Chapter 18 – Lance
Chapter Eighteen
Is this you begging?
Lance
For the next hour, I watched as Morgan tried on dress after dress, each one more stunning than the last and mentally fought with my semi-hard on.
I’d been trying to keep myself from dragging her into the back and sinking into her deep and fast until she begged me to come.
All from one fucking kiss.
A kiss I was prepared for. I knew it was all part of the show, for Amber, for the onlookers outside the boutique, for any cameras that might catch us…
like the press I might have tipped off. But fuck, the moment our lips connected, my brain short circuited and I could separate reality from the fiction.
Amber and Gwen offered commentary—sharp, funny, affectionate—but their voices barely registered. The boutique could’ve been empty for all I noticed.
Because every time she stepped out, I forgot how to breathe.
My eyes didn’t leave her. Not once. I couldn’t.
I’d been denied the sight of her for four long weeks after she ended things—dodged, blocked, ignored—and now, for the past two, I’d been forced into her orbit again.
Which meant I’d spent fourteen days pretending I was fine while my entire body screamed for her.
I wasn’t fine.
I hadn’t been since the night she walked out. Since the second she looked me in the eye and said it was over.
Now I was sitting in a bridal boutique fighting an erection like a fucking teenager, playing the part of the calm, collected fiancé while Morgan modeled reception dresses and barely looked my way.
But I looked at her. Tracked every shift in her posture.
Every subtle bite of her lip. Every flick of her gaze toward the mirror instead of toward me.
I catalogued everything about her.
The sweep of her collarbone. The soft curve of her waist. The parts of her I remembered touching in the dark, In the loft, the penthouse, the stairwell, our shower, and most recently, that goddamn on-call room—when she almost let me have her one last time.
She wasn’t pretending now. Not exactly. She was performing. For Gwen. For Amber. For the stylists. Maybe even for herself.
But not for me.
Every glance I gave her was met with nothing. Nothing but the cut of her jaw and the tight press of her mouth. Which only made me want her more.
She was back in my line of sight, but still just out of reach.
And it was driving me insane.
The dresses got progressively more gorgeous.
More expensive. More delicate. But it was the woman inside them I couldn’t stop watching.
Morgan walked like she didn’t feel my gaze burning into her skin, but I knew better.
I saw the flush creep up her neck. The extra breath she took before stepping out of the dressing room.
The way she never quite met my eyes unless we were in a mirror.
Then she stepped out in that champagne silk.
Everything else evaporated.
The boutique faded around me—music, voices, the soft clink of crystal. Gone.
That dress didn’t just hug her body. Silk molded to her like second skin. It hit just below her collarbone and skimmed her curves like it was made to tease. Made to torture. And the back was mostly cut out, save delicate buttons at her nape, and a zipper that began just at her tailbone.
She met my gaze in the mirror. And that was it.
Jesus Christ. Full hard on.
Even as I throbbed painfully, I couldn’t look away.
“Oh my God,” Amber breathed. “Morgan, you look incredible .”
Even Gwen nodded, smiling. “Look at Lance—he’s already lost.”
A small part of me was pleased that Gwen referred to me with anything other than anger.
But then I realized what she’d said and I schooled my expression.
No need to spook Morgan. If she saw the raw hunger churning in my gut.
She’d run. I knew she would because at the end of the charade, she expected us to go our separate ways.
“Perfect,” I said, and I didn’t mean the dress.
Her eyes didn’t break from mine. Steady. Defiant. Letting me see everything I’d tried to forget.
The store manager, Celeste, walked over, cheerful and oblivious. “Hmm. The zipper’s a bit tight. We’ll need to ease you out of it.”
“I can help,” I said, already rising to my feet before I could think better of it.
Celeste blinked. “That’s not?—”
“He can help,” Morgan said. Her voice was tight. But she didn’t look at me.
She didn’t need to.
I followed her into the dressing room and shut the door behind us.
Everything shifted.
The lighting was warmer in here, but it might as well have been spotlight. The air felt thicker. Charged. The kind of space where restraint came to die.
She stood in front of the mirror, her back to me. Waiting.
I stepped in. Close enough to smell her perfume. Citrus and heat. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin.
My fingers found the zipper. I could’ve handled it quickly. Should’ve. But the second I touched her, every coherent thought I had left scattered.
She tensed. Barely.
The zipper slid down like a whisper, but I didn’t move back.
I followed the path with my knuckle. Slow. Light. Her skin broke out in goosebumps, and she sucked in a sharp breath. I watched her reflection as she reacted—eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slightly open, chest rising with uneven breaths.
Then she turned.
She didn’t speak.
She just grabbed my shirt, dragged me to her, and kissed me like she’d been holding it in for weeks.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t cautious.
It was war.
I didn’t stand a chance.
I lifted her without hesitation. Her legs wrapped around my waist as I backed her into the mirror, my hips pressing into hers like I could make us forget everything we weren’t saying.
Her hands tugged at my shirt. Her lips found my jaw. My throat. The side of my neck. She was everywhere, and I couldn’t stop touching her.
“Fuck, Morgan,” I whispered, teeth grazing her collarbone. “You promised you’d beg.”
She didn’t answer. Her hands were already at my belt, unbuckling, unzipping, undoing.
“I need you to take you cock out. Right now.”
Her breath hitched. Her hands moved faster.
I leaned in, my mouth against her ear. “Is this you begging?”
She might have narrowed her gaze at me, but when her hand wrapped around me—tight, hot, perfect—I lost it.
My hips jerked forward into her grip. My entire body snapped toward the pleasure like a magnet.
“Goddamn,” I groaned. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Just by being in the same room.”
She stroked me slow at first. Her palm slick with precum. Every drag of her hand was deliberate. Like she was taking her time memorizing me again. Or punishing me.
She tightened her grip and picked up the pace, and I almost came right then.
The sound of it was filthy. Wet. Sharp. My breathing turned ragged. My legs trembled.
“You like this?” I asked, voice broken. “Stroking my cock where anyone could walk in?”
She didn’t blink. Just kept going.
“You want to ruin me?” My forehead dropped to hers. “Consider it done. I’m a wreck at your feet. You want to see me lose it in your hand, spitfire?”
Her jaw tightened. Her strokes didn’t slow.
I was shaking. Chest heaving. My hand tangled in her hair to keep myself grounded.
Every part of me burned.
I was going to come. Hard. Fast.
And then?—
A knock.
“Morgan?” Gwen’s voice, soft, curious, too close.
Morgan froze.
So did I.
She pulled her hand back like she’d been burned. Her eyes widened and her body locked up.
We stood there, panting, wild, ruined.
She didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
I set her down gently. She stepped into the dress she’d worn her and adjusted it with unsteady fingers. Slid the strap back onto her shoulder. Tried to breathe like a normal person.
I didn’t move until I was sure I could zip her back up without shaking.
I stepped behind her. Found the zipper. Pulled it up slowly.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t thank me, didn’t look at me.
I wanted to say something.
Anything.
But I didn’t.
Because anything I said would have ruined both of us.
I opened the door and strode out like the devil of temptation himself was chasing me.