Chapter 12 – Morgan #2
My finger found the trigger, and I clicked off the safety with a sound that seemed obscenely loud in the silence. I drew in a deep breath, releasing it steadily the way he'd taught me, centering myself for what came next.
I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, loud enough that I was surprised they couldn't hear it too. The weight of the gun in my hands felt both foreign and familiar. I'd practiced with it dozens of times, but I'd never pointed it at someone I loved before.
Someone who let you think he was dead for six weeks.
Someone who put you through hell because he was too much of a coward to trust you with the truth.
They were almost to the kitchen island when the taller figure stepped into a patch of moonlight, and I saw his face clearly. My heart stumbled in my chest.
Lance. Alive. Real. Moving toward me with the same predatory grace I'd fallen in love with.
I didn't think. I just reacted, pulling the trigger.
The gun bucked in my hands, the suppressed shot making a sound like a sharp cough rather than the explosive bang I'd expected.
Lance dove to the side, but not quite fast enough.
I caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending him crashing into the dining table we'd made so many memories on.
"Fuck!" His voice, sharp with pain but unmistakably real. Unmistakably alive.
His companion was moving now, emerging from the shadows with weapon drawn, but I was already adjusting my aim, training the gun on Lance's chest as he struggled to his feet.
Weeks of thinking you were dead.
"Hello, husband," I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the way my hands were shaking. "We need to talk."
But I'd been so focused on Lance, so focused on my rage and the need to make someone pay for six weeks of psychological torture, that I didn't hear the whisper of movement behind me.
A hand slammed over my mouth, gentle but firm, cutting off my breath. An arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against a solid chest that felt like home and betrayal all at once.
How did he—when did he—
"Easy, Spitfire," Lance murmured against my ear, his voice soft and achingly familiar despite the pain I could hear underneath it. "Let's not shoot anyone else tonight, yeah?"
The door burst open, and Micah stepped through, gun drawn. Immediately training it on Hector, who had his weapon aimed at me. Lance had one hand clamped over my mouth, but his other held a gun leveled steadily at his brother's chest.
A standoff in my own loft. Wonderful.
"Well," Micah said dryly, not lowering his weapon. "I see the reunion's going bloody brilliant."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Hector slowly lowered his gun, shooting Lance a wounded look. "Really, brother? After everything?"
"You had a gun on my wife." Lance's voice was flat. Unapologetic.
"Your wife shot me."
"And I'll let her do it again if you don't holster that."
Hector slid his weapon away with an exaggerated sigh, and only then did Lance lower his. Micah followed suit.
Lance released me slowly, stepping back like he expected me to swing at him. Smart man.
"She shot both of us," Hector said, almost proudly. "Your wife has good instincts."
Micah muttered, holstering his weapon. He crossed to Lance first, examining the blood spreading across his shoulder.
"It was literally a graze," Lance said, waving him off. "I'm good."
Micah gave him a skeptical look but moved on to Hector's arm. "Come on, let's get you next door and clean this up. Give them some privacy."
Hector let himself be led toward the door, pausing just long enough to catch my eye. "We'll talk later, belle-s?ur. When you're done murdering my brother."
The door closed behind us with a soft click, leaving Lance and me alone in the moonlit wreckage of our apartment.
The door closed behind us with a soft click, leaving Lance and me alone in the moonlit wreckage of our apartment.
A storm of emotion crashed through me, sharp, jagged, impossible to name.
Shock. Fear. Relief. Each one clawed its way to the surface, tumbling over the next until I couldn't breathe, couldn’t think.
They tore through me like a riptide, dragging me under, and all I could do was drown in the chaos of it.
Lance opened his mouth to speak, but I was faster.
My palm cracked across his cheek with a sound that echoed through the silence.
He didn't even flinch. Just stood there, taking it like he deserved it.
"Morgan—"
I slapped him again, harder this time. Still nothing.
"Forgive me," he said quietly.
"Forgive you?" I shoved him with both hands, putting everything I had behind it. He didn't budge an inch. "You had me thinking I was going crazy! I thought you were dead! How could you do this?"
I shoved him again, harder, using my whole body weight. It was like pushing against a brick wall. The man was six-foot-three of solid muscle, and I was five-foot-nothing on a good day.
My hand flew toward his face again, but this time he caught my wrist.
"There are easier ways to hurt me, spitfire," he said, his voice low and rough. "Ways that don't involve you hurting yourself."
I swung with my other hand, but he was ready for that too. In one fluid motion, he spun us around, backing me against the wall and pinning both my wrists above my head with one hand.
I glared up at him, breathing hard from exertion and fury. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." His free hand came up to cup my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone. "But even if you did, you've hated me before. I'll just win you back again."
"You arrogant piece of—"
He cut me off with his mouth, crushing his lips to mine with six weeks of desperation and need. I bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and he groaned like I'd given him a gift.
"I missed the taste of you," he breathed against my mouth, his tongue sweeping inside to claim me. "Missed the way you bite me when you're pissed."
I wanted to keep fighting, wanted to stay angry, but his free hand was already sliding under my shirt, skilled fingers skimming across skin that hadn't been touched, really touched. In six weeks.
"I hate that you're alive," I gasped between kisses, but my hips were already rolling against him, seeking friction. "I hate that you made me—"
"I know." His mouth moved to my throat, teeth scraping against my pulse point. "But your body knows exactly who I am, doesn't it, spitfire?"
I could feel him hard against my stomach, thick and demanding, and my body responded with a rush of wetness that made me curse under my breath.
"I should make you beg," I said, but my voice came out breathless and wanting.
"I will." He released my wrists to yank my shirt over my head, his eyes going dark as he took in my bare breasts. "I'll beg for as long as you want me to."
My hands went straight to his belt, working at the buckle with shaking fingers. "This doesn't mean I forgive you."
"I know." His thumbs brushed over my nipples, making me arch into his touch. "But I'm going to fuck you until you remember why you married me anyway."
The rough promise in his voice sent heat straight to my core. I got his belt undone, his pants open, and wrapped my hand around his cock. He was already leaking, thick and hot in my palm.
"Fuck," he hissed, his hips bucking into my grip. "Morgan—"
"You want me to forgive you?" I stroked him slowly, watching his face contort with need. "Then make me forget why I was angry."
He lifted me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed me back against the wall. The rough brick scraped against my bare back, but I didn't care. All I cared about was the weight of him between my thighs, the promise of being filled again after six weeks of emptiness.
"Tell me you want this," he said, the head of his cock sliding through my wetness, making us both shudder. "Tell me you want me."
"I hate that I want you," I breathed, my nails digging into his shoulders. "I hate that I need, oh God—"
He pushed into me slowly, stretching me open inch by thick inch until we were both gasping with the intensity of it. Six weeks apart had made everything more sensitive, more desperate.
"So fucking tight," he groaned against my throat. "Like you were made for me."
"Move," I demanded, my heels digging into his ass. "Lance, please, I need—"
He pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids. I cried out, my head falling back against the wall.
"Is this what you need?" he asked, setting a brutal pace that had me clawing at his back. "My cock inside you? Reminding you who you belong to?"
"Yes," I sobbed, beyond caring about pride or anger or anything except the feeling of him claiming me. "Yes, fuck, don't stop—"
He shifted the angle, grinding against my clit with every thrust, and I felt my orgasm building like a wildfire in my veins.
"Come for me," he ordered, his voice rough with his own need. "Show me how much you missed this cock."
The dirty words combined with the perfect friction sent me over the edge. I came with a scream that echoed through the apartment, my pussy clenching around him so hard he cursed and buried his face in my neck.
"That's my girl," he murmured, not slowing his pace even as I shuddered through the aftershocks. "Now give me another one."
"I can't—" But he was already working me toward another peak, his thumb finding my clit and circling with practiced precision.
"You can." His teeth scraped against my collarbone. "You're going to come on my cock until you remember exactly who you belong to."
And I did. Again and again until I was boneless and shaking and completely wrecked in his arms. Only then did he let himself go, spilling inside me with a groan that sounded like my name and a prayer all at once.
We slid down the wall together, both of us breathing hard and still connected.
"I'm still mad at you," I said against his shoulder, but my voice was soft now, sated.
"I know." His arms tightened around me, and I could feel him smile against my hair. "But you're not leaving me."
"No," I admitted. "I'm not leaving you. But you're going to spend the rest of your life making this up to me."
"Starting now," he said, and I could feel him hardening inside me again. "Let me show you how sorry I am."