Chapter 27
twenty-seven
MORGAN
That thing I swore would never happen?
Yeah…
I'm going to let James Fitzgerald fuck me in a library study room, and the part of my brain that's kept me distant from everyone—kept me safe—for three years is screaming every reason this ends in disaster. But, right now, I'm struggling to give a damn.
Houston, we have a problem.
The wall digs into my spine through his weight, each breath compressed by his chest against mine. My hands are tangled in his Devils sweatshirt, now soft from a thousand washes, and my mouth is moving against his with the desperation of someone who's forgotten how to drown properly.
The analytical part of me catalogs the tactical nightmare—compromised position, no exit strategy, reasonable chance of public exposure if someone walks into the library at this hour, and every defense currently on fire—but my body has staged a coup.
When he breaks the kiss, his forehead drops against mine. We're both panting, sharing the same air. Through our pressed-together chests, his heart hammers a rhythm that matches mine—too fast, too hard, too much like want to walk us back from the brink.
"Morgan," he says, sounding like a prayer and a question and an apology all at once as his hands move to my jeans.
The smart response would be immediate withdrawal, re-establishing boundaries and extracting myself before this gets worse. We can keep the deal in place, get what we both need from this arrangement—not sex!—and keep going from there.
My mouth opens to issue the retreat order.
Instead, I nod.
One sharp, suicidal dip of my chin.
His fingers fumble with the button of my jeans, shaking slightly, and that small tell cracks something in my chest. The zipper's descent is deafening, each metal tooth releasing sounds like evidence being recorded. And, as he reaches inside to touch me through my underwear, I'm totally lost on him.
Someone could walk by. A security guard. A grad student.
But I don't care.
I plant my feet against his legs and shove my jeans down, kicking them into the darkness beneath the desk. The rough denim of his jeans immediately scrapes against my bare thighs, and the asymmetry—him fully clothed while I'm exposed—makes me feel more naked than actual nudity would.
My underwear is soaked through, the black lace probably ruined, and the evidence of my complete capitulation brings heat to my face. As he touches me, he groans when he finds out how wet I am, and then his mouth reaches my neck and makes a claim hard enough to make me gasp.
Visible proof I let someone close enough to leave bruises.
My head falls back against the wall, and when his teeth graze where my pulse jackrabbits against skin, the sound that escapes me doesn't match any version of myself I've carefully constructed. It's unrestrained, unguarded, and—for the first time in years—uncontrolled.
I want him, and nothing is going to stop me.
"Jesus, you're perfect," he breathes against my throat, and the reverence in his voice is worse than hunger. Hunger is just biology, transaction, bodies doing what bodies do. But reverence suggests this means something, and that is fucking dangerous…
He eases me off his lap, and the loss of contact feels like losing altitude too fast. Before I can recalibrate, he's on his knees on the carpet.
The visual assault of it—this six-foot-three wall of athletic power kneeling like I'm something worth worshipping—is overwhelming and incredible at the same time.
His palms slide up my inner thighs, calloused from years of hockey, and the mix of tenderness and roughness makes me bite down hard on my lip. When his gaze drops to the soaked lace between my legs, the sound he makes is pure male appreciation.
He looks up, and those dark eyes ask a question my body has already answered.
Instead, I nod again, because I'm fully committed to self-destruction.
He hooks his fingers in the lace and drags it down slowly, knuckles grazing my slickness in a way that makes me gasp. The cool air hits my exposed pussy, and I'm hyper-aware of how wet I am, how swollen, how my body has already betrayed every defense I've built.
Then his mouth is on me, and any higher-order thinking becomes impossible.
All I can think is: ooooohhhh…
There's no learning curve, no tentative exploration. His tongue finds my clit with the precision of someone who's been thinking about this for three years. The first contact is so intense that a strangled cry rips from my throat before I can swallow it.
"Shit," I say, breathlessly, as my hands fly to his perpetually messy hair, not to push away but to anchor, and to hold him exactly where he is.
He works with the same focus he brings to defending his net. His tongue circles my clit in devastating patterns while two thick fingers push inside me. The dual assault is overwhelming: the wet heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the scrape of stubble against my inner thighs.
A sound echoes from somewhere in the stacks—a book falling, a door closing, someone existing in our vicinity. We both freeze, and he looks up at me with my arousal coating his lips, eyes wide with shared recognition of how spectacularly exposed we are.
Logic says abort.
Logic says this is the universe offering an exit.
Instead, that reckless grin spreads across his face—the one from three years ago when breaking rules felt like foreplay—and he dives back in with renewed intensity, and his free hand comes up to cover my mouth just as another moan tries to escape.
The danger makes everything sharper and makes me even more desperate for him. The possibility of discovery should send me running, but instead, it sends electricity through me, so when I take one of his fingers into my mouth and start to suck, he groans against my pussy.
He's relentless, reading my body's responses like game tape he's memorized. When my thighs start trembling, when my breathing goes ragged against his palm, he doubles down. Three fingers now, fucking me with a rhythm that matches the assault of his tongue on my clit.
And just as I'm about to detonate, he pulls away.
The loss is so sudden, so cruel, that I nearly scream my frustration into his palm. But then he's standing, hands gripping my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing. The desk is ice-cold against my bare ass, shocking enough to make me gasp, but the contrast only adds to the sensory overload.
He positions himself between my spread legs, and I can see his cock straining against his jeans, the outline thick and insistent. His hands shake harder now as he fumbles with his belt, then shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself. And when I see him, well…
Well.
Maybe he's bigger than memory served, or maybe three years of nothing but battery-operated disappointment has skewed my perspective. His cock is thick, flushed dark with need, pre-come already glistening, and the sight makes something clench deep in my core.
He grips himself, guides the head to my entrance, and pauses.
"Do we need protection?" he says.
"I'm on the pill." I shrug. "And… well… I haven't been with anyone since you…"
His eyes widen in shock. "Yet you're on the pill?"
"Lets me skip my period when there's a game," I say, like it's obvious.
"Well, I got tested after my last… thing… and I'm clean," he says. "Trust me?"
His eyes find mine, and there's a much deeper question there. He's not really just asking me to trust him without a condom. Although that's important, it seems like he's asking me to trust him with something deeper and even more critical.
My heart and my well-being.
This is it. One last checkpoint. The moment where I could salvage this, preserve the careful distance, and protect myself from what's coming.
Not just the sex, but the aftermath, and the possibility that he'll panic and turn this into a joke and take me back to three years ago when I've worked so hard to get here.
But apparently masochism is my new hobby, because my legs wrap around his waist and pull him forward, and he pushes into me with one slow, devastating thrust that fills me completely. I'm as wet as I've ever been, but the action still shocks me like diving into a cold plunge pool.
"Christ." The word punches out of him as he hilts himself inside me. "Morgan, I forgot how perfect you feel."
The stretch burns perfectly, my pussy clenching around him as it remembers this specific occupation.
He's thick and hot and perfect, reaching places that have apparently been waiting specifically for him, untouched by anyone but him.
The fullness is overwhelming, not just physical but something deeper.
His voice is wrecked, all his usual humor stripped away until just James remains. Not James the goalie, not the team clown, but the boy from the beach who looked at me like I was precious before teaching me that precious things get broken.
He starts to move, and thinking becomes impossible.
Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his hips rolling with an athlete's precision.
The desk creaks with each drive, a rhythm anyone passing would recognize immediately.
The thought should trigger retreat. Instead, I dig my nails into his shoulders and meet him thrust for thrust, my hips tilting to take him deeper.
His mouth finds mine again, kissing me deep and desperate, and I taste myself on his tongue—tangy and intimate and overwhelming. His hand finds mine on the desk, fingers interlocking, and that simple gesture threatens my composure more than his cock stretching me open.
This isn't just sex. This is three years of unfinished business. Every thrust is an argument we never had, every withdrawal a counterpoint to words we never said. Every time he hits that perfect spot deep inside, it's an apology wrapped in friction and need.