A STANDING YES
MORGAN
The banister was cool and smooth under her hand as they made their way up the steps. A few squeaked, but they were sturdy and had no give.
Was she really doing this?
Yes. Yes, she was.
She could pretend this was just the next part of the house tour, but she was a smart woman who didn’t make a habit of deluding herself.
After a handsome man cooked her dinner, after they shared wine and talked for hours like they’d known each other for years instead of days…
she knew exactly where they were headed.
And yes, she was going willingly.
The second floor was as impressive—and in as much need of work—as the first. Faded wallpaper. Wainscoting that looked as if it had been hand carved. Accent alcoves, decorative wood trim, and heavy doors with glass knobs.
Straight ahead, a small walkway led to a Juliet balcony. Turning around, she saw what had probably been a small sitting area in the curve of the turret. To the left and right, closed doors that she guessed to be bedrooms.
“Which one is yours?” she asked.
He pointed to the end of the hall, to a closed door to the right of the turret.
“Can I see it?”
He searched her face, his eyes meeting hers, asking a silent question. “Sure.”
Morgan was aware of everything—their footfalls on the hardwood, the low amber glow of the wall sconces, Patrick's hand warm at the small of her back. Not pushing, just present.
He opened the door and let her enter first. She stepped in, feeling as if she was being given a gift of sorts in the form of a peek into his personal space. Into him.
The plaster walls hadn’t yet been restored, nor had the wide plank floors been sanded and refinished, but that didn’t diminish the elegance of the craftsmanship.
A trio of large windows looked out over the front of the house above a curved bench seat.
It was a big space without much in it. A simple but well-crafted bed and matching dresser with some framed photos. A nightstand with books and a lamp.
Simple. Tidy. Precise.
Patrick crossed to the window and angled the blinds, then turned to look at her.
He said nothing, just waited patiently, giving her the time to decide and all the power.
If she turned around and walked right back out, he wouldn’t have tried to coax her to stay, but he wanted her to. She could see it in his eyes.
She wanted it too.
She crossed the room.
He waited. His body language was casual and relaxed but his eyes…
She could see the things he wanted to do to her in those amazing blue eyes.
It was only when she stood before him that she could see the tension in his shoulders, as if it was taking every bit of his self-control to remain still. Like if he moved, he’d scare her away.
Reaching up, she framed his face in her hands, and still, he did nothing.
“Patrick,” she said softly. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, you need to tell me now.”
In answer, one of his hands slipped under her hair and cupped the back of her head. The other slipped around her waist, gently urging her forward, pressing against her body so there was no question he was right there with her.
The kiss started slow and gentle. A brush of lips, then another until it was no longer enough.
Patrick angled her head and deepened the kiss. His arm tightened, a steel band of muscle that was possessive as it was necessary. A low sound rumbled up from his chest, sending shivers of desire through her.
This was a side of Patrick Callaghan she hadn’t seen before. Gone was the playful charmer and the focused analyst. In its place, a man who had the ability to make her forget the rest of the world existed.
He drew back a fraction. She wanted to grab him by the shirt and pull him right back.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice deliciously rough.
“Yes,” she said, and heard the faint unevenness in her own voice.
He smiled. Smiled that crooked half-smile that before had looked flirty and now looked… wicked.
One arm moved from around her waist to beneath her bottom, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his hips of their own accord. His tongue was doing amazing things to hers and they were moving backward until she was seated on the edge of the bed.
Patrick went to his knees on the floor and looked up at her. Another question.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He didn’t ask again.
With far more patience than she possessed, Patrick unwrapped her like a precious gift, touching and kissing each part of her as he revealed it. Then, fully clothed, still on his knees, he lifted her legs over his shoulders. Gazed at her like he was a starving man and she was a feast.
No one had ever looked at her with even a fraction of that intensity.
He raised his eyes in silent question and she hissed. Actually hissed.
“Don’t ask me for permission. I’m giving you a standing yes. If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you.”
His eyes blazed hot enough to make her think that maybe she should have been more careful about granting blanket permission and a full access pass. Then he buried his head between her legs and she didn’t care about anything else.
The man had skills.
It was only after he’d made her come so hard she’d seen stars that her lust-soaked brain realized that he was still fully dressed.
They needed to rectify that immediately.
“Stand up,” she commanded when she regained enough composure to form the words. She thought he might defer, but he did as she asked, slowly rising to his feet until he was looming over her, staring down at her with blazing eyes.
Or at least, that was what it felt like. She was too busy staring at the huge bulge in his jeans.
It was… a lot.
Slowly, with the same care and attention he had given her, she divested him of his clothes, taking the time to learn his body, fascinated by the landscape of ridges and dips.
He held himself still and let her play and explore, but she could tell it cost him in the way his muscles tensed and his veins popped.
Until she leaned forward and licked him on the tip of his hard, straining cock.
Between one thunderous heartbeat and the next, she found herself on her back on the bed, Patrick’s body hovering above hers.
Pausing. Asking another silent question.
In answer, she opened her thighs and lifted her hips.
With an excruciatingly slow glide, he was inside her. Stretching her. Filling her. Completing her in a way nothing else ever had.
Then he started moving…
Morgan woke to a warm bed and an even warmer man. It took her exactly three seconds to remember where she was.
Patrick’s room. Patrick’s house. With Patrick, who was still asleep beside her, one arm curved loosely around her waist with the easy possessiveness of a man who was comfortable in his own skin even unconscious.
She waited for the regret to take hold. For her inner voice to start spouting self-recriminations for allowing last night to happen.
It didn’t.
Instead, she lay still and let herself look at him.
He was, objectively, beautiful. Dark hair against the white pillow.
The clean line of his jaw relaxed in sleep, dusted with the shadow of growth.
Thick, black lashes forming perfect crescents over eyes that had darkened with hunger.
The breadth of his shoulders, the solidness of his chest. The heavy weight of him pressing against the inside of her thigh.
Last night had been amazing.
Patrick had been thorough and focused. Sweet.
Tender. Passionate. A very patient and generous lover.
She hadn’t been prepared for that, which meant her carefully managed defenses had been absolutely useless.
Every touch, every stroke, every kiss had been curious and deliberate, masterfully executed until she could think of nothing but the next one.
It hadn’t just been once.
Each time had been better than the last.
Scary better. The kind that could ruin a woman for any other man, because no one else would ever compare.
She closed her eyes and acknowledged the flutter just behind her sternum, willing it to go away while she quietly reveled in the moment, knowing it would probably never happen again.
When the first rays of light began to peek around the drapes, Morgan forced herself out of bed. She dressed quietly, retrieving her sweater from the chair where it had landed, and found her shoes near the far wall, where she’d kicked them off in haste.
Down the hall, she could hear water running in one of the bathrooms, but otherwise, the house was quiet. She tiptoed down the curved staircase and across the first floor. She was nearly to the front door when she heard it—the soft click of nails on the hardwood. A cold nose nudged her hand.
“Bruno, right?” she whispered, gifting him with a pat.
She looked up and found Wade in the doorway.
Watching. His eyes were curious but non-judgmental.
She wondered briefly how many times Wade had seen woman leaving at the crack of dawn to be so unaffected, then realized she didn’t want to know.
Patrick had made her feel special, and she wanted to hold on to that as long as possible.
Outside, the morning was cold and still, the sky the color of pewter, the trees along the street holding their last leaves with diminishing conviction. She sat in the car for a moment before starting the engine.
They hadn’t talked about the case.
Not once. Not the forum, not Varro, not the saxitoxin, not the investigation.
Not Frank, not the campground, not the dead man who’d started all of this.
She’d spent an entire night in the company of the man she’d been working alongside through the Thread for years, and the case had simply… not come up.
She turned that over on the drive back to Frank’s, examining it from different angles the way she examined everything. The dinner. The wine. The conversation. The sex.
Especially the incredible sex.
And the vague thought that leaving Pine Ridge might not be as easy as she’d first thought.