Chapter 12 Morgan #2
His chuckle was delicious and dark, sending another wave of goosebumps up her spine and over her arms.
The clasp gave way beneath his skilled fingers, and then her bra was gone, leaving her exposed to his gaze. Though blindfolded, Morgan could feel the weight of his attention—a tangible heat moving over her body.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he admitted, palming one breast gently.
“About what?” she managed, arching into his touch.
“About seeing you. Touching you.” His thumb brushed over her nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. “Tasting you.”
Then his mouth was on her neck, hot and wet, the metal of his tongue piercing a shocking contrast against her sensitive skin, working his way down to lick against the hardened nub of her right breast. Morgan moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair—short, thick, with a slight wave to it, her mind cataloged distantly.
Archer lavished attention on each breast in turn, alternating between gentle suction and the firm pressure of his tongue, the piercing adding an exquisite edge to every sensation. By the time he began trailing kisses down her stomach, Morgan was writhing beneath him, desperate for more.
His kisses trailed down and he drew her leggings and underwear down in one smooth motion, leaving her completely naked while he remained half-dressed. The vulnerability of it—blind, exposed, wanting—sent a thrill through her that was equal parts vulnerability and arousal.
Archer’s hands slid up her calves, her thighs, gently encouraging her legs to part for him. “I want to taste you,” he said, his voice deeper than she’d ever heard it.
“Please,” was all she could manage, her entire body trembling with anticipation, knowing she was already dripping and ready for anything.
The first touch of his tongue against her core nearly undid her.
Wet heat, the shocking contrast of unyielding metal, the perfect pressure—Morgan cried out, her hips bucking involuntarily.
Archer’s strong hands held her steady as he explored her with devastating precision, finding every spot that made her gasp and moan.
The piercing. Oh god, the piercing.
It added an element to each stroke of his tongue that had her climbing toward orgasm with shocking speed. When he focused his attention on her most sensitive bundle of nerves, alternating firm pressure with gentle flicks of that metal stud, Morgan felt her control shatter.
“Archer,” she gasped, a warning and a plea.
“Let go,” he urged against her heated flesh. “I’ve got you.”
The orgasm crashed through her with unexpected force, her body arching, muscles tensing, a cry torn from her throat. Archer worked her through it, gentling his movements as the aftershocks rippled through her.
As she floated back to awareness, Morgan felt him move up her body, pressing soft kisses to her stomach, between her breasts, along her collarbone, before finally claiming her mouth. She could taste herself on his lips, their combined taste making her dizzy with renewed desire.
“That was..." she began, unable to find adequate words.
“Just the beginning,” he promised against her lips.
Morgan reached for him, hand sliding down his still-clothed body to cup the hard length straining against his jeans. “Let me,” she whispered, fumbling with his belt. “I want to touch you.”
Archer caught her hands, bringing them to his lips to kiss her palms. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” she insisted. “I want to make you feel good too.”
She felt his hesitation before he guided her hands back to his belt. Together, they worked it open, then the button and zipper of his jeans. Morgan pushed them down his thighs along with his boxer briefs, her breath catching as her fingers found him—hard, hot, silky skin over steel.
“Tell me what you like,” she said, stroking him experimentally.
Archer’s breath hitched. “Just like that,” he managed, voice strained. “But Morgan, I don’t think... I’m not going to last long. It’s been... a while.”
“I could use my mouth,” she offered, surprised by her own boldness.
His groan was answer enough. “As much as I’d love that—and god, I would—I’m too close. Just looking at you, feeling you... I’m barely holding on.”
A wicked idea formed in Morgan’s mind. “Would you... would it be better if you came on me?” She caressed her own breasts to be sure there was no confusion in her invitation.
Archer went utterly still, his breathing suspended for one telling moment. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” she admitted, heat flooding her cheeks beneath the mask. “I want to feel you.”
He needed no further encouragement as he helped her to her knees, positioning her at the edge of the bed while he stood before her. His hands cupped her face with unexpected tenderness as he dropped a brief kiss to her lips before straightening.
She heard his breath quicken, felt the subtle movements as he stroked himself, his barely-there groans. One of his hands remained on her shoulder, steadying her, connecting them.
“Morgan,” he groaned, her name a prayer on his lips.
Moments later, she felt the warm splash against her stomach, and another streaking across her breasts. The intimacy of it—feeling him come undone because of her, for her—was unexpectedly powerful.
Before she could process the emotion swelling in her chest, Archer was pulling her against him, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. His arms wrapped around her, holding her as if she were something precious, something he feared might vanish if he let go.
“Stay right here,” he murmured against her lips as he helped her sit back on her heels. “Don’t move.”
He left briefly, the sound of water reached her ears before he returned. With gentle, reverent strokes, he cleaned her skin with a damp cloth, the care in his touch making her throat tight with emotion.
“Shower?” he suggested softly.
Morgan nodded. “Yes please. But I don’t want to get my hair wet, can you get me one of my hair clips on the counter?”
“Of course.”
He guided her to the bathroom and handed her the clip, turning on the shower and adjusting the temperature and asked, “Would it be easier for me to step out so you can see what you’re doing?”
Her lips curled into a warm smile, “I think most women can put our hair up without looking while also doing a million other things at the same time. We’re quite talented at multitasking.” Her playful tone made it clear it was a ridiculous question.
He huffed out a laugh as she wound her hair into a bun at the top of her head, using the clip to secure it before Archer helped her step under the warm spray, careful to keep her face and hair out of the spray.
With her vision still obscured by the sleep mask, Morgan relied entirely on his guidance, his touch.
Archer washed her with careful attention, his hands soapy and sure as they moved over her body. In the shadowed world behind her blindfold, his touch became an unspoken confession—baring him completely, while he cherished her with every movement.
“Your turn,” she insisted when he finished, taking the soap from him.
He placed her hands on his chest, letting her explore his body by touch alone.
Morgan blindly mapped the contours of his muscles, the ridges of old scars, the tattoos she remembered from their movie night.
She loved learning him this way—through touch, through texture, through the small sounds he made when her fingers found sensitive spots.
When they finally emerged from the shower, Archer wrapped her in a towel, drying her with the same care he’d shown throughout the evening. He guided her back to the bedroom, helping her into a clean nightshirt with her direction on where to find it, before settling her under the covers.
“Will you stay?” she asked, suddenly afraid he’d leave now that their passion had been spent.
A pause, then: “Until you fall asleep.”
Not a complete yes, but not a refusal either. Morgan would take it.
The mattress dipped as he joined her, gathering her against his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady beneath her ear, his arms secure around her.
“Can I take this off now?” she asked, gesturing to the sleep mask.
“Not yet,” he said, a touch of regret in his voice. “Soon.”
Morgan nodded, understanding. Whatever his reasons for maintaining his anonymity, she trusted that they were important to him. And trust, she was learning, sometimes meant accepting boundaries you didn’t fully understand.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” she requested, settling more comfortably against him.
“Something like what?”
“Anything. Something real.”
He was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer. Then: “I have a place in Montana. A cabin by a lake. No one knows about it except the guys.”
“A secret hideaway,” she murmured, smiling. “That suits you.”
“I go there when the world gets too loud,” he continued, his voice soft in the darkness. “Sometimes I stay for days, just soaking up the sun and reading. No phone, no internet.”
Morgan tried to picture it—this powerful, mysterious man alone in a rustic cabin, finding peace in simplicity. “I’d like to see it someday,” she said without thinking.
His arms tightened around her. “I’d like that too,” he replied, surprising her.
They talked quietly as the night deepened around them—inconsequential things, comfortable things. Morgan felt herself drifting, lulled by his warmth and the rhythmic stroke of his hand through her hair and along her body.
“Sleep,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ve got you.”
She surrendered to exhaustion, safe in his arms.
Morgan woke slowly, consciousness returning in gentle waves. The sleep mask was gone from her eyes, early morning light filtering through her curtains. She reached across the bed, finding it empty but still the slightest bit warm.
He’d stayed longer than just until she fell asleep, then.
Sitting up, she spotted a folded note on the pillow beside her. In elegant handwriting, it read: You’re beautiful when you sleep. Thank you for trusting me. —A
The note banished any lingering cobwebs in her brain and brought a delighted smile to her lips. As she rose to start her day, she discovered more notes—one on her bathroom mirror: Your smile is the first thing I think about when I wake up.
Another on the coffee maker: Made coffee. Hope it’s strong enough. Call me when you’re up.
And a final one on her front door: Lock this behind you. Always.
The discovery of each note brought a fresh, secret smile to her face. There was something so intimate about these small messages—as if he was leaving pieces of himself behind, breadcrumbs leading back to him.
As she sipped the strong and perfect coffee he’d prepared, Morgan found herself thinking about the financial discrepancy she’d discovered yesterday. In the warm glow of morning, with Archer’s notes surrounding her, it seemed less significant. Probably just an accounting error, easily explained.
Still, something nagged at her—a persistent feeling that things at Vertex Creative weren’t quite right. Richard’s reaction when he’d seen her examining the files to try to locate the missing funds...
She had a full hour before she needed to start getting ready for work. An hour to savor the memories of last night, to feel the pleasant ache in muscles well-used, to read and reread the notes from a man who was quickly becoming essential to her.
Morgan reached for her phone to call Archer, as his note had requested. She wanted to hear his voice, to thank him for last night, to make plans to see him again soon.