Wicked Ties(46)

of conversation.”

She frowned. That might be the end of the conversation, but that wasn’t the end of

the emotions for Jack. Clearly, his divorce still had the power to hurt or piss him off. But

wisely, she let it go. Jack’s personal life was none of her business. Digging into the man’s

past was only going to make her more curious about the man as a whole. Still, she

couldn’t help but wonder what had happened.

“Choose one of those get-ups,” he snapped, gesturing to the lingerie on the bed. “I’ll

give you my robe and a pair of socks, then come eat. The food is getting cold.”

Morgan wanted to say she’d just wear what she had on, but as the sun had fallen, the

temperature had dropped too much for that. And it wasn’t the best outfit to wear if she

wanted to diffuse the awareness between herself and Jack. Not to mention the thong she

currently wore was uncomfortably wet and clinging to her swollen folds—a constant

reminder of her arousal.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He grunted as he retrieved his robe and socks from a nearby wardrobe, tossed them

her way, and left.

Morgan chose the items that seemed the least racy. She crossed the hall and let

herself into the bathroom, golden cami and thong in hand, and set about changing.

The new thong was tiny. All lace as it wound around her hips, bisected the cheeks of

her ass, and edged the legs of the garment. The fabric covering everything else…totally

sheer. The mirror in the bathroom showed her the explicit way the outrageously feminine

lace framed the red curls over the delta between her legs, showcasing the fiery color. It

was designed to make a man’s eyes latch onto a woman’s mound immediately. Jack’s

eyes.

A hitch of both fear and arousal ticked in her belly.

No, bad, bad reaction…

Chastising herself, Morgan peeled off the bra Alyssa had given her. This camisole

covered less than the bra, if that was possible. Again, trimmed in golden lace, it dipped

low, half an inch above her nipples. It was form-fitting and offered gentle support below

her breasts, but was cut low in-between to reveal cleavage. Delicate lace decorated the

top and bottom edges of the utterly sheer garment, and served as the tie in the laces

between her breasts, accentuating her tight nipples poking the thin fabric.

Morgan was pretty sure she’d never looked sexier in her life. Knowing that Jack could

incite her to massive, broiling orgasms was surely making her feel hyperaware of herself

as a woman. Imagining his reaction to this…outfit was arousing the hell out of her.

Her imagination needed to take a vacation.

But it was more than the orgasms, as much as she hated to admit it. With Jack, she’d

felt a dizzying freedom unlike anything she’d ever known with a lover. A freedom to

want whatever she desired. And utter acceptance of her longings. Despite her head

telling her that her needs were wrong, her body ached. She could didn’t even fully

comprehend what she craved, but Jack knew. Knowledge sizzled in his eyes, in the things

he said to her. Jack could give her everything she’d ever fantasized about. All of that

coupled with the feeling of security she had here with him, as if her stalker was a million

miles away, encouraged her to explore her dark side with her infuriating, enigmatic

protector.

She had to get a grip on herself. Fantasies weren’t reality, and she didn’t really want

to perform all those acts that were springing deep from her imagination. Really, she

didn’t.

With shaking hands, Morgan grabbed Jack’s robe. She belted the enormous thing

around her waist, put on the sweatsocks that were double the size of her feet and

marched to the eat-in kitchen’s bleached wood table, hoping she looked frumpy.

When she reached the kitchen, she saw that Jack had laid out some thick soup that

had an orangish base with lots of rice and chunks of meat, his aunt’s homemade bread

and a slab of butter. A small salad sat in another bowl. A big glass of ice water sat above

her silverware.

Jack, on the other hand, was fisting a bottle of whiskey and eyeing her as if she was a

tempting treat, unable to completely shield the feral hunger in his eyes that told her he

wanted to strip her, cram her full of himself, and make her scream. Apparently, he didn’t

see the robe as frumpy.

“I made chicken and sausage gumbo,” he rasped as his gaze roved her face, down her

bare neck, to the hint of skin visible between her breasts. He shifted in his seat. “Ever eat gumbo?”

She shook her head, wondering—though she shouldn’t—if he was still incredibly,

mouthwateringly hard.

“It’s thick and spicy.”