jack quipped as he sailed by her and pulled the front door open.