Chapter 11 Bullet #2
“I’m still figuring that out,” he admitted. “But I’m here. That should tell you something.”
She smiled at that. “It does.”
After dessert, they moved to the couch with the remains of their wine. Morgan put on soft music instead of a movie, and they fell into easy conversation. She told him more about her college years, her memories of her parents and where she grew up before she moved here.
He shared carefully edited stories from his military days, focusing on the brotherhood with Viper, Diesel, Kane, and Hawk rather than the classified missions.
When Morgan excused herself to use the bathroom, Archer took the opportunity to quickly check his phone. Three missed calls from his VP of Operations and a text: Urgent findings re: Vertex Creative. Call when possible.
Archer frowned. Whatever they’d discovered would have to wait until tomorrow. He wouldn’t let the CEO world intrude on tonight.
“Everything okay?” Morgan asked, returning to find him staring at his phone.
“Just work,” he said, putting it away. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
She settled beside him on the couch, closer than before, her knee brushing against his thigh. “So, Archer who rides as Bullet and works with spreadsheets... what do you do when you’re not rescuing women from bad relationships or taking them on motorcycle adventures?”
The question sounded light, but Archer recognized it for what it was—an attempt to know him better, to fill in the blanks of his carefully curated persona.
“I read,” he said, offering a genuine piece of himself. “Military history, philosophy. I box three mornings a week at a gym downtown. I ride whenever I can, usually alone, sometimes with the guys.”
“Sounds solitary,” she observed.
“It has been,” he agreed. “Until recently.”
Morgan’s hand found his fingers, interlacing them. The simple contact—skin against skin—felt more intimate than it had any right to.
“I’ll turn around.” she stated softly.
Archer removed his helmet when her back was turned. But instead of taking a sip of wine as she might have expected, he moved behind her, close enough that she must have felt his breath on her neck.
“Keep your eyes forward,” he murmured.
“Archer?”
“Trust me.”
He placed his hands gently on her shoulders, feeling her tense momentarily before relaxing into his touch. Slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck.
Morgan’s sharp intake of breath was followed by a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Encouraged, Archer traced a path of kisses up her neck to just below her ear, where he lingered, breathing in the scent of her—vanilla and something uniquely her own.
“Don’t turn around,” he whispered against her skin, one hand sliding down her arm to find her hand again.
“I won’t,” she promised, her voice unsteady.
Archer continued his careful exploration, kisses trailing along the edge of her jaw, her shoulder, the sensitive spot where her neck met her collarbone. Always maintaining the angle that kept his face hidden from her view, even if she were to turn.
Morgan’s breathing quickened, her head tilting to give him better access. “This isn’t fair,” she murmured. “I can’t touch you back.”
“You can,” he said, guiding her hand up and behind her to the back of his neck. “Just keep facing forward.”
Her fingers trailed over his shoulders, only to come back to grasp the back of his head, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Archer..."
The way she said his name—breathless, wanting—nearly undid his resolve.
It would be so easy to turn her around, to let her see him, to take this further.
But that would mean crossing a line he wasn’t sure they were ready to cross.
If she knew who he was, got involved with him without knowing what it would look like day to day to keep her safe, she could feel stifled, and he never wanted that for her.
With a groan of frustration that surprised them both, Archer rested his head on her shoulder so he could regain his composure. “I should put my helmet back on.”
Morgan remained facing forward, her shoulders rising and falling with each unsteady breath. “Okay.”
He quickly secured the helmet in place. “You can turn around now.”
When she did, her eyes were darker than usual, her cheeks flushed. For a long moment, they just looked at each other, the tension between them nearly tangible.
“That was..." she began.
“A mistake?” he offered, suddenly uncertain.
“No,” Morgan said firmly. “That was the most erotic experience of my life, and we still have our clothes on.”
A laugh escaped him, releasing some of the tension. “You have a way of making even the most awkward situations feel... right.”
“Is that what this is to you?” she asked. “An awkward situation?”
“No,” Archer said, reaching for her hand again. “This is the most real thing in my life right now.”
The admission cost him something to make, but her smile was worth it.
“Stay?” she asked. “Just to sleep. I’m not... I mean, I don’t expect..."
“I know,” he assured her. “And I want to. But I can’t. Not tonight.”
Disappointment flickered across her face, quickly masked. “Early meeting tomorrow?”
“Something like that.” In truth, spending the night would mean either sleeping in his helmet—ridiculous and uncomfortable—or risking her seeing his face while he slept. Neither was an option.
“Another time, maybe,” she said, squeezing his hand in understanding.
“Definitely.”
As the evening wound down, Archer found himself reluctant to leave. This small apartment with its mismatched furniture and personal touches felt more like home than his luxury penthouse ever had.
At the door, Morgan wrapped him in a hug he eagerly returned before she rose on tiptoes to press a kiss to where his lips would be behind the helmet. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“Thank you for cooking,” he replied, fighting the urge to take her in his arms again. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
As he made his way back to his bike and rode home through the city streets, Archer was struck by the absurdity of his situation.
He was one of the most powerful men in the business world, with resources and influence beyond most people’s comprehension.
Yet he was skulking around in a motorcycle helmet, hiding his face from a woman he was increasingly certain he was falling for.
And to complicate matters further, her employer was now the subject of what his VP had called “urgent findings”—findings that might affect her livelihood and their relationship.
The familiar skyline of downtown came into view, the Sullivan Tower rising above the surrounding buildings, its upper floors illuminated. His tower. His company. His life.
How long could he maintain this separation? How long before the wall between Archer Sullivan and Bullet came crashing down?
And when it did, would Morgan still look at him with those trusting amber eyes, or would she see only the deception, and a life laid bare to the public’s greedy claws?
These questions chased him all the way back to his penthouse, where a stack of acquisition documents—including Vertex Creative’s—waited for his review. Documents that might determine not just the future of a company, but the future of whatever was growing between him and Morgan.