Chapter 29
Rory
I wake up completely wrapped up with Morgan again.
This time Morgan’s still asleep. His breathing is deep and even, which makes sense because it’s dark out. He didn’t get in until late, whereas I’ve been asleep for almost eight hours.
So I let myself bask in the warmth of Morgan’s embrace until nature calls too loudly to ignore anymore.
I carefully slip out—Morgan grunts his displeasure, even in his sleep—and use the bathroom.
Instead of cooking, I make coffee and eat a snack bar and an apple from his fruit bowl and read on the couch. Bartholomeow curls up next to me.
The sun is up in full by the time Morgan wakes. In his boxers, he shuffles to the bathroom, and the cat slinks off. I get up and let Princess out to pee and stand in the back door in my sleepwear, one hip cocked against the frame, and let her sniff around for a few minutes.
Morgan comes up behind me, the soft pad of his feet and the swishing of fabric the only warning I get before he wraps his arm around me and hauls me off my feet.
“Morgan!” I squeal and laugh while he shifts me around to drape over his shoulder. Princess barks and clambers onto the porch and then through the door. Morgan shuts it behind her and carries me through the house, his covered butt just inches from my swaying face.
Then the world flips right side up and I bounce on the bed once before Morgan smothers me.
His mouth is on mine, hot and demanding.
He tastes like mint, so he must have brushed his teeth, and he doesn’t seem to care that I taste like coffee.
His hips notch perfectly between my legs and he’s already hard.
My sleep shorts are thin, and the press and grind of his erection against me makes me gasp. Morgan pulls back and smooths my hair away from my face, his eyes lidded and a cocky smile curling his lips.
I pull his head down and we’re making out. My hands trace all over his body, everywhere I can reach—up his back and shoulders, feeling the muscles work as he holds himself up, his weight and pressure just right as he invades my mouth.
We kiss until I can’t breathe properly, until I have to tear away from his mouth and take in big, gasping breaths.
Morgan takes advantage of my turned head to work his way down the side of my neck.
His kisses are light, a soft murmuring against my skin, until he nips my pulse point and my hips buck up against him of their own accord.
He traces light kisses and hot breath, alternating with teeth and tongue. His finger tugs the strap of my top down and the cold air on my exposed breast is immediately replaced by a warm hand and then a hot mouth.
Everything in me gets tighter and tighter.
It’s hard to focus on any one point of my body when there’s so much to take in—the soft hair threaded through my fingers, the way my feet flex with every grind of his body into mine.
I’m aching and can barely remember my own name, so it’s a miracle that I can remember his. “Morgan.”
He switches to my other breast, ignoring my plea. That’s fine, I have no idea what I was going to say, what I want to ask for. I can’t even think thanks to the sharp pinch of his teeth on my nipple.
He sucks hard once and lets go with a pop. I shudder against the bed and he rests his chin on my stomach, looking up at me.
“Rory, I want to make you come.”
My eyelids flutter.
“I want you to ride my face. Would you do that for me, Rory?”
I nod, and he lurches up and rolls to the side.
“Thank fucking god.” Morgan stretches out, and then points to his face. “Suffocate me.”
I laugh, which only encourages him. He pats his chest. “Come on, get up here.”
I sit up and shimmy off my underwear and shorts before swinging a leg over his waist. He’s warm against my skin, most of my thigh and my ass resting against his boxers, but still feeling the heat anyway. Where my knees rest against his bare skin, though . . . it’s scorching.
My eyes are drawn down to the snake tattoo. One coil of the snake sits right against the inside of my knee. I reach out and trail a finger over the ink. Beneath my fingertips, Morgan hums in response.
I trace it to the front, where I can follow the V-cut down to his waistband. Morgan groans, but he likes it. He stretches his arms overhead, lacing his fingers together behind his head to allow me this interlude.
And then there’s the cut up the center of his abdomen. Morgan’s got to be the fittest person I’ve ever been with—not soft curves or gentle flesh. Harder. Tighter.
The pad of my middle finger runs up his chest. I raise up a bit, leaning forward, and trace another tattoo—the wings. I follow a feather until it ends, and keep going to his nipple.
When I run my finger over it, Morgan takes a sharp breath and I finally look up. His eyes are dark and deep, any traces of laughter gone. “Come on. Sit on your throne, my queen.”
My stomach dips, this intensity from Morgan something I’m not prepared for. I roll my eyes, striving for levity. “That’s cheesy, even for—”
Morgan’s hands leave his head at the same moment his hips rise up from the bed and his chest bumps me.
I fall forward with a squeak and Morgan catches my thighs, diving his arms between my legs and tugging me up to his mouth.
I catch myself on his headboard and then I lose track of everything the second Morgan’s tongue touches my pussy.
I close my eyes and leave him in charge. Fingers dig into my hips, pulling me down, down, down, as he groans into me.
Morgan traces my opening, his tongue broad and flat while his scruff abrades my inner thighs.
He pulls me down harder, and I think he really does want me to suffocate him.
But clearly he can breathe, because he goes at it with gusto.
He teases me, barely paying attention to my clit, and I think it’s all a ploy to torture me.
And the noises he makes! He hums and grunts and groans in pleasure and I feel every sound in my nerves. He flicks and teases, driving me wild.
Finally, he sucks on my clit, and I gasp and curl into him. One hand leaves the headboard and grabs his head, and my thighs tighten. I’m getting close, and I can vaguely hear myself crying out, maybe even—ugh—begging.
And then I break.