Deep Pockets (Kings and Rivals #1)

Chapter 4 – Morgan

4

THRUST AND CONSEQUENCES: A MEMOIR

MORGAN

I gasped, my breath stuttering as Lance drove into me again, deeper this time, his weight pressing me firmly into the mattress. The stretch was intoxicating, a delicious mix of pleasure and ache that sent a shudder rippling through me. My fingers curled into the sheets, grasping for something—anything—to anchor myself as he filled me completely.

Holy hell. He was so thick, every inch of him stealing the air from my lungs, leaving me trembling beneath him.

His lips moved over my skin—my neck, my collarbone, my breasts—leaving a trail of heat in their wake. All while his hands gently fisted and tugged my braids.

My body felt like it was on fire, each nerve ending sparking with electricity. I had lost count of how many times we'd done this tonight. Three? Maybe four.

Each time more desperate than the last. I should have been exhausted. Hell, I would most certainly be sore. But every touch, every kiss, just made me want him more.

He dragged his lips up my throat, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “I can feel it. You’re so tight around me, so fucking wet for me.”

“Yes,” I panted, my fingers digging into his shoulders, urging him on. "Lance, please?—"

“Please, what?” he asked, thrusting harder, deeper, making my back arch off the bed. “You want me to fuck you harder, Spitfire?”

“God, yes, just like that,” I cried out.

“Good girl,” he groaned, his lips curling into a wicked smile against my neck. “Come for me.”

His words pushed me right to the edge, my body tightening, coiling with that familiar tension. I was so close. I could feel it building, that tight, burning knot deep in my belly, ready to explode. Lance must have sensed it because his thrusts grew faster, more urgent, and his grip on my hip tightened as he angled himself to hit just the right spot over and over again.

“That’s it, Spitfire,” he coaxed, his voice rough with need. “Come on, let go for me.”

“I don’t think I can,” I whined.

“You’re such a good girl. Let me feel you again.”

His hand slid down between us, his fingers finding my clit, and pleasure tore through me in hot, blinding waves as I cried out his name, my nails raking down his back as my orgasm crashed over me.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his own movements becoming erratic as he chased his release. “So fucking perfect, Morgan. You’re so damn perfect.”

I felt him tense above me, his breath ragged and his body trembling, and then he was coming too, his groan low and guttural as he buried himself deep inside me, his cock kicking as he came.

I lay there completely unable to move.

Lance had broken me. I was fairly certain that walking would be an issue in the morning. He held on tight for several moments, his breath choppy against my neck before rolling away to ditch the condom. When he rolled back, he pulled me to his side, fitting our bodies together like jigsaw pieces before kissing my forehead.

Holy hell.

Two things I had learned about Lance; one, the man had a nearly ten-inch cock, and two, he was relentless about using it. And okay, one more thing. He had rules. Rules like if you didn't come at least twice while he was inside you, he saw it as a personal failing.

Slowly, as my heart rate returned to normal range, my inner critic started to pick at me.

Are you insane?

What does this mean?

Was he thinking about Gwen?

Okay, even I recognized that last one as the anxiety it was. Whatever that was we’d just done, he’d been here . With me. Inside me. Wrecking my pussy for anyone who came after.

Holy shitballs. I had fucked Lance.

Before the anxiety could wash over me completely, I rolled away from him. Maybe I could preserve some semblance of dignity if I had a second to get myself together.

But Lance held on tight. “Where do you think you’re going?”

My heart skipped a beat. “I-I need to use the bathroom.”

Lance searched my gaze but let me go. “Fine.”

I slipped out of bed, grabbing the sheet we’d long since discarded as he’d flipped me over and over like a pancake. My legs were like jelly as I padded into the bathroom.

My reflection in the custom Venetian mirror was a mess—my braid cascading down my back in disarray because his hands had been in my hair and those pillowcases were not in any way satin or silk. My cheeks were flushed, my lips swollen from his kisses, but I didn't care.

My lips curved into a wide, almost delirious smile, my heart fluttering. The master bath's marble and gold fixtures gleamed under soft recessed lighting. Even here, wealth whispered from every surface.

I'd never been to Lance's place before and was desperate to snoop. But I had to get it together. I'd wanted Lance for so long, but wanting him and having him were two very different things.

"Okay, Morgan," I whispered to myself, still smiling. "Don't freak out. Just play it cool."

After freshening up as much as I could, I padded back out, knocking over what looked like a journal as I left the antechamber. It had flipped open when I tossed it back on his clothes. And even though I knew better, I couldn’t help myself as I picked it up.

It was dated a week ago.

It was strange when it happened—when something shifted in me. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but I know it was in the way she laughed, in how she looked at me when she thought no one else was watching. At first, I chalked it up to proximity. She’s always around, and I couldn’t help but notice how she moves, how she seems to light up a room just by being in it. But then there are moments when I’m not sure where she ends and I begin.

I catch myself thinking about her at odd times, wondering what she’s doing or if she’s thinking about me too. I’ve convinced myself it’s harmless, a passing thought. Yet, the more I try to push it aside, the deeper it sinks into me.

There is no letting this go…

I need to talk to Gwen, but there is no telling how she’s going to take this.

A wave of nausea hit me, and my hands trembled as I put the journal back.

Gwen.

I’d been fucking him, and he’d been busy thinking about my fucking sister.

My rational mind tried to wrestle back the train that was running away with my emotions, but the panic was setting in.

I stumbled out into the bedroom. “Lance?—”

But he wasn’t in bed where I’d left him.

The bedroom door slammed open. Lance stormed in, my clothes clenched in his fists. His face was hard, jaw set like stone. The tender lover from moments ago had vanished, replaced by a cold, ruthless billionaire.

"Get dressed," he snapped, tossing my clothes at me. The words cut through the air like a whip.

"Lance, what the hell?" My voice cracked as I scrambled to catch them, my heart pounding with confusion and anger. The asshole wouldn't even look at me.

"This was a mistake." His voice turned mechanical, distant. "I don't have time to deal with your feelings right now."

It felt as if a boulder slammed against my chest. "We need to talk?—"

He turned then, his dark eyes unreadable. The intensity there made my blood run cold.

"You're a kid." The words sliced through me. "And I like my women grown."

I could only stare, frozen. "A kid?"

"Yes, a kid. This was a mistake." His voice grew sharper, colder. "Time to go."

Humiliation and pain wrapped around my heart like ice. This was Lance fucking Lakewood, after all. What had I expected?

"Five orgasms weren't enough for you?" His patience clearly frayed. "I said get out." Each word more final than the last.

He turned and stormed out, leaving me trembling, clutching my clothes like a shield.

Utterly shattered.

Lance

The nightmare always started the same, with thunder rattling the windows of our old house. The storm outside a cruel echo of the one inside.

Grandfather’s voice was steady, unwavering as he placed the cold weight of the gun in my hand.

“Your training is over. One more test.”

The person in the chair didn’t move, bound and hooded. My pulse pounding in my ears, my grip slick on the pistol.

I was seventeen.

In the recesses of my mind, I’d understood the martial arts, knife, and gun training hadn’t been about learning discipline and a skill.

I’d known. They weren’t training me for Marvel superhero shit.

I’d been old enough to know hesitation wasn’t an option. Old enough to understand there was no walking away from this. Old enough to know what this was. Who my grandfather was. Who he wanted me to be.

“Shoot.” Grandfather’s icy voice cut through the static in my head.

My hand shook. I knew what was expected. What I needed to do, but I couldn’t.

The hood came off, revealing the face of the person in the chair.

Mom .

Terror widened her eyes, her lips trembling as she whispered my name.

I pulled the trigger. I always do. And then, like always, I jolted awake, my heart hammering, sweat chilling my skin, but this time with Morgan’s soft body pressed against me.

It was a dream. I wasn’t back in that warehouse. I’d escaped and made a new life. A normal fucking life.

One where I didn’t hurt people.

We’d just woken up and gone to the bathroom when I heard the faint scraping click.

Next thing, I knew, instead of dragging Morgan back to bed, chasing away the darkness with her light, I’d come face to face with my brother in the guest bathroom at the opposite end of the penthouse.

Bleeding all over my fucking travertine.

And I’d seen the fucking truth. Normal fun time was over. The angel of death had come for me.

All that mattered was getting Morgan away from my family's toxic web. The whole place felt like a gilded cage, trapping me with my mistakes and the lingering scent of lime and coconut—her scent.

Sending Morgan away felt like cutting my chest open with a jagged blade, but I had to protect her. The devil had found me.

Outside, drizzle tickled the window, sending swirls of vapor into the cooling night sky.

The penthouse stretched fifty stories above Manhattan, its Italian leather furnishings and museum-quality art collection worth more than most people's lifetime earnings. But none of it mattered. Not the Rothko on the wall, not the rare whiskey in crystal decanters.

Instead of staying in bed with Morgan, I was sewing up my brother's wounds.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Hector?”

"What? I can’t see my brother?"

"I'm not your brother. Your brother is dead." I’d gone to great lengths to cover my tracks.

He slanted me a glance. "Sloppy, Lancelot, sloppy."

I deliberately jabbed him with the needle.

He grunted. "Fuck. Okay. It was by accident. Your trail was clean. I honestly thought you were dead until I saw you outside that café. Like seeing a ghost."

"When?" Panic spiked my blood as I mentally tried to find my weak spot.

"A month ago. Took me this long to get access. Got in with the cleaning crew first, made myself a key. Never know when you need a safe house."

There was a crushing sensation against my chest. If Hector had found it, it was only a matter of time until the old man did.

I allowed an icy detachment to flow through me. "You been sent to collect me?"

Shadows flickered behind his eyes. "Might have forgotten to mention I'd seen you."

Interesting . I did not trust he kept his silence out of any love or loyalty. Still, I said nothing to that.

He inclined his head toward the door. "Never said to kick out your lady friend, Lancelot."

My brother's voice was strained. God, I hated that nickname.

I paused mid-stitch, leveling him with an icy stare. "Don't talk about her."

Hector's chuckle turned to a wince. "Who were you hiding?"

"Nobody that matters." Liar . Hector, like the rest of my family, was poison I wouldn't let near Morgan. I'd fucked up bringing her here instead of my SoHo loft, all because I was impatient to have her.

I finished the last suture, hands steady despite my rage. The DuLacs controlled half of Manhattan's elite circles and underground dealings. My grandfather had spent years amassing power and influence across the globe. But the money didn't wash away what we were at our core.

Assassins.

Our name opened doors money couldn't buy. But I'd walked away, building my own wealth. Now my brother threatened everything—especially Morgan. If they knew I cared, it would be something to hold over me, which I could not allow.

"You'll live," I said, removing my gloves.

"Shouldn't you chase your girlfriend?" Hector coughed. "Your concern makes her interesting . Didn't see her face, but that ass... Tell me, brother, how well can she take that cock? Maybe I should test?—"

I jammed my thumb into his wound. "She's none of your business."

"Fuck! Okay!"

"Save it. What happened tonight?"

He shook his head. "You know the rules. You're not a DuLac anymore. You've been in New York this whole time? Ten years?"

"Something like that."

"I thought you were dead," Hector muttered.

"You were supposed to." Ten years ago, I'd walked away from everything—the trust fund, the danger, all of it. Created a new identity, enrolled in college, and buried Lance DuLac. I thought I was clear until two years ago when the old man deposited money in my old account. A feeler to see if I'd notice, try to withdraw. I hadn't taken the bait. I’d left my accounts intact with flags to keep an eye on things. Anytime anyone tried to access anything to view or deposit, I would know.

Somehow, Atticus had found out but never said a word about who I really was. Considering he hated me then, that meant something.

I cleaned up quickly, then palmed the small paring knife from the kitchen as I went back to Hector. Sure I’d patched him up, but I knew better than to trust him. He was the scorpion and I was the frog.

"Going to tell grandfather?"

He shrugged. "Haven't decided." With a lifted brow: "Going to use that knife in your sleeve?"

"Haven't decided." It depended on him keeping his distance from Morgan.

No. It depends on you keeping your distance from Morgan.

If I stayed the fuck away, she’d be safe, and I could keep the monsters from her door.