Chapter 42
JAMIE
Morgan pulls out a blow dryer to make sure my skin is dry under the collar, then pulls me to my feet.
“Let’s get you dressed and fed.”
She takes me through the bathroom and out a door on the other side, and we step into a massive room that looks like some sort of retail store, but must actually be Morgan’s closet.
Black cabinets with smoke-tinted glass doors line the walls along with illuminated shelves of shoes and racks of designer clothes.
There’s a display cabinet in the center of the room with a clear glass top, and diamond bracelets and sapphire necklaces glitter within.
I try not to think about how much the contents of this room cost.
Morgan gestures to the far end, and I head that way, looking for my suitcase.
There’s a set of opaque doors, so I pull those open, but there are just clothes. I’m about to close it when I notice my suit hanging from the inside of the door, freshly dry cleaned. I don’t recognize any of the other clothes—they’re neither Morgan’s style nor size.
“I took the liberty of picking some things out for you,” Morgan says, flipping through her own rack. “You’ll like them.”
Some part of my brain quietly says I’m not supposed to like Morgan’s presumption, but as I take a closer look at the clothes in front of me, she’s right.
There are dusters and shawls, slim-cut pants and billowing culottes, button-up shirts with stand collars and oversized sweaters, all unmistakably on-trend. The color palette is utterly me: shades of pink, sage, smoke, and earth, interspersed with punches of tasteful floral print.
So many options. Too many options.
Morgan anticipated this, too. Hanging inside the other door, opposite my suit, is an outfit already assembled on the hanger. And it’s perfect.
I pull on slim black leggings, the designer’s name printed black-on-black on the exposed waistband, one I recognize from shopping with Eileen.
Next is a cream-colored sleeveless undershirt in an impossibly soft fabric that I half-expect is produced by the rarest silkworm hybrid hand-raised in Nepal or something. Already, the way the fabric hangs off of me is a notch above my usual style, but it’s only the foundation.
What made me instantly commit is the half-jacket, half-shawl made from a woven green fabric with a tone-on-tone leaf print and gold edges.
It’s structured over the shoulders, cape-like sleeves drape over my arms, and the front buttons sit tight across my waist. The tail is so long and flowing, it’s practically a dress.
I don’t realize quite how trendy the cut is until I put it on, and I’m sure I’m going to look ridiculous, so I try to sneak a glance in the mirror before Morgan can comment.
But as soon as I see myself, I stop short.
It looks like it was made for me. Made of me, like a piece of myself has become this garment.
Morgan whistles softly.
My eyes go to the look of sheer self-satisfaction on her face—then drop quickly to her tits.
Her top is little more than a corset frame held together with bands of fabric, two of which form an X over her nipples, but the rest leaves nothing to the imagination.
I don’t know what exactly is so captivating about under-boob, but the only reason I can pull my eyes away is to note the incredibly low cut of Morgan’s sapphire blue sweatpants, which hang right off the edge of her hips, teasing me with the slope of her skin over her hip bones.
She pulls on a matching sweat jacket cut like a blazer, and I think this is her version of leisure wear.
I’m glad my flowing top hides how tight my cock is getting, because I don’t want to rush this. I want to savor every moment with Morgan.
“C’mon,” she says, stepping out of the closet, and I follow—staring shamelessly at her lower back and ass all the way.
#
Lunch is takeout, but it arrives in metal cloches and ceramic dishes, so I’m pretty sure this place only does takeout for Morgan.
She sets the dishes on the countertop, and as soon as the cloches pull back, I’m hit with a savory mix of spices and herbs. There’s steak, lamb simmered with fresh cherries, sliced squash with pumpkin seeds, and more.
Morgan hands me a plate from the cabinet, and of course I stop and stare for a moment. It’s another work of art—hand-thrown ceramic with a crackling green and black glaze. It almost feels wrong to pile food on it, but I do anyway, then join Morgan at the polished wood table.
Her cutlery is heavy, solid—simple curves in matte gold. It makes the flimsy silverware in my drawer back home seem like toothpicks.
For a few minutes, all I can do is savor the food and let my eyes drift out the massive windows to the rolling greenery beyond.
“So, is this what a normal afternoon for you is like?” I ask.
“No. Usually I have a private chef in.”
“I should have guessed.”
“But I don’t want to share you right now,” Morgan purrs, eyes going hungry. “I’ll rip out the throat of anyone who so much as breathes in the same room as you.”
My spine tingles. “That sounds like some possessive alpha-hole shit.”
Morgan’s grin shows off her canines. “I don’t hear you complaining.”
Fuck, it’s taking all my focus to not arch my back at that.
Morgan pushes away from her empty plate and stands, coming over to me. She grips my chin and points my face up at her, towering over me.
“You said you wanted to unleash.” Her grip tightens. “That means giving in to all of your pathetic little omega instincts, do you understand?”
I swallow hard. “I-I think so—”
“Thinking is for alphas. There’s no use for thoughts in your sweet little brain unless they’re about my cock. Got it?”
“Yes…”
“What’s that?”
“Yes,” I whine. “Yes, Mor. Yes, alpha.”
“Good boy,” she purrs, leaning down to lick my ear, presenting her tits in front of my face. “You’re a fast learner. Now, can you do what I ask?”
“Yes. Anything.” I’m dizzy, trembling with my need for her. My cock is throbbing, begging.
“Finish your fucking dinner,” she snaps, dropping my chin and straightening.
I quickly grab the fork, but my attention is slow to return to the food in front of me. My mouth waters for a very different reason. Morgan returns to lounge in her chair, watching me.
I take a few more bites, but it’s hard to focus on the flavor anymore.
Something brushes the inside of my thigh and I yelp.
Morgan’s toes press closer to my throbbing cock, and I drop my fork.
“I didn’t say you could stop,” Morgan says.
I whine, forcing myself to pick up my fork and choke down another bite. I manage a couple more before Morgan’s toes curl around my shaft and I stifle a moan.
“Did I tell you to be quiet?” she demands.
I freeze. My brain whirls. “N-no?”
“Then don’t be,” she says, pressing harder.
I moan aloud, gasping and bracing myself against the table. I’m dizzy again, my whole body electrified with the sensation.
“Don’t stop eating,” she snaps. “C’mon, can’t you do two things at once?”
I most certainly cannot, so I scoop the largest bite I can and force it down in one swallow, then gulp down the rest.
Morgan laughs and digs her toes in.
My head tips back, throat bobbing as I swallow.
“If you want to choke on my cock that bad, you could just say so.”
Fuck, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. But what else can I do? I can’t string two thoughts together. All I can do is moan.
But then Morgan’s foot is gone, and she picks up our plates and drops them in the sink.
She returns to stand behind me and drags her claws through my hair, pulling it back from the collar, sending sparks down my spine.
“Here’s what we’re going to do today,” she whispers into my ear. “While I’ve still got some… restraint. I’m going to make you beg.”
“Please—”
“Ah-ah-ah. You are not allowed to beg. You are going to do your very, very best not to beg. Do you understand?”
Oh fuck. “Yes, alpha.”
“This is going to be fun,” she purrs, running her fingers down my chest. “For me.” She flexes her claws, dragging them back up.
“Oh god…”
“I’m your god now,” she hisses in my ear.
“Mor…”
“That’s better.”
Her hands drop to my lower stomach, and my hips jump up to meet her.
“Greedy, greedy,” she scolds.
“I can’t help it…”
She pinches the tip of my cock, and I straighten.
“Do you think you can help it now?” she says sharply.
I hold myself stock-still as she drags her claws up my thighs. I breathe hard, shaking with the effort.
She grazes my cock with a nail, and my hips jump again. The punishment is swift and certain. The pain makes my limbs buzz.
Mor laughs cruelly and buries her nose in my hair, breathing deep.
“Oh, I can smell how much you love this. The pain turns you on, doesn’t it?
” She digs her nails into my thighs, and I gasp.
She takes another deep breath. “Yes, it does… Mmmm… Let’s see what else you like…
We know you like this.” She strokes her nails through my hair. “What about this?”
Mor’s finger presses into my mouth, and I moan, closing around her and sucking hard.
She laughs in my ear, low and breathy. “Oh, you love that. I’m going to have so much fun breaking you…”
I whimper.
With her other hand, she circles the collar and squeezes.
My eyes flutter back.
“Do you like wearing a collar? Do you like being owned?”
I moan and try to nod around the hands at my throat and my mouth.
“Good, because until this heat is done, you belong to me.”
I’m breathing fast, whimpering, working my tongue under her finger.
“You really want to work that tongue, don’t you? I can think of a much better use for you…”
Morgan withdraws, then steps around in front of me, pulling me up off the chair by the ring of my collar. She takes my hand and places it against the waistband of her sweats.
“Pull them down,” she commands, giving the collar a downward tug.
I obey, slipping the waistband over her hips and pulling it down until I’m kneeling.
She’s not wearing anything underneath.
Her scent hits me, thick and smoky, and drool puddles in my mouth.