by Wicked Ties
Risking a glance down, she couldn’t miss the outline of his rigid erection straining the front of his jeans. Morgan felt a flush rise to her skin and that ache tighten between her legs again. No! She needed her anger, all whipped into a nice, frothy fury.
Instead, she became all too aware of how close he stood. Of the fact that he was half dressed, while she was barely covered at all. Dangerous territory, especially with Jack looking at her with a dark flame of want blazing in his eyes. Especially with her body warming in response.
Morgan retreated a step.
“Stay there.”
His quiet tone rang with command, vibrated through her. Morgan hesitated, mind racing. She didn’t have to listen, didn’t have to stand before him nearly naked and follow orders. In fact, it was much better if she didn’t . . .
“Bite me. I’m not a two-year-old or a robot,” she shot back and stepped away again.
Jack reached for her.
Run! she ordered herself. Instead, he encircled her wrist with a gentle grip, but she felt its steel beneath. And his heat.
“Stay there.”
For some reason, something in his voice . . . She couldn’t not listen to him.
Maybe that’s because Jack embodied every sin she’d ever yearned to experience, ever masturbated to in her dark, lonely bed, only to have frustration douse her satisfaction when she realized none of it was real.
He released her slowly and began to pace around her with unhurried steps, brushing her shoulder with gentle fingertips as he stepped past. Her heartbeat accelerated. Goose bumps erupted across her arms. She didn’t even want to think about what was happening to her nipples or how badly they ached.
He stopped behind her. Jack’s hot breath tickled the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulders. His heat radiated along her back and legs. Morgan sucked in a breath. God, he was standing close. Too close to ignore. Too close to deny the effect he had on her.
The ache between her thighs zinged to new heights, as if she hadn’t stroked her way to climax mere minutes ago.
She sent a cautious glance over her shoulder. Jack stood right there, waiting, as if he’d known what she would do. Their gazes connected, his full of fire and demand. He hovered a mere breath away, tall and towering.
He was going to touch her.
A zip of electric thrill raced through her, even as she called herself twenty kinds of stupid. She tore her gaze from his and stared at the front door again, clutching the towel around her body. He said nothing, but Morgan could feel his eyes on her, taking in her still-wet skin, her rapid, telling breaths.
Now what? This had gone from an ass-chewing to an ass-viewing in about two minutes. If she didn’t want him doing anything else with her ass, she had to get away now.
“Tell me why you needed that orgasm,” he murmured into her ear.
She couldn’t. It would only confirm what he must know: That some deviant, out-of-control part of her wanted him, felt more than journalistic curiosity about what he could give her.
“It’s really none of your business, Jack.”
“Don’t call me that, not when we’re alone.”
He wanted her to call him sir. Trembling, she stood still, thoughts and heart racing between uncertainty and forbidden thrill. She felt . . . claimed by Jack’s words. His iron commands reached something inside her and called forth a barrage of need.
What would it be like to surrender? To give in to that voice?
Dangerous. Bad. Giving into everything Jack represented and everything she shouldn’t want. If she did, she’d only be forging a new path to hell.
“How about jackass, then? That’s appropriate.” She dug up her bravado and turned to face him. “Don’t bully me.”
She waited for his angry comeback, for a growled command of frustration. It didn’t come.
Instead, he shuffled a heartbeat closer, until a mere whisper separated her from the raging heat of his body. “There is no reason to be embarrassed about your desires.”
“I’m not. Call me repressed, but I am embarrassed about having an audience during orgasm,” she snapped.
“That’s not true,” he said softly.
Swallowing, Morgan tried to tear her gaze from his knowing, sexual stare. His scent assailed her next, full of man and mystery, spicy as Cajun food and as hard to fathom as the swamp itself.
She inched back. “Do you think you know me now?”
“I know things about you. I know you’re uneasy about your sexuality. You have desires you don’t like to admit to. I see them all in your eyes. A craving to be bound and dominated—”
“You don’t see a damn thing! I’m not depraved.”
“No, you’re not. Anyone who thinks you are is an idiot.”
Jack reached for her again, determination all over the fierce masculine angles of his strong face. She didn’t want to know exactly what he was determined to do. Panic flared, and she batted his hand away and leapt out of his reach. Her back hit the door.
And Jack kept coming for her with soft, slow steps. The pace of a hunter. She had to get away. Had to. Now.
Morgan lunged to her left to evade him. He blocked her way with a strong arm, then anchored it on the door, sealing off that avenue of escape. He used the same tactic on the right before she could make a move in that direction.
Then Jack leaned in, his hands on the door, just next to her head. She couldn’t look at him, refused to. As if to get her attention, his body brushed hers, detonating ruthless sparks of desire that burned through her body. That brief contact was enough to light her up like a firecracker.
“Look at me.” He leaned back to put a breath of air between them.
Something inside her wanted to obey. That smooth, rich voice, the hint of a French lilt combined with explicit command, tugged at her. The thought of surrendering made her stomach clench with anxiety . . . and desire gnaw at her clit. The man was a giant contradiction. An aggressive protector. A man who bound women was going out of his way to keep her safe.
It was confusing her. He was confusing her.
Finally, she raised her stormy gaze to clash with his. “What the hell do you want from me?”
“Honesty.”
“No, you don’t. You want me to give in, to spread my legs like a spineless airhead and give you . . . whatever it is you want.”
A half smile curled up the side of his mouth. “You’re half right. I do want you to give in, cher. I want you to spread your legs when I tell you to. Not because you’re spineless, but because you’re not.” He moved in closer, brushing his body against hers again, all hint of a smile gone. “I want you to burn for me. I want all your fire and independence and sass underneath me. I want to show you what you secretly yearn for and try not to—and how good it can be.”
Morgan swallowed, then opened her mouth to speak. How was she supposed to reply to that? What did a woman say to the man trying to spoon-feed her every sexual fantasy she’d ever denied?
“I don’t think—”
“You think too much. Of all the reasons you shouldn’t. Of all the reasons I scare you. Try thinking of the ways I could please you.”
Oh, she’d thought of those.
One of his hands eased away from the door. He brushed the back of his fingers down her neck, over her collarbone . . . and kept delving down. He caressed down the terry cloth-covered slope of her breast, then brushed down over the erect nipple begging for his touch.
Even through the towel, she felt that touch all the way to her toes. A hot tingle sizzled her insides like bacon in hot grease. She gasped, felt her gaze locked in place by his dark stare.
He repeated the process again, then once more. Pleasure assailed Morgan from the aching points of her tight nipples, streaking through her tightly coiled body, straight to her vagina. She dropped her head back against the door, unable to hold in her moan.
“That’s it.” Jack feathered his lips down her throat as he moved in closer. His other hand joined the first in the
soft torment of her nipples, with only the thin towel in between.
“I want to see those pretty nipples. I need to have them in my mouth, cher. Drop the towel.”
Desire bubbled within her, at full boil, even as a last bit of sanity screamed somewhere in her head. The memory of his touch at the strip club and the jolting pleasure it suffused her with still haunted her. The lingering remembrances, coupled with his potent command, sent her self-control reeling.
Of all the men she could desire, why him? Of all times—while being chased by some whacked-out stalker—why did she have to want him now?
Gee, maybe it was because Jack was the embodiment of every midnight fantasy that had ever kept her awake. Maybe it was because he lowered his hand to the part in her towel and swirled his palm across her stomach, over the curve of her hip, then moved in to press an impressive erection against her. Certainly, he and all that testosterone . . . diverted her mind from the whacked-out stalker issues.
Her mother had always said, You make your choices in life and live with them. Could she live with herself if she walked away from the forbidden allure of Jack Cole without one taste?
He curved his hand over the rise of her ass and began to stroke his way down—fingertips lightly toying with the crease between her cheeks. A new rush of tingles filled her. Clever move, she acknowledged. If she arched into his touch, he had a handful of ass. If she arched away from it, she pushed herself right against his erection. How could he lose?
How could you? a little voice inside her head dared her.
In the next moment, his fingers stroked the cleft between her cheeks again, this time a little harder, deeper. A dark thrill zoomed up her spine. Without thought, she gasped and arched right into his hand.
“Good girl,” he murmured into her ear, sending the shivers back down her spine.
His thumb toyed with her nipple, now so hard she could feel every brush of skin, every callous. She moaned again.
“Cher, drop the towel. Montre-moi ton joli corps.” His breath came hard and fast, his voice strained but still in control. “Show me your pretty body.”
“You’ve already seen it, you Peeping Tom.”
“Show me,” he growled.
Oh, God. The command in his voice turned the ache between her legs into a throb. She wanted to obey . . . so bad. Sizzle coursed through her. Blood rushed everywhere, swelling her clit. Already wet from orgasm, she felt moisture pooling in her most intimate recesses, threatening to overflow. Jack’s spicy, earthy scent was scattering rational thought. The parts of her body aching for his touch were in control.
What’s the worst that could happen if you gave in? a voice inside her asked.
More disappointment and frustration. More rejection and ridicule.
Then again, it took her at least a dozen pairs of shoes to find the right fit. Were lovers the same way? Maybe three hadn’t been enough.
Confusion spun in her head.
“Jack,” she managed to murmur in between his wicked touches. “I talk to people about sex for a living. I don’t need to have it to do the show.”
“Forget the show. You need what I can give you. Stop denying yourself.”
“I’m not denying myself anything.” Stupid! Morgan bit her lip, sure that her flushed cheeks and hard nipples made her words an obvious lie.
He grabbed her jaw in one hand. “You lie to me again, and I’m going to spank you so hard you won’t sit for a week. Tell me why you’re resisting what you want.”
“Don’t touch me.” She tried to jerk from his grasp.
Jack held firm. “Cher, I’m going to do more than touch you. Way more. And the longer you hold out on answering me, the more I’m going to make you beg.”
Oh, God. His words alone made Morgan hot as she weighed them and the relentless demand in his eyes against her fears. He could do it; he could make her beg. And the thought raced a shiver down her spine. “Fine. If you have to know, I’m not some femme fatale. I don’t respond much to sex.”
Cajun charm softened pushy arrogance with a mere curl of his sin-inspiring lips. He placed hot kisses on her neck, nibbled at the curve of her shoulder. “You responded just fine to everything I threw your way in Lafayette.”
Surprise. That’s all it had been. She’d been too shocked to really react. To want, then bow to the pressure of self-doubt. Then clam up until, tense and frustrated, her body gave up. Besides, she might be curious about his . . . lifestyle, but participating committed her far more than simply wondering. And she had a bad feeling that one taste of Jack Cole would be as addicting as heroin to a junkie.
“We don’t really know each other.”
Jack’s fingertips cascaded over her shoulder, leaving nothing but anticipation and a fresh crop of goose bumps in their wake. “I know enough to know how to make you scream. But that isn’t what’s stopping you.”
He kissed her neck, her jawline, inched up toward her mouth. She melted under his mouth. God, that felt good. And his smell . . . Did it contain some ingredient that was like kryptonite for her restraint?
“We don’t like each other much,” she pointed out in a desperate gasp, evading his kiss—a kiss she wanted so badly, her gut clenched with desire.
Again, he smiled, a flash of white teeth visible in the room bathed with predawn light. “I’m liking you just fine right now, cher. I liked you the first time we talked online. I like that you’re smart and gutsy and sexy as hell.”
He whispered the words against her mouth, and Morgan felt her resolve fraying around the edges. Back in Lafayette, Jack had touched her breasts, stroked her clit, fondled deep inside her, yes. But his kiss lingered, haunted her. Like the smoothest wine, all wrapped in sin and velvet, with a kick of lust that promised pleasure. His kiss gave her a preview of his strength and self-control. Almost against her will, she leaned toward him.
For a wild moment, Morgan thought he would pull away. Tease her, enflame her with what might be. Instead, he grasped the sides of her face and kept her gaze locked to his dark one.
“The memory of you in my arms . . . it’s been keeping me hard all night. Watching you sleep was torture. I kept thinking about lying next to you on the bed, peeling your clothes away and devouring everything underneath. I want to get my hands on you, cher. My mouth on you. Get inside you, drive deep and sure. I want you to scream my name when you come.”
Morgan couldn’t breathe. The impact of every word did more than rev up her libido; it struck her like body blows, every syllable battering her resolve with hot intent. He robbed her of air, of the will to resist. How would he feel? Taste? That terrible vise of desire clamped her clit with need. She almost whimpered with her need to come again. And he’d barely touched her.
What if she gave him free rein? What would it be like to let go and give herself to someone with his mastery, just this once?
She exhaled on a ragged sigh. Arousal flared like a forest fire under a harsh wind, burning her from the inside out. About to rage out of control.
Moisture threatened to trickle down her legs. She licked her dry lips, but when his gaze followed the motion, it only made her temperature spike hotter.
“You going to put that pretty pink tongue on me, cher? While I watched you sleep, I pictured you on your knees, my cock in your luscious little mouth.”
Morgan knew next to nothing about oral sex from personal experience. Reading and talking about it to prepare for her show didn’t make up for that fact. At this moment, with a mountain of a man like Jack in front of her, pressed against her, that seemed irrelevant. Jack inspired an urge to sample everything wicked, including his cock.
“Ah, I think you like the idea,” he murmured, breath caressing her tingling lips. “Those blue eyes are turning darker. I wonder what else you like? I know you enjoy this . . .”
As he’d done before, Jack stroked her nipples, now painfully hard, through her towel, with brushes of knuckles and fingertips. She gasped and couldn’t stop herself from arching toward him and see
king an end to the erotic torment of his touch.
“Sensitive nipples. I’ll enjoy sucking them until I can feel them swell on my tongue.”
Would he? The suggestion made her faint with pleasure.
“Don’t presume. I didn’t say yes,” she pointed out, trying to hang onto sanity. But the croak in her voice made her protest a joke.
No, no, no! Jack might be thrilling her beyond belief—beyond bearing—but tomorrow . . . how messed up would her head and her life be tomorrow if she gave in now? Wasn’t having a stalker enough? She’d agreed to meet him to facilitate an interview for Turn Me On, not to find a dominant looking for a plaything.
“Your body is saying it for you, cher. Breath chugging. Jackhammer pulse jumping. Your nipples are as hard as diamonds.” Suddenly, he found the fold in her towel again, down near her abdomen, parted the halves of terry cloth, and planted his hot palm on her skin. He was so warm, it startled her. Stung. She jumped . . . closer to him. Now their chests brushed. His mouth was only a whisper away from hers as he dragged that hand over her hip, across her belly—then started heading down.
“You going to say no, cher?”
Morgan hesitated. If she was smart, she’d scream “no” now. She’d jerk away from him, march back to that claw-footed tub of his, fill it up with cold water, and dive in. But his fingertips whispered swirls and circles across her belly, over her thighs, brushing over her mound just enough to entice.
She clenched her thighs together, but it only magnified the ache. It climbed up into her belly, spread down her thighs. The fact that she wore nothing but a tiny green bath towel did not comfort her.
“Or are you going to say yes?” he whispered. “Are you going to let me fill you with my fingers and tongue? Are you going to let my cock ride you hard and deep?”
God, more of his wicked words that gave her lascivious ideas—and irresistible pictures to go along with them.
Morgan threw her head back against the door and closed her eyes. She wanted to say yes, yearned as she never had for the forbidden pleasure she knew Jack could give her.
