Chapter 2 – Lance #3
Morgan shifted again, murmuring something unintelligible, and rolled onto her back. The movement caused the shirt to ride up further, revealing black lace panties against her dark skin. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms.
"Lance," she whispered again, clearer this time. "...Need you...touch me."
I froze, certain I'd been caught, but her eyes remained closed. She was dreaming of me. The thought sent heat coursing through my veins, settling low in my gut.
Damn it, she was calling me in her sleep. Like she could feel I was here.
Her legs parted slightly in sleep, an unconscious invitation that nearly broke me. I shouldn't touch her. I shouldn't be here at all. But the sight of her, dreaming of me while wearing my clothes, was more than I could resist.
"I'm here, Spitfire," I whispered, my voice rough with need.
I reached out, letting my fingertips brush against her inner thigh. Her skin was silk, warm and supple under my touch. She stirred but didn't wake, her body responding to me even in sleep. I traced a path higher, watching her breath catch as my fingers skimmed the edge of her panties.
"Lance," she whispered again, her back arching slightly. "Please."
That single word broke me. The last of my restraint shattered. I leaned closer, my lips brushing her ear.
"I'm here, baby. I've got you."
Her thighs parted further, an unconscious invitation. When I didn’t take the too tempting bait, her fingers slid down her taut belly into her panties. Blood rushed to my cock.
Fuck. Me.
I stood frozen, watching as her hand slid between her thighs. The movement was slow, exploratory, like she was half-asleep and following instinct rather than conscious thought.
My mouth went dry. Her fingers moved in lazy circles over the lace, and the softest sound escaped her lips. somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. The kind of sound that used to drive me out of my mind when we were together.
Still does. I should leave. Should let her have this moment without my intrusion. But I couldn't move. Couldn't look away. Couldn't do anything except watch as her back arched slightly, her hand moving with more purpose now.
"Lance," she whispered into the darkness, and my name on her lips felt like both absolution and damnation.
Her other hand fisted in the sheets, knuckles going white as she worked herself through the fabric. Her breathing was coming faster now, shallow pants that made her chest rise and fall in that hypnotic rhythm I'd memorized years ago.
She was close. I could see it in the tension of her body, the way her thighs trembled, the flush spreading across her skin.
Then her eyes fluttered half-open. not fully awake, but aware enough to sense me there in the shadows. "Please," she breathed, and there was such raw need in that single word it nearly broke me. "Touch me too."
I couldn't have refused if my life depended on it.
I moved closer, slow and careful, until I was kneeling beside the bed. Her hand was still working between her legs, movements growing more desperate. I reached out, letting my fingers trace alongside hers over the damp lace.
The heat of her was scorching even through the fabric.
Morgan made a sound that went straight to my cock. relief and hunger and something that sounded almost like gratitude. Her fingers stilled for a moment, like she was savoring the sensation of my hand joining hers.
"Don't stop," I whispered, covering her hand with mine and guiding her back into that slow, circular rhythm.
We moved together like that for a moment, her hand and mine working in tandem, the lace between us growing wetter with each pass. Her hips rolled up to meet our touch, seeking more friction, more pressure, more everything.
I eased the fabric aside with my free hand, and we both groaned at the first touch of skin on skin. Her fingers were slick with her own wetness, moving in practiced circles that told me exactly how she'd been touching herself all these weeks without me.
The thought made something possessive and primal unfurl in my chest.
"Together," she breathed, and the word held weight, a request, a plea, a command all at once.
I circled her entrance slowly, teasingly, while her fingers worked higher, painting slow figure-eights over her clit. Her whole body shuddered at the dual sensation, and I could feel her getting wetter, her body opening for me even in this half-dreaming state.
"That's it, Spitfire," I murmured, barely louder than breath.
I slid one finger inside, and the tight heat of her nearly undid me.
She was so wet, so ready, her inner walls clenching around my finger like she was trying to pull me deeper.
Her hand faltered for a moment above mine, overwhelmed by the sensation.
"Keep going," I urged, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "Don't stop touching yourself."
Her fingers resumed their movement, slower now but more deliberate, while I worked my finger in and out of her with maddening patience. Every time I pushed in, she bore down, grinding against both our hands.
I added a second finger, curling them to find that spot inside her that always made her see stars. Her responding moan told me I'd found it.
"Yes," she gasped, her hand moving faster now, chasing the orgasm I could feel building in the tension of her muscles. "Right there. Please don't stop."
I wouldn't have stopped for anything in the world.
I watched her face as we worked her together.
my fingers inside, curling and stroking, while her own fingers circled and pressed exactly where she needed it.
Exhaustion kept her in that hazy space between dreaming and waking, aware enough to feel every sensation, to guide my rhythm with the roll of her hips, but not conscious enough to question why this dream felt so impossibly real.
Her breathing was ragged now, her free hand twisted in the sheets, and I could feel her getting close. The way her walls fluttered around my fingers, the way her movements were becoming more frantic, the way my name kept falling from her lips like a prayer.
"Come for me, Spitfire," I whispered against her thigh. "Let go."
Her back arched off the bed, thighs trembling around my hand. I pressed my palm against her, giving her something to grind against as my fingers worked inside her. Morgan's head pressed back into the pillow, her lips forming my name in silent desperation.
I leaned closer, my mouth near her ear. "I'm here, Spitfire. I'm right here with you."
Her inner walls clenched around my fingers as she came, her body shuddering with release. I worked her through it, gentling my touch as the tremors subsided, watching as pleasure softened the lines of grief on her face.
For just a moment, she looked peaceful. Her features relaxed, the tension and grief momentarily banished by pleasure. I withdrew my hand carefully, smoothing her panties back into place, then gently tugged her shirt down to cover her thighs.
"I love you," I whispered, pressing my lips to her temple. "More than anything in this world."
She turned toward my voice, a soft sigh escaping her lips. For a terrifying second, I thought she might wake, but her eyelids remained closed, her breathing deep.
I sat back on my heels, watching her. Memorizing the curve of her jaw, the fullness of her lips, the way her braids framed her face. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, she looked like something from a dream. The one I'd been living in before everything went to hell.
My watch vibrated. A warning. I'd been here too long already.
I grabbed a pen and found a blank space in the journal. My hands were shaking now.
This was dangerous. Stupid. If grandfather's people found any evidence that I was alive, Morgan would die. One camera catching my face, one witness recognizing me, one digital footprint showing I survived. that's all it would take.
But watching her disappear was worse than any risk.
Spitfire, you're stronger than you know. don't give up.
I gathered the journal, carefully placing it on the nightstand. I wanted to crawl into bed beside her. Wrap my arms around her and hold her until morning. Let her wake up in my arms and know that everything was going to be okay.
But that would get her killed.
I slipped out of the room and back through the penthouse, my chest tight with emotions I couldn't name.
As the elevator descended, I realized that my need to be close to Morgan was going to get us both killed. and I still couldn't find the strength to stay away.