Chapter 5 – Morgan #2
"'Zara Martinez had always known she was different,'" he read aloud in the most dramatic voice possible, "'but she never expected her differences would make her the perfect breeding mate for an alien warrior prince with emotional constipation and a serious case of tentacle hair.'"
"That's not what it says."
"Close enough." He showed me the actual first line, which was somehow even more ridiculous.
"'Zara Martinez had always known she was different, but she never imagined her rare blood type would make her the perfect mate for Prince Xarion of Zephyria, whose kind fed on human emotions and whose hair moved with a mind of its own. '"
"Oh my God, that's worse than your version."
"Right? And it gets better. Or worse. Depending on how you look at it." He flipped a few pages. "Chapter three: 'His tentacle-hair reached for her, and Zara wondered if this was how she was going to die, molested by alien hair while a seven-foot purple prince watched approvingly.'"
Despite everything, I snorted.
Actually snorted.
The sound felt foreign coming from my throat.
"See?" Micah grinned. "There's my girl. Now eat another gummy bear and let's find out how our emotionally constipated hero manages to seduce a woman while his hair is trying to have sex with her."
Lance
I was going to get caught.
The thought whispered through my mind as I crouched in the shadows across from Atticus's building, watching the guards make their rounds. I'd been taking stupid risks for weeks now, driven by a need to see Morgan that was stronger than logic or self-preservation.
One more time. Just to make sure she's okay.
It was a lie, and I knew it. She wasn't okay. She barely ate, rarely left her room, and spent most of her time staring at nothing like she was trying to will herself out of existence.
Because she thinks you're dead. Because you let her believe the worst thing that's ever happened to her.
But telling her the truth meant putting her in danger. The twisted metal remains of Morgan’s car were probably still being analyzed by forensics teams, trying to figure out the bomb signature. They’d never find it. My grandfather only used the best.
Hector was also smarter than I’d given him credit for. He’d borrowed a body from the morgue to replace Morgan’s, but he’d had to think fast when I was the one who’d nearly been burned to a crisp.
The guard rotation changed today. I was counting on Pierce’s team using the same rotation schedule from when I was alive.
The service entrance was my usual entry point. Far enough from the main lobby to avoid the cameras, close enough to the stairwell that I could disappear quickly if things went sideways. I'd memorized the keycode weeks ago, watching from a distance as maintenance crews came and went.
Like riding a bicycle.
The hallway was dark, most of the penthouse asleep at this ungodly hour. I could hear the soft sound of a television from one of the guest rooms. Probably Micah, who'd been practically living here since my death, keeping vigil over Morgan like a faithful guard dog.
Good. Someone should be with her.
Once again, I moved through the shadows like I'd been trained, every step calculated to avoid the floorboards that creaked, the furniture that might shift if bumped.
The penthouse felt different at night. During the day, it hummed with activity, security briefings, phone calls, the controlled chaos of people trying to rebuild their lives after everything exploded.
But in the small hours, it was just grief and silence and the weight of all the things we'd lost.
All the things you destroyed.
Morgan's door was cracked open. I could hear voices, Micah's, low and soothing, and something that might have been laughter. The sound made me almost stumble.
She's laughing. She's starting to heal.
Part of me wanted to turn around, leave her to recover in peace. The selfish part, the part that missed her like a physical ache, that needed to see her breathing and whole and alive, kept me moving forward.
I was almost to the doorway when I heard footsteps behind me.
Shit.
I pressed myself against the wall, praying the shadows were deep enough to hide me.
I waited until I heard her soft conversation with Micah, the gentle sounds of them tag-teaming Morgan's care, before I moved.
By the time Gwen had returned to her own room and the hallway had fallen quiet again, Micah was gone too.
Morgan was alone.
Her room was dark except for the soft glow from the hallway. She was curled up in the center of the king-sized bed like she was trying to take up as little space as possible, make herself small enough to disappear entirely.
She's so fucking small.
She'd lost more weight. I could see it even in the dim light, the way her clothes hung loose, the sharp angles of her collarbones, the hollow spaces under her eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights and too few meals.
This is what grief looks like. This is what you did to her.
She was wearing one of my t-shirts, the grey one I sometimes slept in, the one that still smelled like my cologne even after being washed. The sight of her in my clothes hit me like a sucker punch.
I sat down beside her carefully, the mattress barely dipping under my weight. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, just shifted toward the warmth of my body like she was seeking comfort even in sleep.
Beautiful.
Even grieving, even exhausted, even breaking apart piece by piece, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
The four-carat pink diamond shone even in moonlight. She hadn't taken it off.
The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like a knife between my ribs.
I traced my fingers along her jawline, memorizing the feel of her skin. She leaned into the touch unconsciously, a soft sigh escaping her lips that went straight to my cock.
Not why you're here.
Being this close to her, touching her, breathing in her scent. It was torture and salvation all at once.
She made another soft sound, her lips parting slightly, then her eyes fluttered open.
“Lance?” She murmured as she sat up.
I froze.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
But instead of being angry or worse, screaming, Morgan smiled dreamily, then reached out for me.
Her outstretched palm was impossible to ignore.
I kissed her forehead first. Light, reverent, the kind of kiss I'd given her a thousand times when she was sleeping and I was leaving early for work.
She hummed in approval, her body relaxing further into the mattress.
I trailed kisses along her temple, then the curve of her ear. The sensitive spot below her jaw that always made her shiver.
She tasted like home.
Don’t get carried away. Any second now she could call for her sister. You’re already caught, and instead of going, you’re trying to get your dick wet?
Her breathing quickened as I worked my way down, pressing soft kisses to her throat, her collarbone, the hollow between her breasts where her heart was beating faster now. Her back arched slightly, and her hands moved restlessly over my back and shoulders.
“Spitfire…wait. I—”
“I need you, Lance,” She whispered.
Those four words spurred me on.
I pushed her t-shirt up carefully, revealing her smooth expanse of skin, and peaked hard nipples. She moaned softly, her hips shifting against the mattress, and my control snapped like a rubber band stretched too far.
You need this. She needs this.
I worked my way down her body, taking time to worship every inch of exposed skin. She was so responsive, so perfect, so alive under my hands that I could almost pretend we were back in our loft, back in our bed, back when touching her was my right instead of theft.
When I reached the waistband of her sleep shorts, I paused. “Morgan, baby.”
“Please, Lance. Please.” She shifted, unconsciously spreading her legs wider, and the decision was made.
I slid the shorts down slowly, carefully, until she was bare. Fuck, she was already wet, slick, ready.
I settled between her thighs, breathing in the scent of her arousal. God, I'd missed this. Missed the taste of her, the way she came apart under my tongue, the little sounds she made when I hit just the right spot with just the right pressure.
I started slow. Gentle licks that barely grazed her clit, building the sensation gradually instead of shocking her awake. She responded beautifully, her hips lifting toward my mouth, her breathing becoming more labored, soft sounds of pleasure escaping her lips.
Perfect. So fucking perfect.
I worked her methodically. Used the figure-eight pattern that made her crazy. Kissing the spot just inside that always triggered her deepest orgasms. The combination of pressure and suction that had her sobbing my name on our wedding night.
She came with a muffled cry, her back arching off the bed, her hands fisting in my hair so hard I thought she might tear some out. I was more than happy to donate as many strands as I needed to her pleasure. I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
She deserved more than one orgasm, deserved to feel good even if it was just in dreams.
By the time I finally pulled away, she was boneless and satisfied and wearing the expression I'd fallen in love with, soft and open and completely trusting, like she'd never been hurt in her life.
I pulled back, panting, need crawling up my spine like a feral beast.
Her words came as a muffled pant. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Spitfire—” my words cut off when she let out a deep, unladylike snore.”
I stared up at her, drawing deep breaths. She was out like a light.
My heart threatened to thump out of my chest cavity. Too many risks my guy.
I had to bite back a groan.
Soon. I'll find a way to come back to you soon.
But how? How could I return from the dead without painting a target on her back? How could I explain the deception without destroying what little trust she had left?
Figure it out. You have to figure it out.
I pressed one last kiss to her forehead and melted back into the shadows where dead men like me belonged.