Chapter 12 Morgan
Morgan
She rubbed her eyes, fatigue settling into her bones after hours of staring at spreadsheets.
This wasn’t even part of her job—creative directors didn’t typically audit financial documents.
But when Accounting had emailed requesting clarification on ‘expenses allocated to the Henderson campaign,’ she’d felt obligated to review the files.
And now she’d found... something? Maybe nothing. Maybe just a clerical error.
Morgan quickly minimized the spreadsheet. “Just finishing up the Parkside revisions.”
Richard nodded, his eyes lingering on her computer screen a beat too long. “Don’t stay too late. See you tomorrow.”
As he walked away, Morgan felt an unexpected chill. Something in his tone didn’t match his casual words. Had he noticed what she was looking at?
She waited fifteen minutes to ensure he’d left the building, then reopened the spreadsheet.
Maybe she was overthinking this. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the discrepancy.
But her instincts—the same ones that had warned her about something being off with Jason—were whispering that something wasn’t right.
Morgan copied the relevant files to her personal cloud drive, then shut down her computer for the day. Whatever was going on, she could examine it tomorrow with fresh eyes. Tonight, she had plans—Archer was bringing dinner to her place, a reversal of their arrangement from the previous evening.
Archer. Just thinking his name brought warmth to her chest. Last night had been... incredible. The memory of his lips on her neck, his breath against her skin, sent a shiver down her spine. She’d never imagined that not seeing someone’s face could make physical contact feel so electrifying.
By the time she arrived home, Morgan had managed to push the financial discrepancy to the back of her mind.
She showered quickly, changing into comfortable leggings and an oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder—casual yet subtly alluring.
Her phone chimed with a text as she was towel-drying her hair.
ETA 15 minutes. Bringing Thai. And a surprise.
Morgan smiled at her phone. Intrigued. Door will be unlocked.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, she heard the distinctive sound of his unhurried yet commanding footsteps outside before he opened her door. Archer entered carrying two bags—one clearly from her favorite Thai restaurant, the other a sleek black shopping bag with no visible logo.
“Hi,” she said, suddenly feeling shy despite the intimacy and openness they’d shared the previous night.
“Hi yourself,” he replied, setting the bags on her kitchen counter. As always, his helmet concealed his face completely, the visor reflecting her own image back at her.
“How did you know I was craving Thai?” she asked, peering into the first bag. “Lucky guess?”
“That, and you mentioned it the other day.”
Morgan smiled. “You really do pay attention.”
“To you? Always.” Something in his voice—a warmth, a certainty—made her breath catch.
They fell into an easy routine, setting out containers of pad thai, green curry, and spring rolls. Morgan noticed Archer seemed in his element tonight, more confident in his movements despite the helmet.
“How was your day?” he asked as she grabbed plates from the cabinet.
Morgan hesitated, the financial discrepancy briefly resurfacing in her thoughts. “Fine. Busy. Found something weird with an account, but..." She shrugged. “I just didn’t have time to figure it all out today. How about yours?”
“Productive. Several meetings ran long, but I managed to escape in time for dinner.” He gestured to the black bag. “Which brings me to my surprise.”
“I was wondering about that,” Morgan said as she took a seat at the table, curiosity piqued.
Archer reached into the bag and withdrew a black silk sleep mask, like the kind used for traveling, but definitely not one of those flimsy ones that let in all the light.
It looked almost like a cushion for the eyes.
“I had an idea,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “If you’re willing to try something.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, her pulse quickening.
“You wear this—” he held up the sleep mask, “—and I’ll take off my helmet.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “You want me to wear a blindfold?”
“Yes,” he explained. “I can feed you dinner, and you won’t see my face. Then... we see where the evening goes.”
The suggestion sent a flood of warmth through her body making her heart skip a beat. There was something deeply intimate about what he was proposing—her surrendering her sight while he removed the barrier that had been between them, feeding her with his own hands.
“I like it,” she said, surprising herself with her eagerness.
“Now?” he suggested, his voice warm with anticipation.
Morgan nodded, her heart racing as he approached with the sleep mask. She closed her eyes as he slipped the soft silk over them, the gentle pressure of his hands adjusting it ensuring no light could peek through.
“Too tight?” he asked, his fingers lingering at her temples.
“No, it’s perfect,” she assured him.
She heard the distinct sound of his helmet being set on the table, followed by the rustle of him setting aside the bag. For the first time since that first evening when she was allowed to touch his face, she would experience him without barriers—even if she couldn’t see him.
“Stay right there,” he said, his voice no longer filtered through the helmet. The richness of it, deeper and more textured, sent a shiver down her spine.
Morgan heard him moving around the kitchen, opening containers, the clink of utensils. Then she felt his presence directly in front of her, a warmth that seemed to radiate toward her.
“Open,” he instructed softly.
She parted her lips, and felt the gentle press of a fork delivering a perfect bite of pad thai. The flavors exploded on her tongue, somehow even better without the distraction of sight.
“Good?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“Mmm,” she confirmed, nodding. “Delicious.”
He continued feeding her bites of different dishes, his fingers occasionally brushing against her neck or her cheek, in gentle directive touches that felt deliberately sensual.
Without her vision, every sensation was heightened—the textures of the food, the scent of his cologne, his voice now unfiltered by the helmet, the sound of his breathing growing slightly uneven when her lips closed around the fork.
“Drink?” he offered, and she felt the cool press of a wine glass against her lower lip.
Morgan sipped carefully, hyperaware of his hand steadying the glass, his fingers brushing against her jaw. The intimacy of being fed by him, cared for by him, was unexpectedly erotic.
“This is..." she began, searching for the right word.
“Yes?” he prompted, his voice closer now, directly beside her ear.
“Incredibly intimate,” she finished. “I didn’t expect it to feel so..."
“I know,” he murmured. “For me too.”
His fingers trailed down her arms, raising goosebumps in their wake. He scooted closer, his knees bracketing her own.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice rough with restraint.
“Please,” she breathed.
The first brush of his lips against hers was tentative, questioning. Morgan responded immediately, her hands finding his shoulders, solid and strong beneath his shirt. Encouraged, Archer deepened the kiss, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other settling at her waist.
Then—oh god—something unexpected and hard slid along her bottom lip. Morgan gasped, pulling back slightly.
“You have a tongue piercing,” she said, surprise and arousal mingling in her voice.
She felt rather than saw his smile. “I do. Problem?”
“God, no,” she breathed, pulling him back to her.
This time when they kissed, she was ready for it—the smooth metal stud sliding against her tongue, adding an unexpected dimension to each stroke and caress. Her mind immediately raced to imagine how that piercing would feel elsewhere, the thought alone nearly making her come undone.
As if reading her mind, Archer chuckled low in his throat. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Where else I could use this.”
“Yes,” she admitted, her cheeks heating beneath the mask.
His hands slid beneath her sweater, warm against the bare skin of her waist. “I’ve been thinking about it too,” he confessed. “Since the moment I saw you.”
Morgan reached for him blindly, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt.
He let her work them open, his breathing growing heavier as she pushed the fabric aside and explored the planes of his chest, the hard ridges of muscle, the scattered pattern of hair that narrowed into a trail disappearing beneath his waistband.
“Bedroom?” he suggested, his voice strained.
“Yes,” she agreed immediately.
Archer swept her into his arms without warning, causing her to let out a girlish giggle. He carried her through her apartment with confident steps as their tongues tangled in a heated rush. He’d memorized the layout, she realized—every doorway, every potential obstacle.
He set her on the bed with unexpected gentleness, then guided her to lie back against the pillows. The mattress dipped as he joined her, his weight a welcome pressure as he settled beside her.
“May I?” he asked, fingers playing with the hem of her sweater.
Morgan nodded, then gave a verbal response. “Yes. Please.”
He drew the sweater over her head carefully, ensuring the sleep mask remained in place. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin, her nipples hardening beneath her simple cotton bra.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, tracing the curve of her collarbone with one finger. “So beautiful.”
His lips followed the path of his finger, trailing fire across her skin. When he reached the swell of her breast, he paused, his breath hot against her.
“This too?” he asked, fingers tracing the edge of her bra.
“Everything,” Morgan whispered. “I want everything.”