Chapter Two #2
I stop breathing. Who needs air when a man like this gives you words like those?
I’ve never welcomed compliments or flowery talk; to me they’re usually just the opening move in a negotiation.
They soften me up for a pitch, whether they’re looking for a favor across this desk or to get me underneath them.
Somehow, his words, said in a deep, rough tone don’t sound that way.
Still, for the sake of my self-respect, I pretend to be affronted.
Offended by his come on. I am anything but.
I am a little shocked, a little confused, and a lot turned on.
Because men do not talk to me that way. I leave no room for it with my cutting glares or my biting words.
I have had to fight my way through life to get where I am, so to be treated as soft or delicate by this man is a dangerous new world to find myself in.
"Uh...uh, Mr. Brant..." I stammer something about his thoughts being solely on what’s between my legs, but Morgan cuts me off, rising to loom over my desk. I start to shrink away, but then I do the opposite—I push closer. I’m addicted to his scent and the heat he gives off, that raw energy that's pulsed between us since he first walked in. I don’t know the first thing about handling this sort of attraction.
"Oh, Ms. Carter," his voice is so low it is as if we’re sharing a secret.
His big hands plant flat on my desk as he towers over me, his gaze eating me up before he continues.
"I most definitely thought about what is between your thighs. My preference would be me, since we’re on the subject.
Though I am not sure you could handle what I would do to you. "
How do you come back after that sort of thing is said to you—no, not said, promised?
I don’t move; I don’t even breathe. My entire world has narrowed down to the sight of him—the sheer width of his back and the raw power in his stride.
The soft click of the door closing breaks the spell.
Only then do I realize I’m shaking. My legs ache, and I rub my thighs together, desperate to soothe the heat still thrumming through me.
"Holy shit," I mutter once I do breathe.
In a span of a few moments, Morgan Brant stole my breath multiple times.
With ease. I plant my hands where his were just moments ago, feeling his warmth on the leather blotter of my desk.
Again, I rub my thighs together, willing that hot ache he put there to go away.
I’ve never felt such a sensation, such a pull from just a few words.
Only, it was more than just a few words, wasn’t it?
It was how he said them, how he looked at me as he spoke.
As if...they were truly a promise.
I catch myself shuddering again and let out a frustrated laugh.
It’s ridiculous how much this place, and that man, have gotten under my skin.
Closing my eyes, I let out a breathy sigh as I recall the day I first laid eyes on him.
It was not today. Oh, no, I saw Morgan Brant on my very first day in True Ridge, as I moved my things to my new place.
Standing on my new front porch, I caught sight of him across the street, huddled with his brothers by his work truck.
They were all caked in dust and sweat from whatever job they’d just finished.
He looked so rugged, so completely in his element.
That single, sun-drenched glimpse of him took root in my mind, and I haven't had a moments peace from the memory of him since.
Seeing him in a suit feels so out of character, so off brand for him.
If it were up to me, I prefer him dirty, sweaty, in jeans and t-shirt.
Closing my eyes, I imagine that day going very differently.
I imagine him seeing me from across the street.
A moment of recognition flickers between us, as if we can read one another even from afar.
Just thinking about him stalking across the street in those dirty work clothes, his boots thudding on the pavement, to stomp up my porch steps to smile down at me with those bright green eyes makes my pulse skitter wildly.
"Hello, beautiful," his voice calls to me, that crooked grin with the adorable dimple flashing his perfect teeth. His mouth is fascinating. The perfect bottom lip I want to sink my teeth into, the dark beard that I bet would feel delicious against my skin. "Let me take care of it."
Suddenly, we’re not on my porch any longer.
We’re inside, with me pinned to the door he closes behind us.
His dirty hands yank at my clothes, his skin rough on my own.
I love it. I shudder beneath his touch as he pulls at my panties, his eyes watching mine as if waiting for me to stop him.
I do not want him to stop, I want him to do whatever he wants.
"Don’t move," his voice rasps against my ear, his hands filling with my breasts, his body pinning me to the wall.
"Let me just look at you for a minute, pretty girl.
I will get between these thighs," his promise is hot against my throat as he drags his mouth against my skin, his hands ridding me of the panties.
His eyes shimmer in the dim light of the afternoon as they stare down at me.
They look at me the way they did today, his gaze almost reaching out to touch me.
My hands move as I sit alone at my desk, dreaming about him being above me, pinning me down, his hands all over me.
I gasp as my hand slides between my thighs, beneath my skirt.
My panties are soaked, my pussy aching the moment I let my fingers brush over the lace covered flesh.
"Morgan," I whimper his name as I push the lace out of my way, another gasp filling my office as I brush a touch over my swollen clit. "Please. I need.... I need it," I pant even as I start to rub slow, hard circles at the button pulsing between my slick flesh.
"Show me," it’s his voice, just as deep and raw as it was moments earlier. "Let me see it, pretty girl," his command echoes in the quiet of the room where it’s just me, pretending he is there watching me touch myself.
Tucked beneath my desk, I let my thighs fall open, my skirt rucking up to my hips.
Throwing my head back, I whimper as I work my fingers faster, harder, chasing the elusive pleasure that is just out of reach.
My other hand comes to my throat, and I close my fingers, cutting off my air.
He leaves me breathless each time I see him; I might as well feel it while I’m getting off.
"Morgan," I pant again, rubbing faster, my hips rocking against my hand as I breathe in his scent that still lingers in my office. I am so close.
I imagine his hand at my throat, his huge body dirty, sweaty, pinning me to his bed as he rubs me to orgasm.
That scent filling my lungs, the brush of his skin on mine, my breast against his firm chest, his mouth on my skin.
God, it would take just a touch from him between my thighs, thighs he said earlier he wanted to get between. Jesus, I would come so good for him.
"Good girl, come for me," his voice fills my head, and I shout as I come, not caring where I am or who could hear me.
"Yes, yes, Morgan," I chant his name as I come, my knees rattling against the desk. My eyes fly open, and I check the corners of the room, half-convinced he’s still there. Part of me imagines him watching with pride; the rest of me sees a glare of judgement that I’d do this after throwing him out.
"Well....what the hell was that Ms. Carter?" I ask as I sit there in the aftermath of it—what the hell has Morgan Brant done to me?