Chapter 20
JAMIE
I dream of Morgan. We’re out golfing, and the heat is unbearable.
I peel my sweater off. Then my shirt. Morgan watches with quiet approval, taking us to a hotter part of the golf course.
I can’t handle it—the denim of my jeans sticks like tar, threatening to drown me.
I peel them off, leaving only my briefs.
“Commit or don’t,” Morgan quips, in that way of hers.
My heart pounds.
I drop my briefs, and my cock is at full attention.
“Hm. Acceptable,” Morgan says.
Suddenly the golf course is in the desert, all sand and heat. She sways her hips ahead of me, revealing pants slit up the sides, and I catch glimpses of her long, bare legs with each stride.
I’m dripping sweat, dripping from my cock, and Morgan turns to me with a cool half-smile. I melt.
Rolling over wakes me suddenly, my boxers tugging against my morning wood. A beam of sun has fallen across me with the late hour, heating my body and apparently sending my dreams haywire.
There’s a wet spot spreading across my boxers from the tip of my cock, and as I slide the waistband down, the fabric is already sticky with pre.
I never… took care of things after the massage.
That realization is enough to send a fresh bead of pre-cum dripping down my length. I find it with my fingers, spreading it across my tip, and the slide sends my back arching. I bite my tongue to stifle a moan.
God, I’m a mess. A dripping, panting mess. It’s been days, but I’m aching like it’s been weeks again.
My ass clenches, desperate. I should’ve brought lube. But I didn’t exactly plan on jacking off on a work trip.
I permit myself a low whimper, and as another bead of pre slicks my fingers, I drop them to my rim.
I moan. Oh god, I can’t stop myself, and I moan again, slipping a finger inside.
What if Morgan hears? What if she figures out what I’m doing? The thought is supposed to knock some sense into me, but the heat zaps up my veins like lightning, and my ass clenches around my finger.
Fuck, I’m getting louder, but I can’t stop. It feels too good—it feels so fucking good, and I need this.
I think my best option is to cum fast and cum hard.
I curl the finger inside me, pressing on my prostate, and already heat coils in my core.
Fuck, if Morgan only knew what she does to me…
With a long, low groan, I climax hard, digging my finger into my prostate to drain myself. Rope after rope of cum lands on my hand, stomach, and chest.
I finally stop convulsing and collapse back onto the bed. Blood slowly drains back into the rest of my body.
Holy fucking shit. I’m still tingling all over.
It takes six tissues to clean myself off enough to slip into my bathrobe, and I tentatively peek out into the suite.
Thank god Morgan’s not there.
I slip into the shower to wash off the sweat and the rest of the cum, and I try to cleanse my mind as well.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
But it’s not like anything can come of it. It’s just… pining. A physiological reaction because I’m an unbound omega. It’ll fade in time.
I get dressed and chug a glass of water, swallowing my daily suppressant dose. A count of the pills confirms I haven’t missed a dose, and my heat is still two weeks off. I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad news, given my current state.
My head is clear now, at least.
I consider waiting in my bedroom, but after what Morgan said, I settle onto the couch and put on local daytime TV.
I’ve recovered enough that I hardly startle when Morgan comes in the door. But just as pride rises in my chest, the scent of musk and sweat and whiskey hits me.
Fuck, she smells good.
And she looks even better, wearing another sports bra and matching leggings.
I turn and give a timid wave. Morgan nods casually, then heads into her room.
My cock tries to tighten, but with how hard I just came, all it can manage is a dull ache. So far, so good.
Morgan emerges twenty minutes later with damp hair piled on top of her head, wearing a long chiffon cover-up.
“I’m headed to the pool,” she says.
She doesn’t tell me I’m going too. But she also doesn’t say I’m not.
I know I should stay behind, let myself cool off, not spend every waking moment with Morgan.
Instead, I dig out my swim trunks and try not to think too much about Morgan’s bikini. I’m hoping it’s something kind of sporty and serious, a subversion of the expectation for females to wear the most revealing swimsuit possible.
It turns out the rooftop pool is right above our suite, and we have a private staircase up to it. Following Morgan puts her hips at the level of my eyes, and the chiffon of her cover-up is just translucent enough for me to trace the black string of her thong bikini.
I gulp. I should have known absolutely nothing in Morgan’s life would be modest.
The rooftop is just as extravagant as everything else.
A turquoise glass mosaic lines the pool from the murmuring waterfall to the infinity edge that spills out over the city.
Sunbathing chairs ring the pool, and just behind them are cabana beds, with soft white curtains flowing in the wind.
Lush palms cast shade from their concrete planters, each sculpted to follow the organic flow of the space.
Our private entrance has its own set of showers, and there’s another structure on the other side that must be where the elevator comes up.
“Oh, this is amazing,” I breathe. We’re on a rooftop in the city, but I feel like I’m in a tropical resort.
“It’s alright,” Morgan says.
I step towards the pool, realize I haven’t changed yet, then double back to the private shower area.
When I emerge, Morgan’s still standing nearby, but her cover-up is gone. Three little triangles valiantly strain to cover her areolas and the most intimate area between her legs. She must wax. Or have gotten laser hair removal. Fuck, why am I thinking about her pus—
“No,” she says flatly. “You’re not wearing that.” It’s not an exclamation—it’s a command. Her eyes are on my swim trunks. At least that means she probably missed the stupid look on my face.
The trunks are baggy and long—a size too big, snagged from the clearance rack because I liked the tropical pattern. I have them cinched tight with the drawstring.
I’m pretty sure they don’t look that bad. They’re just swim trunks. Very regular swim trunks.
Morgan beckons over a young woman with a high honey-colored ponytail and a hotel uniform and rattles off a series of instructions. The woman nods and heads for the elevator.
I try to sneak towards the pool.
“Wait,” Morgan commands.
Sensations cascade through my body. First, the subconscious straightening of my spine. Her words echo, but… distantly. The omega wants to obey, but I don’t have to.
I do anyway.
“Why?” I say.
“I’m fixing… this.” She waves a hand at my swim trunks.
“You didn’t seem to have a problem embarrassing me in front of a bunch of other rich people at the golf course,” I snap back.
“Jamie.” Her tone cuts to my core, bearing an edge of impatience. “You didn’t look accidental at the golf course.” Her expression is almost pained.
I sort through what she could possibly mean—if I didn’t look accidental, then what would ‘on purpose’ be? Wait, does she mean I looked… good? My stomach flips. I have no idea what to do with the complement. If that’s even what she meant.
“Where did you even get that thing, J Crew?” she asks, derisive, as if J Crew is the worst possible place to shop she can imagine, and not the nicest store in the mall I went to as a kid.
“No, Target.”
“Target sells swimsuits?”
I’m feeling feisty and too rattled to filter myself, so I say, “You’re really out of touch.”
Morgan scoffs—I think I actually hit a nerve. “I am not.”
“What do you mean, ‘Target sells swimsuits’? Target is like, the place to get a swimsuit if you’re, I don’t know, a normal person. Solid size range, trendy colors and styles, fair quality, affordable prices.”
Morgan makes a face. “What, are you pitching me on Target stock right now?”
“Oh yes, that’s a very in-touch question.”
Morgan looks absolutely incredulous, but in a… pleased sort of way. Not her usual unflappable aura, but something a little deeper, a little more real. More like the hunger I saw on the racetrack.
“Hm.”
“Now,” I sigh, “why are you making me wait to get into the pool? These aren’t going to stain the water or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not making you do anything,” Morgan says coolly. A challenge.
I meet her violet eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Silence. A game of chicken. I don’t back down.
After ten seconds, it’s subtle, but I swear I see a chill go down Morgan’s spine, like she’s enjoying this too.
“Like I said, I’m fixing this. There’s a retail store attached to the hotel spa. They’ll have something more appropriate.”
“I’m not paying for this.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m not wearing a speedo.”
“I’m not buying you a speedo.”
I narrow my eyes. “Fine. But I’m not standing around.” I find the closest chair in the shade.
Morgan leans against the wall, seeming intent on staring me down until her phone buzzes from the woven bag on her arm and she starts typing a reply.
A few minutes later, the woman with the honey-colored ponytail returns with a small paper bag—deep blue, topped with tissue.
Of course even the shopping bags are fancy. I thank her profusely as Morgan just nods, and I duck back into the locker room to change.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I pull the tissue out and find a pair of swim trunks in the bag. Albeit much shorter and much tighter.
I thought they’d be black or grey or something ‘respectable.’
But they’re floral print. Not the wild tropical monstrosity of my swim trunks, but something that looks pulled out of a painting, with delicate white blooms on a background of salmon and grey, a piece of art for me to wear.
Something goes tight in my chest. Not the usual panic of being perceived.
Because, unlike the meals or the flights or the manicure, which all served a purpose on this work trip, this is… a gift.
Morgan could have easily banned me from joining her at the pool and let me make a fool of myself on my own time.
It’s probably not wise to read too much into it, since I’m pretty sure billionaires give out expensive gifts like sticks of gum, but… it’s like she wants me here.
I carefully fold the paper bag and tissue, setting them aside to take home and use for a gift, because they’re way too nice to recycle after only two minutes of use. I’ll put Mom’s souvenirs in it or something.
My reflection regards me from the mirror.
This swimsuit looks… good on me. Maybe really good.
It’s certainly short enough to show off my legs in a way I hadn’t really considered before.
It’s also short enough to reveal a slightly more embarrassing tattoo on my upper thigh—my first. All three evolutions of Chikorita strike dramatic battle poses.
I got it in honor of the intersection of my childhood obsessions with Pokémon and plants.
But there’s nothing to do about it now except hope Morgan doesn’t give me too much shit. I take a deep breath and step back out into the sun.