Morgan was pretty sure she’d never looked sexier in her life. Knowing that Jack could incite her to massive, broiling orgasms was surely making her feel hyperaware of herself as a woman. Imagining his reaction to this…outfit was arousing the hell out of her.
Her imagination needed to take a vacation.
But it was more than the orgasms, as much as she hated to admit it. With Jack, she’d felt a dizzying freedom unlike anything she’d ever known with a lover. A freedom to want whatever she desired. And utter acceptance of her longings. Despite her head telling her that her needs were wrong, her body ached. She could didn’t even fully comprehend what she craved, but Jack knew. Knowledge sizzled in his eyes, in the things he said to her. Jack could give her everything she’d ever fantasized about. All of that coupled with the feeling of security she had here with him, as if her stalker was a million miles away, encouraged her to explore her dark side with her infuriating, enigmatic protector.
She had to get a grip on herself. Fantasies weren’t reality, and she didn’t really want to perform all those acts that were springing deep from her imagination. Really, she didn’t.
With shaking hands, Morgan grabbed Jack’s robe. She belted the enormous thing around her waist, put on the sweatsocks that were double the size of her feet and marched to the eat-in kitchen’s bleached wood table, hoping she looked frumpy.
When she reached the kitchen, she saw that Jack had laid out some thick soup that had an orangish base with lots of rice and chunks of meat, his aunt’s homemade bread and a slab of butter. A small salad sat in another bowl. A big glass of ice water sat above her silverware.
Jack, on the other hand, was fisting a bottle of whiskey and eyeing her as if she was a tempting treat, unable to completely shield the feral hunger in his eyes that told her he wanted to strip her, cram her full of himself, and make her scream. Apparently, he didn’t see the robe as frumpy.
“I made chicken and sausage gumbo,” he rasped as his gaze roved her face, down her bare neck, to the hint of skin visible between her breasts. He shifted in his seat. “Ever eat gumbo?”
She shook her head, wondering—though she shouldn’t—if he was still incredibly, mouthwateringly hard.
“It’s thick and spicy.”
Like the air between them. Like the flesh he’d filled her with this morning.
Trembling, Morgan looked away and stared into her gumbo. She had to stop thinking like this, with nothing but her hormones. But she couldn’t eat, all too aware of Jack’s stare fixed on her as he held the whiskey bottle in his hand.
Morgan swallowed, feeling her pulse accelerate. “You’re staring at me.”
He inclined his head. “I am, cher.”
“All you can see is this overlarge bathrobe.”
Jack set the whiskey aside. Suddenly, she felt her chair being dragged along the hardwood floors, closer to him. She looked down to find his foot hooked around the leg as he pulled it beside his, right next to his heat and spice.
“Yeah, I’m staring. First, I’m male, and you’re a gorgeous woman. Second, I’m wondering which of those outfits of teasing torture you decided to put on beneath my robe. Third, I haven’t forgotten exactly what you feel like pulsing around my cock.”
Morgan sucked in air as desire slammed into her, leaving her short of breath. Clearly, any restraint exhibited here would be up to her.
Not good news, since she didn’t have much.
He leaned down and nuzzled the sensitive skin below her ear. Morgan shivered as he said, “You were slick and tight, cher. So amazing to fuck. You responded to my commands like you were born to submit. Like it was so natural. I’ve thought about nothing all day long except tying you down and spending morning, noon, and night finding ways to make you come until you scream your throat raw, then beg for more.”
Blunt. Graphic. Unapologetic. His words should have been a turnoff. The feminist in her thought she should be offended that he found her so purely sexual. She wasn’t that lucky.
Jack was her mind’s nightmare—arrogant, demanding, difficult. But he was her psyche’s fantasy—hot, untamed, determined to have her and force her to experience every naughty fantasy her fevered mind had ever conjured up.
A fresh rush of moisture dampened her new thong and her clit began to ache anew.
Morgan closed her eyes. This had to stop. Had to. Or she was going to give in. She wasn’t sure she could live with the repercussions—or herself—if she did.
“Jack, I’m interviewing you for a TV show about your lifestyle, not inviting you to tell me every one of the thoughts lurking in the dark corners of your mind. If you can’t keep it to yourself, you should take me back to my car. I—I’ll return to Houston and—”
“And wait for your stalker to find you? Rape you? Shoot you? Kill you? We’ve been over this. You’re in the middle of a swamp and much safer here, surrounded by sophisticated security systems and a bodyguard, than you are anywhere else. My buddy Deke is putting together a profile. Once we have it, we can figure out who your psycho is and nail him. Until then, I think you’d be wise to stay. Unless you’re more afraid of sex than a stalker?”
Damn it, he’d picked the worst possible time to be logical. “Of course not. You’re just making me uncomfortable.”
“The truth is making you uncomfortable; I’m merely making you aware of it. I want you. You want me. It’s pretty simple.”
“It’s oversimplified, big boy.”
He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took a long swallow. Morgan watched in fascination as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his tight-muscled throat.
When it was empty, he set the bottle on the table. “You can’t lie, cher. Your eyes, they tell me you want to be cuffed and clamped and fucked often. And you want me to be the one doing it.”
Mind trying to outrace the desire searing her brain, she shook her head. “Look, we both had an itch this morning and we scratched it. After, you ran as if I was diseased. You couldn’t get away from me fast enough. If you hadn’t, I would have. We’re done with each other.”
“You think, little girl? What we did, it was powerful, yeah,” he said, those dark eyes boring into her, forcing her to listen, willing her to understand. “If I hadn’t left, I would have carried you to the bed, tied you down, and not let you up until I’d fucked all of your perfect pink entrances and found each of your hidden sensitive spots and every way possible to drive your body insane.”