Chapter 23
Morgan
"I don't understand," Kaylee says as she stands outside the SUV.
"What is there to understand?" I ask. "I don't want to go."
"But you could still go," she argues. "It'll be fun."
"Yesterday, you were worried it would cause problems with your marriage."
"We talked about it last night, and he's fine with it," she says, but I can still see the hint of doubt in her eyes.
The sun and moon rise and set with her as far as Ellis is concerned, and there will come a day when she realizes it. Everyone else can see the devotion, but she didn't have the best life growing up. The man will prove to her that she's worthy of what he has to offer, and she isn't the only lucky one. Ellis is lucky to have her as well.
"What are you going to do here all alone?" she asks as Ellis comes around the back of the vehicle.
"But you won't be alone, will you?" Ellis asks, and I scowl at the sparkle in his eyes.
"Morgan," Kaylee says with more than a little judgment in her tone. "Really?"
I pull in a deep breath, trying my best not to start an argument with her. I don't have time to explain to her just how different Robert is and that I'm not the same person I've been in the past.
I'm too excited about our plans today to let her ruin it for me.
"Have a great time at the show," I tell her with a little wave when Ellis touches her shoulders and directs her to climb into the waiting SUV.
I'm nearly bouncing on the balls of my feet as I watch the two SUVs pull out of the driveway, the gate coming to a close behind them.
I scramble back into the house, the widest smile on my face, but come to a screeching halt when I step into the conference room and find it empty. If this man backs out today, I may drown him the next time we're in the hot tub together.
The kitchen is empty, as is the living room and den downstairs. Annoyed, I head back up to my room, and a cute little basket is right in the center of the bed. I've gotten gifts from men in the past. Hell, you could say showered with them by men who wanted more than I was ever willing to give them, but this feels different.
There's no extravagant jewelry or expensive chocolates. In the basket is a bottle of body oil, a bottle of water, and a small pack of fruit snacks. Tucked beside those items is a handwritten note telling me to join him in his room in half an hour. He also requests that I dress in layers because the room might heat up during his performance.
This man is going to drive me insane, and we haven't gotten started yet.
Thirty minutes drag on like a lifetime, and my watch buzzes with completing my exercise goal for the day just from pacing the width of the room in the meantime.
I've looked down at my watch a million and a half times. After telling myself to stop checking so frequently, I ended up being later than what he requested. I swallow thickly, pressing my forehead to the door with my hand frozen on the doorknob.
I don't know why I'm so anxious. Maybe because he's the first man who has moved at a pace slow enough to give me time to think about my actions and conversations. I'm able to form opinions rather than moving so fast and getting started on the physical stuff, spending a moment to actually evaluate if he's someone I'd want to spend more time with.
I pull open the door and step into the hallway because there's absolutely no way I won't join him in his room. The butterflies in my belly aren't familiar to me at all. They're different from arousal, although I feel that for this man as well.
I pull in one last deep breath before tapping on his door. When the request goes unanswered, I question if he's even in there.
I reach for the doorknob, remembering that I forgot the basket on my bed. I spin around and rush back to the room to retrieve it. When I step back out into the hallway, he's in the doorway watching me.
"I thought you were backing out," he says, and I can sense the hint of vulnerability in his tone.
"I forgot the basket," I say, holding it up a little higher. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."
His smile is slow, but it eventually spreads across his entire face. Now, I want this guy more than words could ever explain. The grin is playful with more than a tiny hint of deviousness.
"Come in," he says, stepping to the side.
The room is dark, his blackout curtains leaving nothing but a thin line of sunlight peeking around the windowsill.
"That chair," he says, pointing to one of the chairs I recognize from the kitchen. It's placed in the middle of the room wide access all the way around it. "Have a seat."
I place the basket on the end of his bed and do as he's directing me, a tingle building in my lower belly with how assertive his tone is.
The second I'm in the chair, the lighting in the room activates, mimicking what a disco ball would do, shooting prisms of light all around the room.
"That's unexpected," I whisper as he steps in front of me.
I resist the urge to grab his hips and pull him closer, but it's a losing battle, I realize as my hands reach out.
He takes a step back. "No touching the dancers. House rules."
I blink up at him, fully enjoying the way he smiles down at my look of disappointment.
He leans down, close enough that we can kiss, and whispers, "Play music."
A sultry instrumental begins to fill the room. I swallow, my mouth growing dry as he stands back up.
"You'll need this," he says, grabbing the basket and placing it in my lap.
I force my eyes down to it, not wanting to pull my eyes from him.
He leans in close again, his body close enough to mine that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"Oh," he says as he reaches into the basket, pulling out a slip of paper. "Why didn't you tell me you had a backstage pass?"
I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
"Silly me," I say as I grin up at him. "What does it get me?"
He turns the card over, reading the print on it as if he isn't the one who created it. "This is full access."
"Yeah?" I whisper.
"It means you can use this," he says, reaching into the basket again and pulling out a small bottle of baby oil.
I squeeze my thighs together, something that doesn't go unnoticed by him.
"But only if you want," he says, pulling the bottle a little further away from me.
"I want," I say in a rush, grabbing the bottle from his hands.
His chuckle is deep and full of promises I'm excited for him to fulfill.
"Ready?"
I nod so enthusiastically it makes him laugh, and I sort of love that we can have a moment of levity when all else seems so intense.
Standing at his full height, he does that super sexy thing guys do by gripping the back of his shirt at his nape and tugging it over his head. Realistically, the level of fitness this guy has is insane, especially for someone who does computer work for a living.
"Like what you see?" he asks, his hand running down his chest.
He gets another enthusiastic nod from me, and I get another chuckle from him.
The snick of the bottle cap sounds like a bomb exploding in the room.
I pour some into my hand, realizing very quickly that this is going to be too difficult to do sitting down. With the angle I'm at, I'll have to focus a lot lower on his body than I think he'll allow right now.
I stand, rubbing my hands together to coat them with the oil.
I look up at him just as I press my palms to his chest.
"Jesus," he whispers, and that same spark I felt when I touched him when he was proving to me that he wasn't his brother makes my hands tingle. "That feels good."
"I'm thoroughly enjoying it," I whisper, my voice a little throatier and thicker than I anticipated it would be.
His body rolls, moving under my attention, and once again, I find myself fighting the urge to squeeze my thighs together.
There's something to be said about the wait. I crave this man in a way I've never felt before.
I trace my fingers along the dips and curves of his chest before letting them roam a little lower to his abdomen. His muscles dance and tense under my attention, leaving me with my mouth hanging open.
I tease the edge of his sweats, wanting to go even lower but also enjoying the suspense.
"Mmm," he groans when I dip a single finger past his waistband. "Careful."
I pull my hands back, wanting him to lead wherever this may go. I step back, take a seat, and grab the towel he so thoughtfully added to the basket to wipe my oily hands on.
"My dance?" I ask, grinning up at him.
"Don't laugh at me," he says as he pulls in a deep breath. "This is going to be awful."
"There's absolutely no way."
"Famous last words," he says, but he's still smiling as his hips roll.
I sit back and enjoy the show, trying my best to look as if I'm enjoying it but not express just how turned on I am.
His body moves slowly, the beat of the music sensual and all-encompassing.
When his thumbs dip into his waistband, shifting the fabric some, I just know I'm seconds away from panting like I've been stuck in the desert with no water for the last month.
His smile is seductive and genuine all at the same time, and I feel like I've won the lottery having all of his attention to myself.
"Ready for these to come off?"
His laughter echoes around the room when he earns another enthusiastic nod from me.
"Wanna help?" he asks, stepping toward me to the point that I have to open my legs to give him room.
His abs are inches from my face. If he weren't covered in baby oil, I don't know that I could resist running my tongue over the ripples of muscle.
He reaches for my hands, guiding them down his body until they're resting on his waistband.
He chuckles when I hook my thumbs into both his sweats and the band of his boxer briefs. His hands cover mine, stopping them.
"Slow down," he whispers. There's an edge to his voice that tells me he wants what I'm offering, but at the same time, he wants to prolong this moment.
I look up at him as I reposition my thumbs into only his waistband. His head is bent, and his chin is curled into his chest as I lower his sweatpants. A lot of good it did not pulling his boxer briefs down too because there's no hiding the thick ridge of his cock that's now inches from my face.
His chest rises and falls, his breaths seeming more difficult, and it thrills me that I could be turning him on just as much as he's affecting me right now.
I run my hands down his muscular thighs, removing his sweats as I go, and I love the delicious scratch of his leg hair on my palms.
"You seem to be enjoying this," I whisper.
"Immensely," he returns, bending at the waist so he can pull the sweats off completely.
I fully expect the dance to continue, but he doesn't straighten up once he kicks the pants away. Instead, he bends with his hands on the chair at my thighs and brushes his lips along my throat.
The warmth of his breath on the delicate skin of my neck makes a wave of goosebumps cover my arms.
"So glad I got the backstage pass," I whisper, needing a moment of humor because there's nothing comical about how this man makes me feel.
The crazy thing is I don't want to just hop on his dick. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a ride on what's hiding in his boxers, but I can also see myself lying on his chest and watching television. There's something about that level of intimacy that scares me a little.
"Fuck you're perfect," he says, his mouth sweeping from my neck to my lips.
The kiss is electrical, waves of energy passing between us.
His tongue matches mine, the swirl of it perfect and intoxicating. When he moans, I swallow the sound, feeling it race down my throat and settle right into the middle of me.
No longer able to keep my hands to myself, I lift them and run them down his muscles, imagining us climbing into his bed and rolling around until the oil on his skin coats mine.
"Up," he says with the curl of one finger under my chin. My body obeys, standing at his demand before my brain can even figure out what's going on.
My hands stay on his chest as he pulls me against him, and that’s when his hands start to roam. He rubs my back, his hands everywhere, until there's a brush of a single finger over the side of my breast, and it makes my breath stop.
"Mmm, so sensitive," he whispers against my lips.
I roll my body against him, feeling the ridge of his cock against my lower belly, and I sense it the second his control breaks.
He takes a step back, looking down at me. Just when I think he's going to pump the brakes, his hands move with intent, one cupping my right breast as the other grips my hip.
I press into his palm, my body achy and full of need.
His thumb sweeps over my nipple with perfect precision as he pulls me closer. My hand, having a mind of its own, runs down his body, but I don't stop at the waistband of his boxers this time. I grip him fully over the fabric and squeeze, desperate to feel him inside of me.
"Morgan," he groans into my mouth, his deft fingers pinching my nipple until I moan.
The knock at the door startles us both, but it opens before we even have a chance to pull away from each other.
That's how Twisted finds us, standing in the middle of the room, his hand on my breast and mine gripping his cock.
He looks confused, as if he can't figure out what we're doing, for a long beat before muttering an apology and backing out of the room.