“Maybe I’m catching her just for you, yeah,” Brice countered. “Thanks to the army,
those nice manners your maman taught you ain’t what they used to be. Without my help,
I don’t think Morgan would let you near her.”
She froze, then forced a relaxing breath. The old man couldn’t tell what had happened
between her and Jack this morning? Thank God…
But one glance in Jack’s direction, and Morgan knew she was in trouble. He sent her a
hard, hot glance that forced her to remember and promised more, much more, until she
drowned in pleasure. A ravenous ache resounded in her gut, echoing between her legs,
and she felt her nipples swell again.
Morgan bit her lip to hold in a gasp. Too bad she couldn’t contain the flush crawling
up her cheeks.
Brice glanced away from Jack, over to her. A new smile danced at his mouth, moving
the salt-and-pepper moustache above it. He looked mighty pleased. “Are you Catholic,
Morgan?”
The question took her aback. “I—I was raised in the Church. Yes.”
Jack groaned. “Grand-pere, Morgan’s religion is none of our business.”
“Given enough time, it might be.” He slapped his knee and rose to his feet in a
surprisingly spry move and handed her the bag with a Cheshire cat smile.
Wondering what the heck he meant by that comment, Morgan couldn’t escape the
feeling the old man had pulled the wool over her eyes. He might be eighty-two, but he
wasn’t slow— mentally or physically. Jack had warned her…
“Put those to good use.” Brice gestured to the bag with a jerk of his head and a wink.
Then with a slap on Jack’s shoulder, the old man practically skipped out the front
door.
#
Put those to good use, Jack’s grandfather had said. Fingering the golden silk of the
lace-edged camisole and matching thong, Morgan could take a wild guess at what Brice
thought good use would entail. And it probably involved indulging in lascivious acts
with Jack—acts she’d only vaguely heard about.
Cursing under her breath, Morgan stood in Jack’s bedroom still wearing Alyssa’s
slut-in-purple costume and tried to decide what to change into. Brice had brought her
three sets of undergarments, each sexier than the last. Nothing else.
“Damn it, Morgan!” Jack shouted through the door. “I called you to dinner ten
minutes ago. How long does it take to get dressed?”
“Long enough to figure out how to cover all the essentials with the items your
grandfather brought.”
“What the hell?” Jack flung the door open and barged into the room.
When he saw the garments all spread out on the bed, he stopped and stared.
His gaze roved over the golden lace-up camisole, drifted to the black corset with
garter belts and thigh-high stockings, then settled on the burgundy bra trimmed in
champagne lace—with cut outs so her nipples could poke through. It came with
matching crotchless panties.
“Is this all he brought?”
“You got it.”
“Son of a bitch.” Jack’s expression showed his inner war between annoyance and
amusement.
“These aren’t warm or practical,” she pointed out, sharing his annoyance, but none of
the amusement.
With a turn of his head, Jack pinned his stare on her. Oh, sweet heaven… Heat
infused the dark depths of his eyes, tempting as melted chocolate, alive like the rich
earth. She knew in that moment he was doing his best to picture her in each set of
undergarments.
Worse, Morgan could imagine herself wearing them for Jack. Imagine his reaction. If
the hearty erection currently straining his jeans was any indication, he was more than a
little interested. The thought aroused her far more than it should. Her vagina clenched,
spasming with need. Beneath the leather, her nipples stabbed at her bra.
“They definitely aren’t warm,” he agreed. “Practical…well, that depends on the
purpose.”
“Since I’m not here to reenact a porn flick, they aren’t practical for my purposes. Was
this a joke or a mistake?”
“Neither.”
“He wants us to…” Morgan’s eyes widened even as shock raised her blood pressure.
“Fuck like rabbits? Absolutely. He’s all for anything that might persuade me to
remarry.”
Remarry? Her first thought was that she’d only met Jack in person twenty-four hours
ago, so leaping to the concept of marriage seemed extreme. Her second thought was that
she’d never would have guessed he’d been married before.
“You’ve been married?”
Beside her, he straightened, tensed. “It was short. We divorced three years ago. End