Chapter 21 – Morgan
Chapter Twenty-One
Danger Bang…
Morgan
I smoothed my hands down the silver gown one last time, checking my reflection in the full-length mirror. The beading caught the light, and the way it hugged my curves made me feel ready. Ready to play the part I needed to play tonight.
I’d kept my make-up light, only going dramatic on my eyes with a nude lip. And I’d pinned my hair p partially. I looked the part. Now I just somehow had to act the part.
You certainly have the loved down fiancé all set.
My stomach churned with nerves that had nothing to do with the dress. I wanted to do a good job.
And look good for him.
Fine. Okay. So sue me. My entire body was tender, sensitized from last night.
And this morning. And again in the shower before we'd gotten dressed.
Each time, we'd fallen into each other like we were starving, desperate to make up for six weeks of separation.
Each time, we'd avoided talking about what it meant.
I made my way downstairs, my heels clicking against the hardwood. The slight soreness between my thighs made me hyperaware of every step. Lance stood in the kitchen with his back to me, adjusting his cufflinks. The black tuxedo fit him perfectly.
When he turned around, his hands stilled completely.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed, his eyes going wide. "Morgan."
Heat bloomed in my chest at the raw hunger in his voice. His gaze lingered on my mouth, my throat, the places his lips had been just hours ago.
"You look fucking incredible." He moved toward me with that predatory grace. "You're going to stop traffic."
"That's the idea," I said, trying for lightness even as my heart hammered. "If we're putting on a show, might as well make it believable."
Something flickered in his eyes, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to that rough register that always made me shiver.
"Morgan. I want to make something clear." His thumb traced my bottom lip. "I'm not going back. Whatever this is between us, I'm not walking away from it again."
My breath caught. "Lance?—"
"I know we haven't talked about it. I know we're both scared of fucking this up again." His forehead touched mine. "But you're mine, Spitfire. You've always been mine. We'll figure out the rest."
The certainty in his voice should have terrified me. Instead, it sent relief flooding through my system.
"Okay," I whispered. "We'll figure it out."
His smile was soft, genuine. "For now, you're my very beautiful fiancée. And after tonight, we're going to have a very long conversation about what that means." He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Are you sore?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "A little."
"I'll kiss it all better later," he promised, his voice rough with promise and possession.
Something shifted in his expression—pride, maybe, mixed with something deeper. "That's my girl, Spitfire."
The possessive words sent warmth spiraling through me, and for once, I didn't fight it.
Gavin was waiting for us in the circular drive, leaning against a sleek black sedan. "Your chariot awaits," he said with a grin, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.
The drive to Rosewood passed in charged silence, Lance's hand resting on my thigh as Gavin navigated the Manhattan traffic. His thumb traced patterns against the silk of my dress.
Rosewood Estate loomed before us—all stone towers and shadowed windows. Even lit up for the gala, it looked forbidding.
"Team check," Lance murmured into his earpiece as we walked up the front steps. "Everyone in position?"
Pierce's voice crackled through. "Perimeter secure. Gwen and Atticus are inside, heading for the server room."
"Rowan's got eyes on the back exit," came another voice.
"And I'm your eye in the sky," Micah added. "All cameras are looped. You've got a ten-minute window before anyone notices."
Lance's entire demeanor shifted as we entered the ballroom. Gone was the tender man who'd touched my face so gently. In his place was someone harder, more dangerous. The heir to a criminal empire.
The ballroom was old money and older secrets, crystal chandeliers casting everything in golden light. Women in designer gowns mingled with men in thousand-dollar tuxedos.
"There," Lance murmured, his hand tightening on my waist.
I followed his gaze and felt my blood turn to ice.
Charles DuLac stood near the far end of the ballroom, distinguished and silver-haired, looking every inch the philanthropist. If I hadn't seen him execute a man in cold blood, I might have thought he was somebody's kindly grandfather.
"Breathe," Lance whispered against my ear, his arm sliding around my waist. "You've got this."
We approached slowly, Lance's predatory grace on full display. Every step was calculated, controlled.
"Grandfather," he said, his voice carefully neutral but with an edge.
Charles turned, and I caught the flash of genuine surprise that crossed his features before he smoothed it away.
Unfiltered shock at seeing Lance.
He didn't know we were coming.
"Lance." The old man's voice was warm, cultured, with just a hint of French accent. "What a pleasant surprise. I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"This was a gala my mother chaired for years," Lance replied smoothly. "I figured it was a good time to come home."
Something passed between them—a conversation I couldn't read but could feel the undercurrents of.
"And who might this me," he asked, turning his attention to me.
“This is my fiancée. Morgan Crispin-Becker. She was the one who encouraged me to finally come home.”
My heart hammered so loud I was sure he could hear it.
"It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. DuLac," I managed. "Lance has told me so much about his family."
Charles took my hand, bringing it to his lips. "Please, call me Charles. Seems we're to be family now, after all."
His eyes were kind, grandfatherly, completely at odds with what I knew him to be capable of.
"You seem nervous, dear. Are you alright?"
"Just excited," I said, forcing a smile. "Meeting Lance's family is so important to him. I want to make a good impression."
"I'm sure you will." His gaze lingered on my face, searching. "Tell me, how did you two meet? Lance has been so secretive about his life."
The question felt like a trap. I glanced at Lance, but his expression gave nothing away except for the muscle ticking in his jaw.
"I've known Lance for years," I said carefully. "We were friends first."
"Friends." Charles smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "How lovely. And when did friendship bloom into something more?"
"Recently," Lance cut in, his arm tightening around my waist. "Very recently."
Charles's gaze sharpened slightly, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
"Dance with me," Charles said suddenly, extending his arm. "I insist on getting to know my grandson's fiancée properly."
I felt Lance go rigid beside me, every muscle coiling. But refusing would be suspicious, and this was in line with the plan. So I placed my hand on Charles's arm and let him lead me to the dance floor.
The music was slow, classical. Charles was an excellent dancer, guiding me through the steps while he peppered me with questions about my background, my dreams, and my relationship with Lance.
"Pierce, comms going dark for sixty seconds," crackled through my earpiece so quietly I almost missed it. "Initiating phase two."
They were making their move, and I was stuck dancing with a killer who seemed genuinely surprised by Lance's existence.
Charles continued his gentle interrogation, and with each question, I became more convinced that something was very wrong. Even when I asked about Lance, Charles’s tone was cool like I was asking about a stranger and not his grandson.
The music ended, and Charles stepped back with a courtly bow. "Thank you for the dance, my dear."
"Morgan." Lance appeared at my elbow instantly, his entire body vibrating with tension. He'd been watching me the whole time, those dark eyes never leaving my face. Even from across the room, I'd felt the weight of his stare.
"We need cover," Atticus's voice crackled urgently in our earpieces. "Guards are coming around. Need immediate distraction."
Lance's eyes met mine, and I saw the plan form instantly. No discussion needed. We both knew what had to happen.
"Excuse us, Grandfather," Lance said smoothly, his hand finding the small of my back. "I need to steal my fiancée for a moment."
He guided me away from Charles, his movements casual but purposeful. The moment we were out of earshot, his grip tightened.
"This way," he whispered, pulling me toward a corridor I hadn't noticed before.
Lance moved through the hallways like he'd memorized every inch of this place, which he probably had. This had been his home once. Every turn was automatic, muscle memory guiding us through the maze of offices and reception rooms.
"Where's Hector?" I whispered as we hurried down a dimly lit hallway.
"Don't know. Don't care right now," Lance muttered, his jaw tight. "He's the least of our problems."
The sound of boots echoed behind us, getting closer. Lance yanked me toward a heavy wooden door, testing the handle. Locked.
"Fuck," he breathed, then pulled out a small black device about the size of a USB drive. He pressed it against the electronic lock, and tiny lights flickered across its surface as it worked. Within seconds, the lock beeped softly and clicked open.
"What is that?" I whispered.
"Silas's latest toy," he muttered, pocketing the device. "Universal decryption key. Works on most standard security systems."
We slipped inside just as voices carried down the hallway—guards making their rounds, exactly like Atticus had warned.
The office was dark, moonlight streaming through tall windows. Lance pressed me against the door the moment it closed behind us, his body caging me in.
"They're going to come in here," he said quietly, his breath hot against my ear. "When they do, we need to look like we couldn't wait to get our hands on each other."
My pulse hammered, not just from fear but from the way he was looking at me. Like he wanted to devour me whole.
"How authentic do we need to be?" I whispered.
His eyes went dark. "Very. We want to be caught and be the most interesting thing down here so they don’t look further and give Gwen and Atticus some time to move"
The door handle rattled, testing. My breath caught just as Lance's mouth crashed down on mine, hungry and desperate. His hands were everywhere—sliding up my thighs, pushing the silk of my dress higher, fingers finding the edge of my panties.
The door opened just as his fingers slipped inside me.
"What the hell—" a voice called out, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.
I gasped against Lance's mouth, the sound muffled but audible. The danger, the adrenaline, the fact that we were being watched—it all made everything more intense. My body responded instantly, arching into his touch.
"Do you fucking mind?" Lance lifted his head just enough to glare at the guard, his voice rough with annoyance and arousal. His fingers never stopped moving, stroking me with deliberate precision. "We're having a moment here."
I buried my face against his shoulder, playing the embarrassed fiancée, but really I was trying not to moan. The thrill of it—being touched like this while someone watched, the danger of being caught—made everything feel electric.
"Sir, you can't be in here," the guard said, but his tone had shifted from suspicious to apologetic.
"This is my grandfather's house," Lance snapped, his thumb circling my clit in a way that made my knees weak. "And it's my fiancée. I think I can find a quiet moment with my wife-to-be wherever the hell I want."
His fingers curled inside me, hitting that spot that made me see stars. I bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out, and I felt him shudder against me.
"Of course, sir. I'm sorry for interrupting. Please, take your time."
The door closed with a soft click , and we heard the guard's footsteps retreating down the hall.
"Clear," Pierce's voice crackled through our earpieces. "Package delivered. Extraction complete."
But Lance didn't stop touching me.
If anything, his fingers moved faster, more insistently, his mouth finding my neck.
"Lance," I gasped, my hips moving against his hand. The adrenaline from almost being caught had transformed into something else entirely—pure, desperate need.
"You're so fucking wet," he growled against my throat, adding another finger. "Is it because of the danger? Because someone almost caught me with my fingers inside you?"
I couldn't answer, could barely breathe. The combination of fear and arousal was overwhelming, making every touch feel amplified.
"Come for me, Spitfire," he whispered, his thumb pressing harder against my clit. "Right here, right now, where anyone could walk in."
The command, the danger, the way he was looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered—it all combined to push me over the edge. I came hard around his fingers, biting his shoulder to muffle my cry.
Lance held me through it, his touch gentling as I trembled against him.
"We should go," I whispered when I could finally speak.
“Fuck me,” he ground out, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean. The sight made heat pool between my thighs all over again.
My earpiece crackled. "Cameras coming back online in thirty seconds."
Lance's eyes went dark and dangerous. "We need to go now, Spitfire. Before someone else gets to see you coming on my fingers."
He pressed one more possessive kiss to my mouth, then grabbed my hand. "Because next time, I'm not sharing the view with anyone."