Chapter 24 – Morgan
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mrs. Dulac…
Morgan
I had danced. I had smiled. I had fed Lance cake, and to his credit, he'd been gentle, careful, not smearing it on my face like an asshole. We had performed. And I was exhausted.
Every nerve in my body was shot after being within touching distance of Lance for hours. After enduring the stares, the hushed murmurs, and the veiled curiosity about our whirlwind romance.
I needed out.
The limousine pulled up to the Westhorpe Hotel, and suddenly, the surreal reality of what had just happened hit me full force. Through the tinted windows, I could see the elegant facade of the building, its warm lights spilling onto the sidewalk.
I was married. We were married. Actually married.
Lance's hand pressed against my lower back as we stepped out into the cool evening air.
"Morgan. Breathe."
I hadn't realized I was holding my breath.
I exhaled sharply, turning to look at him. "We're married."
"We are," he said, his voice soft with something that sounded like wonder.
"It feels..." I searched for the words. "Surreal. Like I'm going to wake up any minute."
His thumb traced small circles at the base of my spine, just above where the fabric of my wedding dress began. Even through the layers, I felt the heat of him, familiar now after more than a week of falling into each other's arms every chance we got.
"Real enough," he whispered, his lips curving into that smile that always made my thighs clench. "Mrs. DuLac."
The name sent a shiver through me. "I'm still getting used to that."
His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they swept over me. The tuxedo he wore should have been illegal—the way it hugged his broad shoulders, tapered at his waist. My mouth went dry.
The elevator climbed to the penthouse suite, each floor making my heart race faster.
When the doors slid open to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a breathtaking view of Central Park and the glittering lights of Midtown, I barely had time to take it in before Lance swept me into his arms without warning.
"What are you?—"
"Tradition," he murmured against my ear, his breath hot on my skin.
He carried me across the threshold of the penthouse suite, kicking the door shut behind us.
The space was all too familiar. The site of our first time together.
elegant and intimate, with that stunning view of Manhattan stretching out before us—so different from his downtown loft or Gwen and Atticus's uptown penthouse.
Here, Central Park looked like a dark jewel nestled between rivers of light, the city sprawling in all directions like a glittering tapestry.
When he set me down, his hands lingered on my waist, and something shifted in his expression. The playful moment faded, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.
"Morgan," he said, his voice lower now, more serious. "Just to be clear—I meant every word of those vows."
My breath caught. "Lance?—"
"No, let me say this." His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with devastating tenderness. "I love you. I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day, not for a single second. Even when you hated me, even when I thought I'd lost you forever—I’ve loved you."
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing what little breath I had left. I stared up at him, seeing the truth written in every line of his face, in the way his hands trembled slightly against my skin.
"You want to know why I've been so scared?
" The confession tore from my throat before I could stop it.
"Because it's exhausting trying to hold myself back from you when every cell in my body says I love you.
When my heart has been screaming it for months, and I've been fighting it because I was terrified of getting hurt again. "
His eyes closed briefly, like my words were a prayer he'd been waiting his whole life to hear. When they opened again, they were bright with unshed tears.
"You love me?" His voice was barely a whisper, as if he were afraid that saying it too loudly might make it disappear.
"I love you so much it scares me," I whispered back, my own tears spilling over. "I love you so much, I don't know how to be in the same room without touching you. Without wanting to crawl inside your chest and live there."
A broken sound escaped his throat—half laugh, half sob. "Morgan?—"
"I love your terrible morning hair and the way you make coffee like it's a science experiment.
I love how you remember every little thing about me, even things I don't remember about myself.
I love that you bought me a building without telling me because you wanted me to have something that was mine. "
His forehead pressed against mine, and I could feel him shaking.
"I love how gentle you are with Ava, and how you stood up to my father, and how you look at me like I'm something precious even when I'm falling apart.
" The words poured out of me like a dam had burst. "I love that you see all of me—the messy parts, the angry parts, the scared parts—and you stay anyway. "
"Always," he breathed against my lips. "I'll always stay."
"I love you, Lance Lakewood. Or Lance DuLac. I don't care what name you use—I love all of you. The parts you're proud of and the parts you're ashamed of. The light and the dark. All of it."
He kissed me then, soft and desperate and full of everything we'd been too afraid to say. When we broke apart, both of us were crying.
"This is real," he said, not a question but a statement of fact. "This is real, and I'm never letting you go again."
"Good," I said, grabbing his tie and pulling him closer. "Because I'm done running. I'm done pretending I don't need you like I need air."
His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. "I need you too, Spitfire. More than air. More than anything."
I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed his tie, yanking him toward me, crushing my mouth against his. He groaned, deep and primal, his hands immediately finding the zipper of my dress.
"Did you mean what you said?" I gasped against his lips.
"Every word."
I searched his gaze, looking for the truth, and made my decision. "I want the real thing now."
His mouth crashed down on mine, tongue demanding entrance as his hands cupped my tits, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples.
His fingers made quick work of my zipper, the wedding dress pooling at my feet. His eyes devoured me in the lace lingerie I'd chosen for tonight.
"Christ," he whispered, palming my breast, thumb circling my nipple through delicate fabric. "I've been thinking about this all day."
I fumbled with his belt, desperate to feel him. When my fingers wrapped around his hard cock, he hissed, his head falling back. he groaned as I stroked him. "I've been hard for you all fucking day."
"Bed," I demanded, but he shook his head.
"Too far," he growled, lifting me onto the nearest surface—a sleek marble countertop. Cold against my heated skin.
His mouth trailed down my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone as he pushed my thighs apart. When he dropped to his knees, looking up at me with hunger in his eyes, I nearly came undone.
"I need to taste you," he said, hooking his fingers into my panties and sliding them down to my knees.
The first stroke of his tongue against my pussy had me arching, fingers tangling in his hair. He groaned against me, the vibration making my clit throb.
"Lance," I gasped, rocking against his mouth. "Oh god, your tongue?—"
He slid two fingers inside me, curling them perfectly as his lips closed around my clit, sucking gently. My thighs trembled, heels digging into his back.
"I'm going to?—"
"Come for me," he commanded against my slick flesh. "Let me feel it."
When I shattered, crying out his name, he didn't stop, working me through each wave.
He didn't stop there though. Pulling back, only to ease me off the counter and turn me around, shoving the fabric of my dress up, then twisting his hand in my panties and tugging. The tearing sound mingled with our gasps.
The sound of fabric ripping sent electricity through my spine. Lance's breath was hot against my neck as he pressed his body against mine from behind, his cock hard against the curve of my ass.
"I've missed you for so long," he growled, one hand sliding down my stomach, fingers finding my still-sensitive clit. "Spread your legs wider for me."
I complied, bracing myself against the counter as his fingers circled my pussy, collecting the wetness there. His other hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back so his lips could find my neck.
"Fuck, you're so wet," he murmured, his teeth grazing my earlobe. "Tell me what you want, Morgan."
"Your mouth," I gasped as his fingers dipped inside me. "Everywhere."
"Hands on the counter," Lance commanded, his voice ragged with desire.
I braced myself, the cool marble beneath my palms a stark contrast to the heat building inside me. My wedding ring caught the city light, glinting as I spread my fingers wider.
Lance's hands caressed my ass, squeezing appreciatively before spreading me open. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and impossibly aroused.
"So fucking beautiful," he whispered, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh.
When his tongue traced the curve of my ass, I gasped, unprepared for the jolt of pleasure that shot through me. His hands gripped my hips firmly, holding me in place as his tongue explored lower, teasing along my crack before dipping between my cheeks.
"Oh my god," I moaned, my head dropping forward as he licked a long, slow stroke over my asshole.
Lance hummed against me, the vibration making me whimper. "I want to taste every inch of you," he said, his voice husky with desire. "I’ve been dreaming about this."
His tongue circled my entrance, then pressed insistently, breaching me just slightly. The sensation was overwhelming—forbidden and intensely intimate. My pussy clenched, empty and aching.
"Lance, please," I begged, not even sure what I was asking for.