Shayla Black - [Wicked Lovers 01]

by Wicked Ties

  “Jack,” she panted. “Sir . . .”

  Even her voice trembled, signaling that her orgasm was rising up hot and fast inside her. He smiled, easing back from the hard knot of her clit to focus on the swollen lips cupping his finger.

  “Cher?” he returned lazily, swallowing against a lump of lust threatening to unravel him.

  Before she could answer, he thrust a second digit inside her. Her open-mouthed gasp tore across the porch, across the open swamp.

  Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Morgan said nothing. She focused on the pleasure—exactly like he wanted her to.

  Jack began easing his fingers from her tight channel. She murmured a protest, but he knew she really meant it when her body did its best to clamp down on the digits, cling, and suck him back in. God, no wonder she shredded his control so fast when he had his cock inside her.

  Shoving the observation aside, he withdrew his hand from the damp humidity of her sex. His fingers all but dripped with her cream. The sight and scent went straight to his head, like pure grain alcohol, kicking his libido into full gear. He tamped down the urge to shove his pants to his knees and thrust deep inside her.

  Instead, he lifted his fingers over the rosy beads of her nipples and coated them with her own juice. The wind whipped across her body, tightening the tips of her breasts even more, until they stood long and thick and so damn tempting, he couldn’t resist for another second tasting them.

  Seizing her hips, Jack fit her against the ridge of his cock. He loved that for now, in this moment, she and every little gasp, blush, and moan were all his.

  Slowly, he closed his mouth over one of those nipples that had him salivating with anticipation. Hmm. Raspberries and musk together. Velvet-soft skin over deliciously hard nubs begging to be sucked, nibbled, clamped.

  He lapped at her, laving and biting, lavishing attention on her nipples until they swelled in his mouth. If her hitching breath hadn’t indicated the truth, a quick caress from his free hand told Jack she was as wet as ever. The knowledge—the woman herself—called him like a siren. There was no resisting.

  He forced a pair of fingers inside her sultry depths again, then swiped a thumb over her clit. Amazingly, she tightened on his fingers immediately, clamping down, beginning to ripple with the coming explosion.

  Satisfaction swelled in Jack as he shifted his attention to her other nipple and enveloped it in the hot cavern of his mouth. He couldn’t wait to feel the magnitude of this climax. And even better, he’d bet she was nearly willing to beg for it.

  Taking one last sharp nip at her rock-hard nipple, Jack kissed his way up her chest to nuzzle her neck. His fingers played with that sensitive spot in her channel, just behind her clit, while his thumb strummed the hard little button in an unhurried rhythm. Though he wondered if he’d ever feel the blood in his fingers again, satisfaction poured through him when she tightened on his fingers once more.

  “Cher,” he whispered in her ear. “What do you want?”

  “Now,” she panted as he rubbed the pads of his fingers right across that sweet spot inside her. “God, please. I need . . .”

  “Me to stop?”

  “No. No, sir!” Her voice came fast, hard, in between breathless sighs.

  Color bloomed in her cheeks, and the sunshine rained down on her fair skin until she looked like she was glowing.

  God help her, because Jack had every intention of taking her, not just to his bed but to his playroom, and driving her up and over so sweetly and so often that she would have no more qualms about pleading for what she wanted and turning to him when she needed it.

  A savage bolt of lust lurched through his cock at the thought he could succeed, that she would surrender her body, her mind, and her will exclusively to him. The thought aroused him like nothing ever had.

  “Tell me what you need,” he murmured into her ear. “You remember what to say.”

  “I want to come on your tongue. Please, sir.” She grasped his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh with the urgency of her need. “Please.”

  “You beg sweetly, cher. How can I resist?”

  Her frantic fingers filtered into his hair and she gripped, little darts of pain exploding across his scalp. God help her when he finally got her under him. He was going to pound into her with the ferocity of a jackhammer, mercilessly plying that sweet pussy with his cock until she came over and over—and took him with her.

  “Now!”

  Her voice took on a panicked note. Her sex gripped his fingers so tightly he could hardly move them. She dangled at the edge of the cliff. And she’d been there awhile, long enough for her body to push past her mind.

  “Demanding minx,” he teased as he nipped at her earlobe and scratched at the sensitive point inside her clasping pussy. “I promised I’d give you what you want. Once I have, you’re going to follow me into the playroom so I can bind, clamp, and fuck you any way I please, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She sobbed. “Yes, sir!”

  “Good girl. I’m going to bend you over my table and take your hot little pussy over and over. You’ll learn to beg readily and come on command, cher. Then,” he whispered against her skin as he began traveling down her body in a series of caresses and biting kisses, “I’m going to open that pretty ass of yours to my cock and settle in for a nice, long ride.”

  He whispered the words right against her clit. A strangled moan escaped her. The muscles of her thighs clenched, trembled. The slick heaven of her sex strangled his fingers. Her hands, still in his hair, tightened into desperate fists.

  Perfect. Like a fantasy. Morgan responded to his touch, to his wicked, whispered suggestions exactly as he dreamed. Once he pushed her past her inhibitions, delved beyond her conscious mind into her untapped sexuality, a wealth of sweet, mind-blowing submission belonged to the man who could master her.

  It was as if she’d been waiting just for him.

  The thought charged through his cock like a live wire.

  “Come for me,” he demanded against her cream-drenched pussy.

  Quickly, he extracted his fingers from her and raked them over her clit. In the next heartbeat, he shoved his tongue inside her rippling channel, reaching with the tip to manipulate the sensitive spot inside.

  She exploded with a scream that echoed across the swamp. With the tight grip of her fists in his hair, she pushed his face against her, into her. Fresh cream gushed into his mouth, and he lapped at her greedily, triumph and a desperate urge to get inside her, command her, clawed at him. Need clamored.

  Take her. Claim her. She’s yours.

  Yeah, and what would Brandon say about that? What would Morgan herself say? He hoped she would say yes, because for once in his life, he didn’t want to just be someone’s good fuck. He wanted every touch to mean something.

  Why her? Why now? What had happened to the drive for revenge that once glowed red hot, like fired metal, down in my gut?

  Jack frowned against the thought.

  Long moments later, the clasping of her sex eased around his tongue. Her fists slowly uncurled. Jack took a last, longing lick of her, promising himself more later and rose to his feet. She looked dazed and flushed and shocked by her own response.

  There was untouched sensuality inside her, ripe for a man strong enough to push past her barriers, caring enough to see to her safety and peace of mind. Morgan didn’t know there was much more inside her.

  Yet.

  And damn, he wanted to be the man to show her.

  “Good morning,” he murmured.

  He pressed a soft kiss to her trembling mouth, nudging her lips apart and sliding his tongue inside in a slow, coaxing glide. For a moment, she recoiled against the taste of herself on his lips. Jack grabbed her, cradling her head in his palms, and forced her to taste the sweet perfection of herself, all while deepening the swirl and dance of the kiss. Finally, she relaxed against him, opened her mouth to him, and drew his tongue and the taste of herself deep inside.

  Respect of her q
uick acceptance surged inside him. No, it was flat-out pride—and that was both a joy and a warning. Morgan was sweet, and he could bend her, mold her into a submissive who could tempt him beyond his wildest fantasies. In time, he could help her accept that part of herself that she struggled so hard to deny. She would never be truly happy until she did.

  But that feeling of pride . . . it was a step away from ownership. No dominant had pride in a sub he wasn’t attached to, determined to make his. For years, he’d felt a distant respect for women he’d mastered who pushed past their boundaries to submit. Like a teacher to a pupil, he’d praised their progress, punished their setbacks, all while assuring them of their abilities.

  With Morgan . . . it felt deeper, more personal. As if he had to help her. As if he had some personal stake in her blooming sexuality.

  As if she’s mine. The feeling confirmed everything inside him. This wasn’t a phase or the heat of the moment. He wanted her. Period.

  “Jack.”

  Morgan’s shaky voice pushed into his consciousness, bringing him back. She shivered, and this time not from desire. Damn, it was cold out here. And yet, she’d endured. No, she’d excelled, outshining anything he’d imagined her capable of in that moment.

  He wrapped his arms around her, doing his best to shelter her from the wind. “The air is brisk, huh, cher?”

  And because he couldn’t resist, he tucked her head beneath his chin and stroked her back with one hand. His other fit perfectly over her breast, his thumb lazily flicking the still-hard nipple.

  She whimpered.

  Any urgency to shepherd her into his playroom and hoard her in there for hours—days—that had left his body zinged back to life in that one sound.

  He reached into his pocket to find his keys with every intent to command her to warm herself with a quick warm shower, then meet him in the playroom in fifteen minutes. Fuck breakfast. He’d rather fuck her.

  “Bonjour,” a faint, familiar voice rasped from just around the corner, near the front door.

  Morgan gasped, stiffening in the circle of his arms. “Is that . . . your grandfather!”

  Yes. Who else has such impeccable timing? Biting back a nasty curse, he eased Morgan away from his sheltering warmth, shoved the remnants of his shirt in her hands, and urged her inside the cottage through the side door.

  “Go. Shower and dress. We’ll finish later.”

  She hesitated, going wide-eyed at his words. Indecision spread across her flushed face. “Jack, I-I . . . Maybe we should talk about this.”

  “Bonjour?” Brice’s voice sounded closer.

  Time had run out.

  Quickly, he pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, then spun her around, through the open door. With a sharp slap on her ass, he propelled her inside. “If you want. But we will finish this later.”

  Before she could sputter a reply, he shut the door between them.

  Morgan’s reluctance to continue what they’d started was both obvious and frustrating. Just when he thought he’d reached her . . . Granted, she wasn’t saying no, but she hadn’t given him the sweet little “yes” his body craved—and expected after her response this morning. Disappointment and anger gushed through him, confusing him, as he turned to face his grand-père.

  Together all the urges concocted an astonishing brew of resolve not to accept another moment of Morgan’s hesitation, no doubt equal in strength to her uncertainty. And he wanted to understand. What was hanging her up? It was something more than simple modesty or fear of the unknown.

  Jack sighed. The question he should be asking was, what the hell was wrong with him that he was suddenly so determined to have this woman? Apparently, he’d lost his mind.

  But it felt more like he was in danger of losing much more . . .

  “Ah, there you are,” Brice said, rounding the corner. He shuffled down the long stretch of the wraparound porch.

  “Morning, Grand-père.” Jack offered a seat on the chair in the corner with a wave of his hand. “Coffee?”

  “Non. I came to check up on you and ta jolie rousse.”

  His pretty redhead? Not at the moment. She might be one step closer now if it hadn’t been for an untimely interruption. He bit back a curse.

  “Morgan is fine,” Jack muttered, sliding into the chair beside his grandfather.

  He licked his lips and still tasted her sweetness there. That flavor—and the memories of her legs spread wide for him, her uninhibited moans echoing around him—wasn’t doing anything to reduce his raging erection.

  “Have you seen . . . more of her since my last visit?” Brice cackled and winked. “You were slow to answer my greeting and never noticed my knocking on the door, yeah.”

  “I didn’t answer the door because I didn’t hear it. I was out here. And it’s early. I hardly expected company.”

  “What time it is?” Brice frowned.

  Jack didn’t buy his grandfather’s innocent act for a minute. “What time is it?” he corrected. “It’s way too early for social calls but early enough to catch us at something if we liked to start the day off right. Isn’t that what you were thinking?”

  “Mon petit-fils, you are suspicious.”

  “I think I have a right to be, since the ‘warm and practical’ clothing you brought Morgan looks like it came from the X-rated version of the Victoria’s Secret catalog.”

  His grandfather’s laughter made Jack roll his eyes.

  “But you have enjoyed the . . . sights?”

  “No comment. Why would you do such a thing? Wave an open invitation in my face to have sex with her. I know you want me to remarry, but you’d never met Morgan before that stunt.”

  The old man tapped on his chest. “Live long enough, yeah, and you know things. Them dreams, Jack, they mean something. Down through the generations, they’ve always meant love.”

  “Just because it did for you—”

  “Non, not just me. My grandfather, too. He took a job in San Francisco for a few years. No more Acadian country for him, says he.” Brice waved a dismissive hand at that. “He started having dreams, did he, about a belle blonde.”

  “Hell, I’ve had a fantasy or two about a gorgeous blonde in my lifetime.”

  “For months straight, mon garçon?”

  Jack sighed, both because he hated being called anyone’s boy and because reasoning with the old man was never an easy task.

  “No,” he finally answered.

  “You see there, yeah. My grand-père had these dreams about a lady at a ball. He met her and discovered she was his boss’s young bride. Since his love was already married, he believed the family legend was wrong. But he kept on dreaming of her. The dreams were hard on his heart.

  “Two weeks after meeting son amour, the big earthquake struck San Francisco. Nineteen-oh-six. The lovely lady’s husband, he died. And my grandfather married the pretty blonde a year later. Six enfants and over fifty years later, they were still in love.”

  Staring at the old man, Jack wondered if he was serious. Was it even possible, even a bit?

  “And his grandfather before him,” Brice went on, “was wounded in battle and captured by the Yanks at the end of the Civil War. His bride, she was a Union nurse in the field hospital. He kept a journal that said dreams of a faceless beauty kept him sane during months of battle, yeah. When he met her, it was a shock. They married three days after the war ended.”

  Three men of his blood all dreaming of faceless beauties. Jack had dreamed endlessly of one with sparkling red hair glowing in the sunlight. And just this morning, Morgan had manifested herself as his dream image. Did that explain his insane desire to lay claim to her, as if she wasn’t taken, as if she was more than the instrument of his revenge? As if walking away from her wasn’t possible?

  Shock jolted a dizzying bolt through his system. Jack stroked his chin and tried to regain his balance. The concept of predestined mates and dreaming of them was so . . . otherworldly. So weird. Not that he hadn’t grown up with the knowledge; he
’d just never believed it.

  “None of us want to believe that there’s any truth to this malédiction. But facts is facts, yeah. It happens to every man in our line. And now, it’s your turn, with Morgan.”

  “How did you know when it happened to you?” Jack asked, struggling to accept his grandfather’s claim. “What made you sure, besides the dreams, that Grand-mère was the one?”

  The old man smiled, deepening lines around his eyes and mouth, leaving no doubt the man had spent a lifetime smiling wide and often. “The moment I met her, I fought a crazy urge to grab her up tight and convince her to be mine. I never wanted to be away from her or see her blue. Most of all, cher garçon, I wanted her happy and I knew deep inside here”—he pointed to his heart—“that I could make her so. Comprends-tu?”

  Oh, yeah. Jack understood all too well. Hadn’t he been feeling the same way from nearly the instant he’d met Morgan? The insane desire to touch her, the willingness to do most anything to keep her safe, the snarling anger toward her stalker? He hated her dismay, but the key to her happiness lay in her caged sexuality.

  “Listen to your gut, Jack. Follow your instincts.”

  “They don’t make sense.”

  The smile lines bracketing Brice’s mouth deepened. “They don’t have to. The heart ain’t meant to make sense. You ever feel this way about anyone else? About Kayla?”

  The old man all but spit Jack’s ex-wife’s name.

  Jack just shook his head. No. Never. Not even close. He’d married her because she was pregnant and he was very Catholic, even if she hadn’t been. She’d miscarried in her fifth month. The marriage ended a few months later when he’d found a videotape of Brandon Ross fucking her, while she’d supposedly been grieving the loss of her baby too deeply to have sex with her own husband. Looking back, his divorce had been a guilty relief. And a bitter humiliation. Brice had been with him, expecting to see an episode of CSI Jack had promised to videotape for him. They’d viewed a whole different sort of action instead.

  “You see now, yeah?” Brice murmured.

  “It’s complicated. Morgan belongs to . . . to someone else. They’re engaged.”