Chapter 12 – Morgan
Chapter Twelve
Until You Beg (And Other Ways to Ruin My Resolve)
Morgan
It was almost poetic. Almost .
That after everything, after all the running, after all the ways I had tried to guard my heart against this man, I found myself right back where I started.
In his loft.
About to marry him.
The irony was a bitch.
I ran because I couldn't trust him.
And now? I was back and it felt like he was the only person I could reply on.
The loft smelled the same.
Cedarwood. Expensive leather. And Lance himself. That scent that used to drive me wild when he'd pin me against the wall and?—
Shit .
I hadn't lived here in five weeks. Hadn't let myself linger in the doorway long enough to breathe it in and remember.
But now, standing in the center of the living room, pacing the length of the space I once thought of as home, I felt suffocated.
The air was too thick. Too heavy. Too much like him .
I never should have come back.
And the worst part?
The man I ran from—the one I swore I'd never trust again—was the same man I had to depend on now.
Fuck my life.
The ride from Gwen and Atticus's had been hell. Two people who once couldn't keep their hands off each other, now sitting in silence. Every stoplight felt like torture. His knuckles white on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles jumping.
What do you say to the man who'd just dropped a bomb on your entire existence?
Hey, so about this marriage of convenience to save me from your murderous assassin family. Think we'll get good wedding gifts?
I stared out at the Manhattan skyline. Same view. Different girl.
"You should eat something."
His voice hit me low in the belly. Deep. Familiar. A reminder of all the ways I was still fucked.
I refused to turn around. "I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since breakfast."
I spun to face him. "Are you tracking my meals now? Is that part of the husband package?"
He stood in the kitchen doorway, tie loose, top buttons undone. That triangle of skin on his chest made my mouth water.
Stop it. Focus.
"It's called concern, Morgan." His voice was controlled. Always so fucking controlled. "You've been through a lot today."
I laughed. "That's putting it mildly."
He took a step toward me. "Morgan?—"
"I don't want to hear it," I cut him off, hand raised like a shield. "Whatever bullshit apology you're about to give, save it. I'm here because I have to be, not because I've forgiven you."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I know."
Two words. Just two fucking words that hit harder than they had any right to.
"I'm going to shower," I said, desperate to escape before I did something stupid. Like touching him. "I'm taking the bedroom."
I moved toward the stairs. His footsteps followed, heavy behind me.
"Not on your life, Spitfire. Still my bed."
I whirled around, nearly slamming into his chest. He was too close. Taking up all the air.
"Fine. I'll sleep down here." I tried to push past him, but he didn't budge. Just a wall of hard muscle and stubbornness.
"Let me be clear." His voice dropped, rumbling through me like thunder. "Neither one of us wants this, but I was serious when I said this must look real. This place is swept for bugs weekly, but things happen. This— us —has to look real."
He leaned in, crowding me against the wall. The heat of him burned through my clothes, making my skin prickle with awareness.
"But I made you a promise." His breath fanned across my face. "I'm not touching you."
His eyes dropped to my mouth, lingered. When he smiled—that cocky half-smile that always made my panties wet—I nearly whimpered.
"Until you beg."
My body lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. Heat pooled between my thighs.
"Screw you," I whispered, voice embarrassingly breathy.
His eyes darkened. "Is that an offer, Spitfire?"
I shoved at his chest, needing to escape before I combusted.
He caught my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head. His other hand cupped the back of my neck, thumb pressed against my pulse. His touch was smooth and warm against my skin, sending shivers down my spine.
"Let me go," I demanded, hating how weak I sounded.
"Is that what you really want?" He pressed closer, thigh wedged between mine. I could feel him —all of him—hard against my hip. My body remembered exactly how he felt. How he tasted. How he moved inside me.
I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
"I—" My words died as his thumb stroked my neck, finding that spot that always made me arch into him.
"You still want this," he growled, lips hovering over mine. "Your body can't lie to me, Spitfire."
My body had its own agenda, pressing closer, seeking more.
His pupils blew wide, black swallowing green. I felt the slight tremble in his fingers, heard the hitch in his breathing.
"Morgan," he groaned, my name like a prayer on his lips.
The hard ridge of his cock pressed against me, making my clit throb in response. God, I wanted him. Wanted to feel him inside me, stretching me, filling me, making me forget everything but his name.
"Tell me you don't want this," he said, his voice a ragged whisper. "Tell me you don't think about my mouth on you. My cock inside you. My hands holding you down while you come."
"I don't—" The lie caught in my throat.
His teeth grazed my earlobe. "Liar."
For one suspended moment, I thought he would kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me, damn the consequences.
Then he released me so fast I nearly fell. He stepped back, chest heaving.
"Go get settled in, Morgan." His voice was rough, like sandpaper. "Before I forget all the promises I just made."
I stood frozen, wrists tingling, body throbbing. Between my legs, I was wet and aching, my clit pulsing with need.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to still want him. Not after everything.
Yet here I was—panties soaked, ready to climb him like a tree.
I pushed off the wall and brushed past him, careful not to touch. I couldn't trust myself if I did.
As I wobbled upstairs, I heard something crash against the wall, followed by cursing. The sound of a man at his breaking point.
That made two of us.
The main bedroom looked exactly as I'd left it. King-sized bed with charcoal sheets. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything black, gray, and white.
But what stopped me in my tracks were the touches I'd added.
Still there . All of them. The bright jewel-toned pillows arranged precisely as I'd left them.
The fuzzy purple blanket he pretended to hate but always used, folded at the foot of the bed.
Even the vase on the nightstand, filled with fresh flowers—the same type I always kept there.
Like he'd been waiting. Like he'd known I'd come back.
Like I'd never left at all.
I dropped my bag and collapsed on the bed, legs still unsteady. How many times had I woken up in this bed? How many times had he made me come on these sheets?
How the fuck had we ended up here?
My phone buzzed.
Gwen: You okay? Just checking in.
Was I okay? Hell no. I was being hunted by assassins, about to enter a fake marriage, and fighting a desperate need to fuck a man I couldn't trust.
But Gwen had enough on her plate.
Morgan: I'm fine. Just settling in. Give Ava a kiss for me.
Gwen: You don't have to do this. We can find another way.
I stared at the screen. There was no other way. We all knew it.
Morgan: I know what I'm doing. Don't worry about me.
Gwen: Call me if you need ANYTHING. Day or night.
Morgan: I will. Love you.
Gwen: Love you more.
I tossed the phone aside and sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sheets smelled like him. Everything in this place was him.
I needed a shower. Needed to wash away the day and the feel of Lance's hands on my wrists. Needed to cool the fire racing through my veins.
Needed to take care of this ache between my thighs. I needed to focus all that energy into the pieces I still had to design. I grabbed clean clothes from my bag and headed for the en-suite bathroom, locking the door behind me even though I knew it wouldn't keep Lance out if he really wanted in.
The shower was exactly as I remembered—black tile, multiple showerheads, bench built into the wall. The scene of countless moments between us.
I dug through my toiletry bag and pulled out my silk-lined shower cap, carefully tucking my braids inside to protect them. Five weeks, and I still remembered exactly where everything belonged in this bathroom. My body remembered this routine, even if my mind was fighting it.
I stripped, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I didn't want to see the flush on my skin, the hard peaks of my nipples, the desperation in my eyes.
Under the hot spray, I closed my eyes and let the water cascade over me.
My skin still tingled where Lance had touched me.
My lips still burned where his breath had ghosted over them.
The pressure between my thighs was almost unbearable now, a constant throbbing reminder of what I was denying myself.
What I was denying us both.
I slid my hand between my thighs, finding myself swollen and slick. It wouldn't take much. Just a few strokes, a little pressure in the right spot, and I could take the edge off this need.
I leaned back against the cool tile, spreading my legs wider. With one hand, I cupped my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. With the other, I traced slow circles around my clit, teasing myself.
As I circled my clit, I tried to think of anything but Lance. Anyone but Lance.
The shower spray beat down as I bit my lip hard enough to sting. Focused on counting tiles behind my closed eyelids—thirty-seven, thirty-eight—until numbers dissolved into phantom hands pinning my wrists against wet glass.
Lance’s hands I imagined. His mouth. His cock.
The way he used to press me against this very wall, his body hard and unyielding behind me. The way he'd wrap those strong fingers around my throat, just tight enough to make me gasp. The way he'd whisper in my ear as he slid inside me, telling me how good I felt, how tight , how wet .
My fingers moved faster now, water sluicing between us as if he were really here. The ghost of his teeth grazed my shoulder blade—that particular spot that always made my knees buckle. A choked moan echoed off the porcelain as my hips jerked forward, seeking pressure that wasn’t there.
I slipped two fingers inside myself, curling them upward, hitting that spot that made my knees buckle. My thumb pressed harder against my clit, movements becoming faster, more desperate.
In my mind, it was Lance. Lance touching me. Lance fucking me. Lance whispering those filthy promises in my ear.
Every hissed good girl from phantom lips tightened the coil in my belly.
"Come for me, Spitfire," he'd say, voice rough with need. "Let me feel you come around my cock."
The pressure built low in my belly, heat spreading through my limbs. I bit my lip to keep quiet, but it was no use.
A broken sound tore from my throat as my back arched off the tiles.
When I came, it was his name on my lips, a plea, a prayer, a confession.
"Lance…"
My legs trembled, barely holding me upright as waves of pleasure crashed over me. I rode it out, fingers still moving, drawing out every last shudder.
It didn't help. If anything, I wanted him more now. Wanted the real thing. Not just my own hand and memories.
I stayed under the spray until the water ran cold, trying to wash away the shame and the want. It didn't work. Nothing would. Not as long as he was so close, yet so far out of reach.
I dried off, carefully removed my shower cap, and checked my braids in the mirror.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, dressed in sleep shorts and a tank top, I froze.
Lance was in my bed—no, his bed. Our bed.
He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants. The sheets pooled at his waist, revealing the cut of muscle at his hips, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
His eyes slid to me, dark and dangerous. "Getting comfortable."
"I thought?—"
"That I'd sleep somewhere else?" He raised an eyebrow. "I told you, this has to look real."
"There's no one here to see."
"You don't know that." His voice hardened. "I'm not taking chances with your safety."
I stood frozen, torn between fleeing and climbing into bed with him.
"Get in bed, Morgan." Not a request. A command.
My feet moved before my brain caught up. I slipped under the covers on the far edge of the bed, putting as much distance between us as possible.
"Did it help?" he asked after a moment of loaded silence.
I turned my head to look at him. "Did what help?"
His lips curled into that half-smile that always made my stomach flip. "That little orgasm you gave yourself in the shower."
Heat rushed to my face. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said in a huff.
"Liar." The word was almost fond. "These walls aren't as soundproof as you think."
Oh god. He'd heard me. Heard me whisper his name as I came.
I rolled away, presenting him with my back, mortification burning through me.
"Is it bad," he said, his voice dropping to that low register that always made me shiver, "that I hope it only made you ache worse? So you know how I feel?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
The bed shifted as he settled deeper into the mattress. I could feel the heat of him, just inches away. All it would take was one small movement backward and I'd be pressed against him.
"Goodnight, Spitfire," he murmured, his voice a dark promise in the shadowed room.
I closed my eyes, knowing sleep would be impossible. Not with him so close. Not with every cell in my body screaming for his touch.