Chapter 29 – Lance
Twenty-Nine
Learning to Breathe Again
Lance
Home.
I stood in the doorway of our loft, watching Morgan hover near the kitchen island like she wasn't sure she belonged here anymore. Three months of hell had changed everything. The way she moved, the way she held herself, the careful distance she maintained even in our own space.
She'd been quiet on the flight back from Marseille, staring out the window like she was memorizing the clouds.
Now, surrounded by the familiar chaos of our life, her sketches still scattered across the dining table, my coffee mug still sitting in the sink from the morning everything went to shit, she looked lost.
"Morgan." My voice came out rougher than I intended, and she turned toward me with those expressive eyes that had haunted my dreams for months. "You okay?"
She wrapped her arms around herself, a gesture so achingly vulnerable it made my chest tight. "I don't know what to do." The admission was barely above a whisper, like she was ashamed of feeling displaced in her own home. "It's stupid, but I feel like I don't know how to just... be here anymore."
Fuck. Of course she felt that way. We'd been living in survival mode for so long, the simple act of existing in our normal space probably felt foreign.
I moved toward her slowly, giving her time to pull away if she needed to. But she didn't. Instead, she leaned into me when I reached for her, her forehead dropping to rest against my chest with a shaky exhale.
"It's not stupid," I said, pressing my lips to the top of her head. "Nothing about how you feel is stupid, Spitfire. We've been through hell."
"I keep expecting someone to kick down the door," she admitted, her voice muffled against my shirt. "Or for my phone to ring with another crisis, or..." She trailed off, but I could feel the tension radiating through her body.
She's been holding it together for so long. For me. For everyone.
"Hey." I pulled back just enough to cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "We're safe. We're home. Charles is dead, Amber's dead, and the uncles have made it clear we're not targets anymore. No one's coming for us."
She nodded, but I could see the doubt lingering in her expression. The fear that had become so deeply ingrained it would take time to shake.
"Dance with me," I said suddenly, the words coming out before I'd fully formed the thought.
Morgan blinked, confusion replacing some of the anxiety. "What?"
"Dance with me." I slid my hands down to her waist, pulling her closer. "Right here, right now."
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, the first real expression I'd seen from her since we walked through the door. "There's no music, Lance."
There it is. That spark I've been missing.
I reached into my pocket for my phone, scrolling through my playlist until I found what I was looking for. Nina Simone's voice filled the kitchen, sultry and hypnotic, singing about spells and possession and the kind of love that consumed you completely.
Perfect.
"Better?" I asked, already beginning to sway with her in my arms.
And that's when she broke.
The tears came without warning, silent at first, then building to quiet sobs that shook her entire frame. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she buried her face against my neck and let me hold her as she finally relaxed.
"I'm sorry," she gasped between sobs, her hands fisting in my shirt like she was afraid I might disappear. "I'm sorry, I don't know why—"
"Shh." I tightened my arms around her, one hand stroking through her hair while we continued our slow dance. "You don't need to apologize for feeling, baby. Let it out."
"I never thought we'd be here again," she whispered, her voice broken and raw. "In our kitchen, dancing, happy... I thought Charles had destroyed everything, and then when Amber took you, I thought—" Her voice cracked completely.
Jesus. She's been carrying all of this.
"I'm right here," I murmured against her temple, my own throat tight with emotion. "I'm right here, and I'm never leaving you again. Never, Morgan. I swear to god."
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes red-rimmed but searching. "Promise?"
"Promise." I held up my pinky finger, feeling ridiculous but knowing she needed the gesture. "Pinky swear, even."
That earned me a watery laugh as she linked her finger with mine. "You're an idiot."
"Your idiot," I corrected, leaning down to capture her lips in a soft kiss that tasted like salt and relief and coming home after the longest journey of either of our lives.
When we broke apart, she was looking at me with an expression I recognized, heat and love and something deeper that made my pulse kick up several notches.
"Lance." My name on her lips was half prayer, half demand.
Finally.
I didn't need to ask what she wanted. I could see it in the way her breathing had changed, in the way her pupils had dilated, in the way she was looking at me like I was something she needed to consume.
"You sure?" I asked anyway, because after everything we'd been through, consent was sacred.
Her answer was to rise up on her toes and kiss me again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against mine with desperate hunger. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark with desire.
"I need you to make love to me," she said, the words carrying the weight of everything we'd survived. "I need to feel alive again, Lance. I need to feel us again."
Happy to oblige.
I swept her up into my arms, my ribs protested but I didn’t give a fuck. The meds dulled most of the pain. I was gratified when she wrapped her legs around my waist and kissed along my jaw as I carried her toward the stairs. It wasn’t like she weight anything.
Her lips were warm and urgent against my throat as I took the stairs two at a time, her teeth grazing my skin in ways that made my cock strain against my jeans. The familiar creak of the third step from the top usually annoyed me, but tonight it sounded like a welcome home song.
"God, I missed this," she breathed against my ear, her voice husky with need. "Too many clothes," she whispered, her fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt.
I couldn't agree more. With her legs still wrapped around me, my free hand found the hem of her blouse, and I pulled at it roughly, hearing the satisfying pop of buttons scattering across the hardwood. Morgan gasped as the cool air hit her exposed skin, and I growled in satisfaction.
“I knew you weren’t wearing a fucking bra.” With my hands on her ass, I hitched her up so those glorious tits were eye-level.
Her nipples were already peaked and begging for attention, and I didn't hesitate to capture one between my lips. She arched against me with a sharp intake of breath, her fingers threading through my hair as I sucked and laved the sensitive bud with my tongue.
"Lance," she moaned, the sound echoing off the walls as I moved to her other breast, giving it the same devoted attention.
"Lance," she gasped, her fingers tangling in my hair as I teased, my tongue circling the sensitive bud before switching to the other side. Her pussy was pressed against my stomach through her jeans, and I could feel the heat of her even through the denim.
I backed her against the wall at the top of the stairs, needing the leverage to really worship her properly. Her head fell back against the exposed brick as I sucked her nipple between my teeth, making her writhe against me.
She made these breathless little sounds that went straight to my cock as I worshipped her breasts, her hips grinding against me in a rhythm that was driving me insane. The friction wasn't nearly enough for either of us.
"Too many fucking clothes," I muttered against her skin, echoing her earlier sentiment. I pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, seeing my own desperate hunger reflected there. "Turn around."
Her pupils dilated further at the command in my voice, and she unwound her legs from my waist, letting me set her down.
The moment her feet hit the floor, I spun her around so her tits were pressed against the cool brick wall.
She gasped at the contact, her palms flat against the surface as I pressed my body against her back.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful," I growled into her ear, my hands already working at the button of her jeans. The denim was tight, and I had to peel it down her legs along with those lacy black panties I'd been fantasizing about getting my hands on since Marseille.
The fabric hit the floor in a heap, and I groaned at the sight of her bare ass, round and perfect, begging for my touch. I ran my hands over the smooth curves, squeezing and kneading as she pressed herself back against me.
"Please," she whispered, her voice muffled against the wall.
I didn't need to be asked twice. Dropping to my knees behind her, I spread her cheeks and buried my face between her thighs. The first taste of her pussy made me dizzy with want, she was already wet, her cunt slick and swollen with arousal.
"Oh god," she cried out, her hips bucking as I dragged my tongue through her folds. I gripped her ass tighter, holding her steady as I explored every inch of her with my mouth. The taste of her was intoxicating, musky and sweet and uniquely Morgan.
I circled her clit with the tip of my tongue, making her legs tremble. Her hands scrabbled against the brick wall as I alternated between gentle licks and firm pressure, building her up slowly. When I pushed my tongue inside her, she let out a broken moan.
Her inner walls clenched around me as I fucked her with my tongue, and I could feel her getting closer. But I wasn't done with her yet. Not even close.
I pulled back, ignoring her whimper of protest, and spread her wider. My tongue traced higher, circling the tight ring of her asshole before pressing against it. She went rigid for a moment, then melted against the wall with a sound that was pure sin.