Finally, she relaxed against him, opened her mouth to him, and drew his tongue and the
taste of herself deep inside.
Respect of her quick acceptance surged inside him. No, it was flat-out pride—and that
was both a joy and a warning. Morgan was sweet, and he could bend her, mold her into a
submissive who could tempt him beyond his wildest fantasies. In time, he could help her
accept that part of herself that she struggled so hard to deny. She would never be truly
happy until she did.
But that feeling of pride…it was a step away from ownership. No dominant had pride
in a sub he wasn’t attached to, determined to make his. For years, he’d felt a distant
respect for women he’d mastered who pushed past their boundaries to submit. Like a
teacher to a pupil, he’d praised their progress, punished their setbacks, all while assuring
them of their abilities.
With Morgan…it felt deeper, more personal. As if he had to help her. As if he had
some personal stake in her blooming sexuality.
As if she’s mine. The feeling confirmed everything inside him. This wasn’t a phase, or
the heat of the moment. He wanted her. Period.
“Jack.”
Morgan’s shaky voice pushed into his consciousness, bringing him back. She
shivered, and this time not from desire. Damn, it was cold out here. And yet, she’d
endured. No, she’d excelled, outshining anything he’d imagined her capable of in that
moment.
He wrapped his arms around her, doing his best to shelter her from the wind. “The
air is brisk, huh, cher?”
And because he couldn’t resist, he tucked her head beneath his chin and stroked her
back with one hand. His other fit perfectly over her breast, his thumb lazily flicking the
still hard nipple.
She whimpered.
Any urgency to shepherd her into his playroom and hoard her in there for hours—
days—that had left his body zinged back to life in that one sound.
He reached into his pocket to find his keys with every intent to command her to warm
herself with a quick warm shower, then meet him in the playroom in fifteen minutes.
Fuck breakfast. He’d rather fuck her.
“Bonjour,” a faint, familiar voice rasped from just around the corner, near the front
door.
Morgan gasped, stiffening in the circle of his arms. “Is that…your grandfather!”
Yes. Who else has such impeccable timing? Biting back a nasty curse, he eased
Morgan away from his sheltering warmth, shoved the remnants of his shirt in her hands,
and urged her inside the cottage through the side door.
“Go. Shower and dress. We’ll finish later.”
She hesitated, going wide-eyed at his words. Indecision spread across her flushed
face. “Jack, I—I… Maybe we should talk about this.”
“Bonjour?” Brice’s voice sounded closer.
Time had run out.
Quickly, he pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, then spun her around, through the
open door. With a sharp slap on her ass, he propelled her inside. “If you want. But we
will finish this later.”
Before she could sputter a reply, he shut the door between them.
Morgan’s reluctance to continue what they’d started was both obvious and
frustrating. Just when he thought he’d reached her… Granted she wasn’t saying no, but
she hadn’t given him the sweet little “yes” his body craved—and expected after her
response this morning. Disappointment and anger gushed through him, confusing him,
as he turned to face his grand-pere.
Together all the urges concocted an astonishing brew of resolve not to accept another
moment of Morgan’s hesitation, no doubt equal in strength to her uncertainty. And he
wanted to understand. What was hanging her up? It was something more than simple
modesty or fear of the unknown.
Jack sighed. The question he should be asking was, what the hell was wrong with him,
that he was suddenly so determined to have this woman? Apparently, he’d lost his mind.
But it felt more like he was in danger of losing much more…
“Ah, there you are,” Brice said, rounding the corner. He shuffled down the long
stretch of the wrap-around porch.
“Morning, Grand-pere.” Jack offered a seat back on the chair in the corner with a
wave of his hand. “Coffee?”
“Non. I came to check up on you and ta jolie rousse.”
His pretty redhead? Not at the moment. She might be one step closer now if it hadn’t
been for an untimely interruption. He bit back a curse.
“Morgan is fine,” Jack muttered, sliding into the chair beside his grandfather.
He licked his lips and still tasted her sweetness there. That flavor—and the memories
of her legs spread wide for him, her uninhibited moans echoing around him—wasn’t