Chapter 20 – Lance
Chapter Twenty
What a way to wake up…
Lance
What a way to wake up . With M organ's hand was wrapped around my cock like it belonged there.
And maybe it did.
She’d come to bed around three. Her braider had come with 3 other women and they’d made quick work of her braids.
She should be sleeping. Lord knew we had a long day ahead. But instead, she was pumping my cock like she owned it.
And she does.
Her grip was lazy but firm, slow strokes dragging me from sleep with the kind of urgency that made it impossible to pretend I was dreaming. Each pass of her palm sent heat spiraling through me, my body going tight with anticipation even before I opened my eyes.
The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. In the distance, I could hear the hum of Manhattan traffic twenty stories below.
I didn't move at first. Didn't breathe. Just let myself feel it.
The drag of her skin on mine. The subtle squeeze at the base.
The faint whisper of her breath against my throat.
Her body was warm against my side, soft curves pressed against the hard planes of my chest. She still wore that silk sleep set I'd bought her months ago—the one she'd left behind when she moved out, the one I'd kept in the dresser like a pathetic shrine.
She shifted slightly, still deep in sleep, and the motion brought her body flush against mine—warm, yielding, impossible to resist. Her hand moved with unthinking certainty, like she'd done this a hundred times.
Like it was instinct. Like her body remembered what her conscious mind was still fighting.
The past week had been torture. Sleeping next to her every night, waking up with her pressed against me, pretending this arrangement was purely for show. Pretending I didn't crave her touch like a drug. Pretending the scent of her skin didn't drive me to the edge of madness.
But this... this was different. This was her body seeking mine in sleep, when all her defenses were down. When the walls she'd built between us crumbled in the darkness.
She was murmuring now. Low and sweet and wrecking me with every sound. I heard my name in there somewhere. Followed by another breathless plea that made my blood run molten.
"I want you to fuck me... in the dressing room..."
My belly tightened and my cock hardened fully in her grip, throbbing against her palm. Every stroke, every curl of her fingers, dragged another curse to the edge of my throat. I bit it back. Because if this was a dream for her, I wasn't going to wake her.
Not yet.
The dressing room. So she'd been just as affected as I was. When her hands had worked my belt with desperate efficiency while I pressed her against that mirror. When we'd been seconds away from?—
She adjusted her grip—tighter. Her thumb circled the head, spreading slick, warm precum down the length.
I shuddered.
Holy fuuuuuck!
Actually fucking shuddered. My hips flexed involuntarily, seeking more of her touch, more pressure, more everything.
She was so thorough, stroking me like she meant it, like she was chasing something just out of reach. Like her body remembered every second in that boutique dressing room and was hellbent on finishing what we'd started. What Gwen's voice through the door had interrupted.
The silk of Morgan’s top had ridden up in her sleep, exposing the curve of her waist, the smooth expanse of her belly. Her silk sleep shorts clung to her hips. She looked peaceful like this. Vulnerable.
She shifted again, lifting one leg to slide between mine, giving herself better leverage. The whole motion, even asleep, was practiced—familiar. My breath caught as the heat of her thigh against mine sent electricity racing through my nervous system.
And still she didn't wake up.
My hand curled around her hip, anchoring her to me.
The silk of her shorts was warm from her body heat, and I could feel the soft curve of her ass through the thin fabric.
My other hand hovered near her face, brushing her cheek softly.
Her skin was warm, flushed with sleep and dreams. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, but the rest of her stayed heavy with sleep, and her hand kept moving.
This was dangerous territory. The kind of moment that could shatter the careful balance we'd built over the past week.
The fragile truce that let us share a bed without tearing each other apart.
But I couldn't bring myself to stop her.
Couldn't wake her from whatever dream had her touching me like this.
Fucking hell, it felt so good—too damn good.
I had to grit my teeth, every nerve on fire, just to keep from spilling then and there.
She stroked me with unhurried precision.
Drawing it out. Teasing me without even knowing it.
And I let her. Let her use me. Let her wreck me.
Because I wanted to see how far her body would go without her mind catching up.
Wanted to know if somewhere, beneath all the hurt and anger and betrayal, she wanted me as badly as I wanted her.
Still needed me the way I needed her.
The morning sun climbed higher, warming the air around us.
Somewhere in the building, people were starting their days—brewing coffee, checking emails, living normal lives that didn't involve fake marriages and assassination attempts and families that solved problems with bullets.
But here, in this bed, with Morgan's hand wrapped around me and her breath warm against my neck, none of that existed.
There was only this. Only her.
"Spitfire," I rasped, voice wrecked, sliding my hand up her thigh. The silk was soft beneath my palm, but the warmth of her skin beneath it was softer. "You're dreaming."
She murmured something, a whimper caught between sleep and want.
Her strokes slowed, but her hand didn't leave me.
Didn't stop. She was caught in it, the memory of that room, the weight of what we never finished.
Her grip loosened slightly, then tightened again, like she was fighting to hold onto whatever vision was playing behind her closed eyes.
I could feel the change in her breathing. The way her body began to wake, even as her mind struggled to surface. Her leg tightened against mine, seeking friction, seeking relief from whatever need was building in her dream.
I rolled toward her, my mouth brushing over the warm slope of her shoulder, after I brushed aside the ties of her silk scarf. She smelled like sleep and skin and that faint trace of her perfume that clung to everything she touched.
Home . She smelled like home.
"Spitfire," I said again, firmer this time. My lips found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. "Come back to me."
Her eyes flew open—dark pools of sleep-muddled confusion that sharpened into horrified awareness as her hand froze around me.
I watched realization crash over her like cold water—the parted lips, the hitch in her breath, the way her fingers twitched against my skin like she couldn't decide whether to pull away or tighten her grip.
"Lance—"
"Right here." My thumb traced circles on her hipbone through silk as she tried to roll away.
I caught the pillow she yanked over her face with a low laugh, pinning her wrist to the mattress beside her head.
The movement arched her body against mine, heat meeting heat through layers of fabric that suddenly felt like prison bars. "Don't hide from me, spitfire."
Her free hand scrambled between us, nails grazing my stomach as she tried to cover herself. "I didn't—I was asleep?—"
"You were hungry." I pressed my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling as I guided her trapped hand back down. Her palm burned against my cock again, trembling now. "Is this what you need, Spitfire? All I want to do is give you what you need."
A whimper escaped her throat when her fingers curled around me properly—a broken sound that went straight to my groin.
Then she looked up at me, and I saw everything in her eyes. The want. The confusion. The panic.
"Tell me what you need, baby. You tell me you need to sleep, I go right back to holding you."
I offered a silent prayer to the sex gods that she did not in fact want to sleep, but I would just hold her if that's what she needed.
She made a noise halfway between a sob and a moan as I thrust into her fist once—slow and filthy—her body responding before her brain could catch up. Silk whispered as she twisted beneath me, legs tangling in sheets.
"You want me to stop?" My lips brushed hers—not quite a kiss—as my free hand slid beneath rumpled silk to find bare skin. Her back arched off the mattress when my fingers grazed the scar below her ribs. "Say it."
Her gaze searched mine for a moment, then she whispered. "I want you."
I crushed my mouth to hers with a growl that vibrated through both our bodies. Her lips parted on a gasp I swallowed whole, tongue sweeping in to claim what she'd just offered.
"That's it," I murmured against her mouth, my hand guiding hers in a rhythm that had my vision going white at the edges. "Take what's yours, baby. What's always been yours."
Her grip tightened, thumb working over the head in that devastating way she knew drove me insane. "Lance?—"
"Say it," I groaned. My teeth grazed her bottom lip as my other hand slipped higher beneath her top, finding the soft swell of her breast. No bra. "Tell me who this belongs to."
A broken moan spilled from her throat when I rolled her nipple between my fingers. Her hips rocked against my thigh, seeking friction through silk that was growing damp with her arousal. "You're mine," she whispered, voice cracking on the words. "You've always been mine."
"Fuck yes."