Wicked Ties - Page 18/51

Jack jolted awake. Damn it! So close this time. So close…but he still couldn’t see her face.

Stirring from a fitful sleep on the sofa, Jack opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. Just after midnight. Now what?

He laid back on the couch, breathing hard, gritting his teeth against a steel-inspired erection that always followed the dream. The fucking thing tormented him more frequently these days— nearly every night for the past two weeks. Why?

Certainly his grandfather and the old man’s crazy theories about soul mates and dreaming of destined lovers was all bullshit. It had to be. If there was any such thing as a woman destined to be his, he wouldn’t torture himself with a dream. He’d simply find her and claim her. And prove she was just another woman he could walk away from. End of story.

Jack was perfectly happy with that explanation except…why did the woman in his dream have the same hair as Morgan if the dream was irrelevant? Why did Morgan feel like more than the means to his revenge when he touched her?

Shoving the stray thought aside, Jack blinked, trying to rid tired eyes of the grit of exhaustion. Last night, he hadn’t slept even a handful of hours. Tonight was no different. Having these nocturnal visions haunting his sleep and Morgan under his roof wasn’t helping him catch up on his beauty rest.

And judging from the erection throbbing inside his boxers like an insistent toothache, along with vestiges of the dream, he wasn’t likely to get much more sleep tonight.

Rising with a stretch, Jack sighed and donned his jeans with a grimace. Immediately, his thoughts turned to Morgan.

Why couldn’t he leave her alone? He’d tackled a big part of his revenge and emailed Brandon Ross the proof that he’d been as deep inside his enemy’s woman as a man could get. Now, his revenge would be complete as soon as Morgan left the disloyal asshole she planned to marry.

But what if she didn’t? Lots of women wanted to be married to one of the esteemed Senator Ross’s sons. Money. Power. Connections. Good looks. Brandon had all that, but he’d never have a political career of his own. Jack had made damn sure of that.

Still, that didn’t solve his problem. If Morgan and Brandon didn’t part ways, revenge would be incomplete. That had to be why he didn’t feel more victorious now.

Jack paced, spearing hands tense with frustration through his hair too short to be ruffled by such a mauling.

Maybe he was looking at this all wrong. After viewing the little video he’d sent, sooner or later, jealousy would start eating Brandon’s gut. No question about it. When a man had a woman like Morgan, he wanted to keep her safe and whole and so sated that the idea of sex with another man never crossed her mind. Once Brandon had time to gnaw on the visual evidence that Morgan had strayed—and with his enemy—the idiot’s pride would demand he let her go.

Frowning, Jack realized a tactical error in that plan. Brandon dumping Morgan could cause her pain. The thought of her anguish made him want to flay himself with a whip of selfcensure.

Not only would Brandon leaving Morgan hurt her, it wouldn’t satisfy the writhing mass of hate he had in his gut for Brandon. In order for Jack to get closure, Morgan must realize that she deserved someone who understood her, a man who could give her what her mind and body craved. She had to acknowledge that Brandon couldn’t satisfy her. And Jack figured it was his job to prove that very fact to her.

How could he tempt her to leave Brandon?

Pacing across the room, toward the cottage’s lone bedroom, Jack pushed open the door.

Holy shit. Morgan had pushed off her covers, baring herself to the night. He wished she was bare to him. While that wasn’t actually the case, it was close. She wore next to nothing, only the golden-lace camisole and thong. Moonlight spilling into the room bathed the sweet blush-pink nipples and fiery fringe of her pussy in a soft silver light. It called attention to things he loved about her body and made him want to howl at the moon, absolutely.

Coaxing his way into that bed, into her body again, was as necessary as drawing his next breath. It was the eye for an eye the vindictive part of him craved.

But his desire hardly stopped there. And he feared it was about more than revenge.

His cock gave a greedy leap at the thought of having Morgan again, in any way that would bring them both to screaming pleasure… The want was a blast of heat drilling straight through his erection and his brain. Damned odd, really. He didn’t fixate like this. A willing woman was cause for a good mood and good times, always.

This was…more.

His body went wild at the thought of teaching Morgan about her sexuality, about the desires that haunted her to sweating resistance and whimpering wails of pleasure. He ached to show her how to take anything he dished out, give the burn back to him, and share in the mind-blowing mental and physical satisfaction.

The likelihood of that happening… Jack shook his head. She wasn’t going to surrender easily or without a fight, and he wasn’t out to break her. Just show her how much satisfaction she’d find in submission.

Stalking into the bedroom, Jack lit a few candles throughout the room, then dropped himself into the chair in the corner and stared, absently adjusting the unyielding length of his cock in his jeans.

How did he tempt her to take a walk on the wild side with him so he could prove to her she could be just as free and submissive as she yearned and still be okay with herself—all while convincing her to leave Brandon so he could achieve the vengeance he’d plotted for nearly three fucking years? How did he get her to give him that part of herself she’d held back from him before, the part he was sure she’d never given any man?

A mischievous smile lifted his lips as an idea occurred to him. Simple, direct, effective. Eager to put it in motion, he jogged back to his locked enclave and retrieved two pairs of heavy velvet ropes.

Let the games begin…

CHAPTER SEVEN

Morgan woke slowly, drifting on the haze of an erotic dream where she lay on the grass naked to the moonlight, arms tossed above her head in abandon as tender pulls at her nipples created a pool of sweet pleasure between her legs. She writhed. Silvery moonbeams worshipped her, caressing the underside of her arms, her belly, the tops of her thighs with a feathery touch. She moaned.

Leaves fell from the trees above in a light summery breeze, drifting down to glide over bare breasts, sensitive nipples. Again and again the leaves dropped from their trees and found their way to her body, the gentle abrasion of their texture on her skin slowly awakening her sensual need.

One leaf had a sharp edge as it drifted across her body. A slight sting in the hard peak of her breast surprised her. She tried to dodge the leaf, but it was gone, replaced by a glide of heat, then a sudden well of desire between her legs. Another sharp leaf pinched at the other nipple. Another swelling of desire bloomed inside her. She arched to the gentle pain and was again rewarded with a fresh flood of heat and moisture.

The ache between her thighs became a throb, a drumbeat inside her body calling for release. Morgan moaned, shifted.

Beneath her, the grass seemed oddly smooth. She tried to sit up but was unable to move. Another leaf drifted over her left breast, smooth, silky, gently rousing. It was quickly followed by a sharp leaf that curled around her nipple and bit.

Pain faded an instant later, replaced by a merciless need in the tight tips of her breasts. She arched, seeking more, as another leaf drifted down her abdomen and brushed over the top of her mound.

Sensations mounted, one on top of the other, until her body demanded more. She struggled to move, to touch herself—only to find she couldn’t. Another leaf clamped down on one nipple, this time harder than before. She cried out. Perspiration dampened the skin between her breasts and thick, liquid want converged into a unending ache between her legs.

Morgan opened her eyes and threw off the last vestiges of sleep.

And quickly discovered that her breasts weren’t being tormented by leaves, but by the smooth slide of Jack’s tongue, followed by the erotic nibble of his teeth.

Before she even knew what she was doing, Morgan arched up, her body silently offering her sensitive nipples to a hot-eyed Jack, overruling anything her mind might have said.

“That’s it. Good girl,” he murmured hotly across her breasts.

Candlelight glowed softly as she looked down her body and realized that he’d unlaced the camisole and pulled it wide, completely exposing her twin mounds and their hard peaks.

As if in slow motion, Morgan watched him lower his mouth to her again, his wide, bare shoulders bulged, a pulseraising shadow in the moonlit room, as he eclipsed everything in the room but him. She pulled at her arms and legs, desperate to embrace him. Instead, she found them bound firmly to the four posters of Jack’s bed.

God, she was totally at his mercy. That realization jolted her with a rush of dark pleasure—and that scared the hell out of her.

A warning boomed in her belly like thunder. The hard clamp of desire plaguing her drowned it. The man made her want, so badly that dragging in a steady breath was difficult, so much that finishing a coherent thought was impossible.

What was it about Jack Cole and the way he touched her?

He ignored her writhing and peppered the full sides of her breast with soft kisses, laved the nerve-heavy tips with a bold swipe of his tongue. The hard heat of his chest brushed over her belly, and her body fevered for more of the silky burn of his skin, his mouth. Her nipples tightened more, until they became pointed red nubs that begged him to continue with anything, everything, he wanted.

In response, Jack pinched her nipples, twisting slightly. A sharp mix of pain and pleasure had her crying out his name.

“I’m here, cher, to fulfill every forbidden fantasy swimming in your mind.”

Desire jolted her body, making her buck under his tongue as he resumed the sensual torture on her nipples. She drew in another shuddering breath as his tongue curled around the throbbing tip. She whimpered. The man was twisting her inside out, turning her into a wanton stranger. Into a woman nearly willing to say yes to anything.

Jack didn’t simply want to give her pleasure; he wanted to control her, addict her, turn her into the depraved wanton Andrew had been so contemptuous of. She’d never been any man’s doormat. She wasn’t starting now.

“No,” she panted. “Stop. I didn’t agree to this. I don’t want this.”

He raked a pair of fingers through the exposed slit of her sex. Morgan knew she was more than damp. She was embarrassingly wet, swollen. Aching. His touch only ramped up the pleasure, made thick moisture gush from her weeping opening again.

He sent her a low, sexy chuckle. His well-muscled torso rippled with every move and made the wicked part of her ache to put her hands all over his body and feel his vitality.

“Your mouth is saying the words, but your body is making a liar out of you.” His whisper taunted, challenged. “Are you sure you don’t want this?”

“Are you deaf? I said I didn’t agree to this.” She accused, “You still think I’m submissive.”

“No, I don’t.”

Morgan arched a fiery brow, fighting all the sparks of pleasure leaping through her body, burning away her common sense. “Good. Finally getting smart?”

“Cher, I don’t think you’re submissive; I know it.”

She gaped at him, then shut her mouth. Bastard! Fine. He was entitled to his opinion. She had her own, thank you very much.

He clamped his fingers around her nipples again and squeezed.

“Stop it. I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”

In an instant, his smile disappeared.

“I won’t ask for permission, so stop playing this game. The brave woman who took a chance with me after being shot at, the woman gutsy enough to alter her appearance to disappear in a strange town with the help of a man she’d known for all of a few minutes—hell, the woman who talks about sex on TV… you are that woman, not the one who keeps running from herself.”

His words smacked her between the eyes. She bucked again, struggling to break free. He’d called her a coward for trying to be sane! Unreal. “I’m not running from myself. I’m getting away from you! I wanted protection, not a mauling.”

Sending her a sharp smile, Jack eased a hand down her rib cage, over her hip, a soft contrast to the unyielding bindings at her wrists and ankles. Damn him for being so warm and looking so scrumptious shirtless, so totally male and confusing the hell out of her. He could make her needy and angry at once. And angry because she felt needy. Damn! He was using his experience to crowd her, cloud her judgment, overpower her good sense.

And she had to stop her body from falling for it…

“That was me against the door this morning,” she ground out. “I’m not running and I’m not playing a game. You’re just expecting something that’s not me.”

“Yeah, that was you this morning, but it wasn’t all of you. You’re capable of deeper submission. You let me touch a part of what’s inside you. But you held back. Yeah, I saw that; don’t look surprised. The deep part, the dark one that wants to be dominated and fucked, that’s the part you hid from me. That you deny exists. You have the guts to defy this sick asshole trying to stalk you, but not enough to take the pleasure I’m offering.”