Chapter 13 – Morgan
Chapter Thirteen
How to Torture Yourself (A Step-by-Step Guide)
Morgan
I woke up to Lance's arm around my waist like a vise, his hard length pressed against the curve of my backside. The thick ridge of him nestled against me through our clothes, sending unwanted heat spiraling through my core.
The sun filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of light across the bed we'd once shared. The bed I swore I'd never sleep in again.
Yet here I was.
His warm breath tickled the sensitive skin behind my ear, sending shivers racing down my spine.
His chest rose and fell against my back in the deep, even rhythm of sleep.
One large hand had slipped beneath my tank top during the night, splayed possessively across my bare stomach, fingertips just grazing the underside of my breast.
When I tried to wiggle away, his arm tightened, pulling me closer. His hips rocked forward instinctively, his cock grinding against me in a way that made my breath catch and my thighs clench.
"Just five minutes," he murmured, his voice sleep-rough and devastatingly familiar. His breathing remained deep. "I know it's just a dream, but please... just five minutes with you."
I knew I should move. Should slip away and rebuild the walls he'd demolished with a few unconscious words. But like the absolute fool I was, I gave him exactly what he asked for. Five minutes.
Five minutes of pretending we were something we weren't anymore. Five minutes where I let myself melt back against him, my body molding to his like it was made to fit there. Five minutes of his warmth and his scent and the weight of his body pressed against mine.
I let my eyes drift closed, savoring the sensation of his fingertips tracing lazy, unconscious patterns on my skin. Let myself remember what it felt like to be held by this man. To be wanted by him. To be loved by him.
His lips brushed the nape of my neck in his sleep, making me shiver. The familiar ache between my thighs intensified, my body responding to his as it always had, with embarrassing eagerness. I bit my lip to keep from making a sound as his hand drifted higher, thumb grazing the side of my breast.
For five dangerous minutes, I allowed myself this weakness . This vulnerability. This memory of something I couldn't have anymore.
Then his breathing deepened further, a soft snore rumbling from his chest. I waited, counting his breaths, making sure he was truly asleep before carefully lifting his arm and sliding out from beneath it.
My body protested the loss of his heat immediately, goosebumps rising on my skin that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Standing in his bathroom, I stared at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed, my lips bitten red, my eyes too bright. I looked like a woman who was completely fucked.
In every sense of the word except the one I actually wanted.
If being in the same room with Lance before had been confusing, sharing his bed was a whole new level of mindfuck.
My body remembered his touch too well. Responded too eagerly.
While my brain was still catching up with the fact that I was about to marry a man I'd thought I knew everything about.
A man who'd finally revealed his true identity after months of deception.
A man who'd lied about what he’d done.
A man who'd grown up among assassins.
A man who still made my heart race and my skin flush just by breathing.
I splashed cold water on my face, willing my body to cool down. To remember why I'd walked away in the first place.
After getting dressed in jeans and a simple blouse, I checked my phone. Three missed calls from Gwen, a text from Atticus asking if I was okay, and an email from Adele reminding me of my deadline.
Right .
Life didn't stop just because mine had imploded.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Lance was gone, the bed empty, sheets still rumpled from our bodies. The sudden absence of him left me strangely uneasy. After everything I'd learned about him, about his family, I shouldn't want him near me. Shouldn't feel safer with him around.
But I did. And that scared me more than anything.
I headed downstairs, my footsteps quiet on the hardwood floors. Lance was in the kitchen, shirtless, frying eggs like it was any normal Saturday morning. Like we were any normal couple. The domesticity of it hit me hard, a sucker punch to the gut I hadn't been prepared for.
Holy hell, the man was a walking wet dream.
Morning sunlight played across the defined muscles of his back, highlighting every ridge and valley.
His sweatpants hung low on his hips, revealing that sinful V-cut that always made my mouth water.
I had to physically stop myself from staring at the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband, remembering all too well where it led to nine inches of heaven.
If he kept walking around like that, displaying all that golden skin and those abs you could grate cheese on, I was going to need a lot more "self-care" sessions in the shower. My lady parts were staging a full-on rebellion against my brain's perfectly rational decision to hate him.
"Sleep well?" he asked without turning around, sensing my presence the way he always could.
"Fine," I said, heading straight for the fridge and grabbing a premade smoothie. The man still stocked my favorite strawberry-kale blend.
When he turned to face me with a devastating smirk, I nearly choked on my first sip.
"Any good dreams?" His voice had that teasing edge to it, that dangerous playfulness that always made my stomach flip. "You were saying my name in your sleep."
Heat rushed to my face. "I was not."
Lance turned, spatula in hand, eyes dancing with amusement despite the tension between us. "Whatever you say, Spitfire."
I took a long sip of my smoothie to avoid responding, ignoring the knowing smirk on his face. God, that mouth. The things that mouth could do. My thighs clenched involuntarily at the memory.
Get it together, Morgan. He's a liar who comes from a family of killers. A very hot liar with the body of a Greek god, but still...
"I'm heading to the garment district," I announced, changing the subject and dragging my eyes away from his chest with considerable effort. "Adele's deadline is still looming, assassins or no assassins."
Lance's expression shifted, all traces of playfulness disappearing. "Security goes with you."
After what I'd witnessed at the co-op, after seeing what his family was capable of, I didn't have the heart or the foolishness to argue. The memory of Amber's bruised face flashed through my mind, followed by the sound of glass shattering, men with guns, Anthony bleeding on the floor.
"Of course," I agreed quietly, not meeting his eyes. "I know it's necessary."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe relief—before he nodded. "Good. Rowan and Michael are already waiting downstairs."
He turned back to the stove, giving me another eyeful of that magnificent back. It was criminal, really, that someone so dangerous should look that good. The universe had a sick sense of humor, giving a lying assassin the body of a god and hands that knew exactly how to make me fall apart.
Focus, Morgan. Fabric. Collection. Career. Not the way his muscles flex when he moves. Not how his fingers would feel sliding up your thigh...
Twenty minutes later, Lance walked me to the door, still gloriously shirtless. Every step felt like torture, forced to be so close to all that golden skin and defined muscle without being allowed to touch. As I reached for the doorknob, his hand landed on mine, stopping me.
"Wait," he said, his voice low.
I turned to face him, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumped when he stepped closer. The heat from his bare chest radiated between us, making my skin prickle with awareness.
His mouth moved to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "Remember," he whispered, "anytime we're in public, anytime we might be seen, we need to look like a couple in love."
Before I could respond, his lips found my neck, trailing a path of fire from just below my ear to my collarbone. My breath hitched as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot at the base of my throat.
"Like we can't keep our hands off each other," he murmured against my skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. "Like we're desperate for each other. There could be a long-range camera snapping pictures right now."
His mouth moved lower, finding that spot—that perfect spot he knew would make me weak. A whimper escaped me before I could stop it, my fingers clutching at his bare shoulders instinctively, feeling the hard muscle beneath warm skin.
"Exactly like that," he said with satisfaction, pulling back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with something I didn't want to name. "Be careful today."
I swallowed hard, trying to remember how to form words with his half-naked body still so close to mine. "I will."
He opened the door for me, and I slipped past him, careful not to brush against him again, even as every cell in my body screamed for more contact. The ghost of his lips lingered on my skin all the way to the elevator.
Twenty minutes later, I was in the back of a black SUV with Rowan and a stoic man named Michael. Because apparently my life was now a spy movie with color-coded protection detail.
I pulled out my phone and called Amber as we pulled away from Lance's building, sipping my smoothie with my free hand.
"Hey," she answered on the second ring, her voice still raspy from sleep. "You okay?"
"That's what I was going to ask you," I said, leaning back against the leather seat. "How's the head?"
"Still attached," she said, attempting humor, though I could hear the strain underneath. "The doctor says I'm fine. Just need rest."
Even though she'd been discharged days ago, she was taking time off to recover. The bruise on her face had bloomed into an ugly rainbow of colors that made my stomach clench with guilt every time I saw it.