“Are you close now?”
“Fuck, can’t you tell? Don’t you dare stop now.”
He laughed again and began stroking her in earnest, as if painting a wall with his tongue, but he was swirling his tongue around, and every motion brought her near the brink. Finally, she took another deep breath and an orgasm filled her brain, making her entire world blow up around her. Was she dying now? Because this felt like heaven.
As her moans died down, Conor moved up on the bed and he slid his cock inside her once more. “Are you ready?”
“God, yes.”
Conor began pumping and Morgan’s orgasm began again. This time, her quivering thighs had something to clamp against, and she felt her pussy massaging his cock with every new wave of delicious ecstasy. “Oh, God, Conor.”
In response, he let out his own groan and thrust inside her again with the force of a stallion. He did this not once or twice but three times until he slowed his rhythm, his breathing reduced to panting, as if he’d just run the race of his life. He let out a sigh, and it sounded like sweet music to Morgan’s ears.
After a minute of slowing breathing and cooling off, Conor rolled off her, sending another quiver up her spine as he withdrew. The air conditioner felt good against her damp skin but, after another minute, she felt chilly and rolled the side of the comforter over her body. Conor pulled her close, but his eyes were shut and his voice sounded sleepy. “Tell me about that tattoo on your hip, Mo.”
Morgan had two tattoos, and their symbolism had become so ingrained in her that she hardly thought of them anymore. One was a super tiny heart on her left wrist, one that most people never noticed because of how small it was—but that one memorialized her grandmother, whom she’d loved dearly her whole life and who’d passed two days before her high school graduation. Her mother—even though she’d just lost a parent—encouraged her daughter to walk for her diploma just the same, because it was “what grandma would have wanted” but also because, she assured her daughter, “grandma would be watching from heaven.” Morgan doubted the last sentiment but took to heart just the same that her grandma most certainly wouldn’t have wanted Morgan to not walk with her class. She’d held in the tears throughout the ceremony but she took some of her graduation money and, two days later, walked into a tattoo studio that gave her the tiny bit of ink and, when they found out what it was for, gave it to her on the house. Because of that, she returned a month later to get her second one.
“Could you tell what it was?”
Conor raised his torso a little and, seeming to realize he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway because Morgan was on her side, lay back down. “It looked kind of like a woman’s silhouette upside down, but I didn’t get a good look at it.”
Morgan considered calling bullshit because he likely got a good look considering he’d been down there not ten minutes ago—but maybe he hadn’t been staring at her artwork. “It is a woman’s silhouette upside down, but she’s diving—taking the plunge. When I went to the artist, I asked her to tattoo something that symbolized being fearless. We talked for a little bit and, based on what I said I wanted, the money I had, and her inspiration, this was what I got. And I didn’t know what it was until she was done.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I wanted a reminder to be fearless every single day—even with simple stuff, you know? So I was even fearless that day, trusting that she’d find the perfect image for me. And she did.”
Conor was quiet for a few moments, stroking her arm with the hand he’d wrapped around her. “That’s pretty cool. I’m trying to figure out how to use that against you.”
Morgan smiled, knowing Conor would do no such thing and, even if he tried, it wouldn’t work. That was the whole point of the tattoo. Her life had changed from that point on and was part of the reason why she’d applied for the job at Conor’s business even though she wasn’t qualified.
“What about you, boss? What about your tattoo?” Oh, God. Was now really a good time to remind them of their roles? But she sat up and, now that they’d broached the subject, she decided she could scrutinize it without worry. “Build castles in the air.”
“Henry David Thoreau. That’s a quote—he says to ‘build castles in the air’ and not worry about them being there, because they should be, but build ‘foundations under them.’ I got that tattoo right before I opened my own business.”
Morgan, stroking the script letters on his pec, said, “Our tattoos sound similar, don’t they?”
“Yeah, actually, they do.” Conor yawned then, quietly, but it gave Morgan the urge to do so as well. Afterward, she blinked her watery eyes and rested her head against his chest.
Right now, Morgan would describe her state as blissful, and she refused to analyze it. Instead, she allowed her eyes to drift shut as her mind replayed the evening’s events before sleep buried her in a cocoon of sweet nothingness.
Chapter Thirteen
BECAUSE CONOR HAD awakened at five AM with his body refusing to go back to sleep—thanks to his mind’s chatter—he wasted no time heading back to the exercise room in the hotel. Armed with a bottle of water and a lot on his mind, he located the same treadmill he’d used the day before and pounded out a couple of miles and a lot of sweat before his brain came into sharp focus.
Toweled off, he made his way back to their room, surprised that Morgan remained dead to the world. He’d never been able to sleep well in hotel beds on the first night, but he’d been surprised that sleeping on the sofa hadn’t been half bad. Last night, though, he’d not only rested in the bed itself, but the slumber had been shitty at best because he kept waking up with a woman next to him. And not just any woman, either.
Why the hell had he given into that impulse?
It didn’t matter now. What was done was done, but now he wondered what this would do to their working relationship.
Looking back, he marveled at how she’d almost seemed perfect for him—they’d seemed compatible, made for each other. The way she’d responded to his touch, how they’d moved together as if they’d been lovers for years made him think twice about blowing it off as a one-time thing. Unlike his typical conquests, his assistant was someone he cared about.
With Morgan in much the same place she’d been when he’d left, he showered and got ready for the final day of the reunion. Once dressed, he touched Morgan’s shoulder and spoke her name, but she mumbled something all but incoherent, telling him she wanted to sleep. He wrote a note and left it on the coffee table in the living room, letting her know he was heading down to the group breakfast, figuring that if she overslept, he could buy her something to eat from the restaurant.
The empty elevator welcomed him, inviting him to relax, but on the next floor, he picked up two occupants—his old pals Bill Bullock and Francis Mills. Both men looked like hell—half-open eyes, sagging cheeks, pinched foreheads. Apparently, these guys had enjoyed the vino a bit too much during the masquerade ball.
That would make them even less pleasant than usual.
But Conor didn’t need to be rude. He nodded as they walked on, a somber pair, and then said, “Hey, Bill, Francis.” He considered asking them how they were enjoying things so far, but he actually didn’t give a shit. After the morning’s events, he’d probably never see these two again—or, if he did, it would either be in ten years at the next reunion (if Conor was stupid enough to attend again) or on Facebook. He had no relationship to maintain.
But Bill had other plans. Despite the fact that his face looked like it had served as runway asphalt the night before, his mouth worked just fine. “When are you and your little chickie tying the knot?”
The problem with this ruse was that Conor couldn’t remember the lies he’d already told—so he hoped his instincts would guide him right. “We haven’t set a date yet.”
Francis joined in. “The way the men look at her, I’d already have a ring on that finger, and she’d be barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen.”
Conor’s b
rain was beginning to struggle with what was real and what wasn’t. But whether the engagement was real or not, he knew Morgan well. If she’d been here, she would be tearing into Francis like a tornado. “My fiancée isn’t that kind of woman.”
“Man, they’re all that kind of woman—you just have to train them.”
Conor shook his head. “Well, you don’t know my fiancée. You’re talking about her like she’s a dog.”
Both Bill and Francis cackled, and Conor imagined them as hens on meth, pecking at everything in sight quickly, looking for any vulnerability or anything that would amuse them. These guys hadn’t changed in two decades—aside from looking a little older, their brains hadn’t grown a bit. There was no evolution to civilized, adult men and they instead behaved in the same stupid middle school way they had up to their senior year. The thought struck Conor, because he knew he himself had changed a lot in the past twenty years and wouldn’t trade that growth for anything.
“If it makes you feel better, she’s a cute dog.”
Inspired, Bill said, “A bitch. She’s a cute bitch.”
Making a lewd face and licking his lips, Francis added, “Hot and tight, yeah?”
Conor felt his ire rise. “If you two don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’m going to beat the shit out of both of you. That’s my—” Holy shit. He’d almost called her assistant without even thinking. “—girlfriend you’re talking about.”
“Don’t get all bent out of shape, man. We’re just dickin’ with you.”
Conor stood his ground but let out a breath. He’d never been a violent kind of guy, but his primal self realized the stakes here if he hadn’t responded. That they backed down allowed him to remain civilized. “It’s disrespectful and rude and I’d appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut when it comes to my fiancée.”
When the elevator stopped, Conor stood his ground, ready to get in a fist fight if that was what it came to. Both Bill and Francis took tentative steps toward the doorway and, when Conor moved aside, nodding, they got off. Francis said, “Sorry, Conor. We were just messing around.”
“Just don’t let me hear it again.” Bill half-heartedly nodded his blond mop of hair and both men began meandering toward the breakfast.
And, instead of following them there, Conor punched a number on the elevator to head back up to his room.
* * *
What the hell had Conor been doing all morning? Morgan had heard the door several times, but this last time made her stir completely.
Why the hell was there a little feeling of giddiness inside? She had to knock that shit off right now. No way in hell was she going to carry on with the boss. Last night, they kind of had to. After their sensual dancing, they had to work out the sexual tension they’d both felt—and it had been all her fault, because she’d been toying with the idea this whole damn weekend.
But this was it. No more. Hands off.
The best way to get on with it would be to wash the scent of him off her body, so into the shower she went. As she shampooed her hair and slid the bar of soap over her skin, she remembered all the places Conor had touched her last night and how he’d made her feel.
That orgasm. Damn.
But enough. When she got out of the shower, she was going to return to being her old self.
Wrapped in a robe with her hair up in a towel, Morgan headed into the bedroom to pick out the day’s clothing. And there on the couch sat Conor, ruining her perfect plans.
Trying to sound as objective and emotionless as possible, she walked past him into the bedroom while throwing out a simple “Good morning.”
But, of course, he followed her and stood in the doorway. “We need to talk.”
“Look, Conor,” she said, her eyes in the closet as she scanned the three outfits she had left, trying to decide what clothes would match her mood, “I really don’t want this shit to be awkward.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Inside, Morgan knew she’d made a mistake, but she didn’t want to say that to Conor—not now. What if he had deeper feelings for her? And he might. After all, sleeping together hadn’t been part of the plan.
But she needed to get him out of her head. She had to break it off; she wasn’t quite ready to disappoint him, though. She needed to go jogging now that her body had grown used to it, because she knew that would somehow clear her head. “I’m just not ready to deal with this shit yet. I haven’t been up for long. Why don’t you go to breakfast without me like you’d planned? And we can talk about it later.”
Conor started to say something, then stopped…then started again. “You sure you—?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I don’t want you hanging around waiting for me while I’m busy putting makeup on and stuff.” And stupidly jogging after the shower. Maybe running could wait—but she still wasn’t ready for whatever uncomfortable conversation Conor wanted to have. She needed coffee first—and, before that, she needed to make herself presentable.
Dammit. This whole damn trip had thrown her off her game.
Conor didn’t show signs of moving. “Get out of here. I’ll be down soon.” Frowning, he turned—but he finally left.
She decided ultimately to skip running, but she’d get back on track tomorrow at home. In the meantime, she needed to dress. She didn’t give a shit what she wore now because she wouldn’t be scrutinized anymore. This was the last day and it would be filled with goodbyes and promises to keep in touch and that sort of thing.
That kind of behavior would likely keep the pressure off her—from both Conor and his classmates.
When she entered the big room filled with tables and people half an hour later, she saw that she was a little late. Oh, what a shame. There was still plenty of food there, but there was another goddamned slideshow projected on the wall narrated by cute babbling Kendra King, talking about each picture on display. Morgan realized that, while this woman might have come across as a little annoying, one thing was clear—she knew most of her classmates, remembered a lot about their years in school, and seemed to genuinely like them all.
As Morgan glanced around the room, it took her a bit, but she soon found Conor sitting on the left side of the room—and what a surprise. There was Raquel, flirting and carrying on. Well, one thing was for certain. Morgan had been right about how to make the dumb cow interested. Maybe Morgan was too good at her job.
That would have been great if she wasn’t falling for her boss. So fucking stupid.
But it would be okay—she’d told Conor not to make a big deal out of it—so she needed to be the same way. If Raquel was snuggled up to Conor, that meant she was interested in him…so mission accomplished. Morgan had already rebuffed Conor, so now she had to get her head straight with herself.
Coffee first. If she had coffee, she’d be moving in the right direction. Heading to the beverage table, she grabbed a cup and pushed a spigot, sending a stream of steamy brown liquid into the cup. Just the aroma calmed her distraught mind.
Why the hell was she so freaked out?
And then it hit her. Holy shit. She hadn’t written a list—a real list—in two days. No wonder she was a fucking wreck. After stirring in creamer and a pinch of sugar, she took a sip of the coffee and then pulled the phone out of her back pocket. As soon as she had her little notes app opened, she began writing a list. Still lame and not realistic, but she was grasping at straws here.
Breakfast – done
Distracted by the slideshow, she sipped more coffee and noticed her phone dimming, so she set the cup down and touched the screen. Goddammit, Morgan. Focus! What else did she have to do today?
Board plane
She considered typing talk to Conor, but seeing that he seemed to be making strides with Raquel, there was no compelling reason to do it.
Keep playing fiancée
How dumb. God, she couldn’t wait to get back to her usual routine, and she was beginning to question if the extra money Conor said he’d pay her was even worth it. After all, she
’d considered him a friend before this. Now she was sexually attracted to him but questioning how smart it had been to sleep together.
Kendra’s voice over the mike filled the room as Morgan shoved her phone into her back pocket. “This next classmate led the football team to the state championship our senior year.” She flashed a picture of a young man in full uniform kneeling on the grass of the football field, holding the pigskin in the cradle of his arm, glaring at the camera. Morgan had seen a million pictures like it when she’d gone to school. That face she recognized as…
Jacob. And behind her, she heard him say, “That’s me.”
Turning slightly to the right, Morgan saw that he was talking to her. “Yes, I could tell. You were definitely into the moment, weren’t you?”
He chuckled, his blue eyes lighting up. “Yeah, those pictures were a big deal.”
Like a ton of bricks, Morgan grabbed onto a great idea. If she spent her breakfast flirting with Jacob, even knowing it would go nowhere, she’d soon forget last night’s impropriety.
“So what do you do now, Jacob?” Was this guy her type? Hell, no…but she could easily pass the time yakking at him for half a day. When she and Conor got back home, she wouldn’t think twice about this man—but she’d hopefully be over her boss, too.
“Right now, I work for the gold mine up the hill.” He pointed behind him, as if Morgan knew what the landscape looked like outside. “Been there for about four years.”
All Morgan could think about was what she knew about how mines destroyed the environment—but that kind of talk wouldn’t be very friendly or cozy. “Do you like it?”
“It has its moments, you know. I’ve had jobs I like better, but I’ve had lots worse, too. They treat us good there, so that’s all that matters, right?” She nodded, grabbing a small plate she could throw some pineapple chunks on. As she did that, she noticed a woman with pinched lips painted in mauve giving them the evil eye.
Shenanigans (Pretense and Promises Book 2) Page 13
