Tangled Love

Chapter Six

Twenty minutes after Jack slammed the door in Morgan's face, she stood in front of the antique mirror hanging from the bedroom wall and studied her appearance. She looked remarkably calm for a woman whose knees were still shaking from orgasms so strong, seismic equipment had surely felt the tremors.

Scrubbed face, hair whisked back in a single, severe braid down her back. Nothing sexy...if she didn't include Alyssa's tight purple submissive-maiden leather get-up in the picture. That, unfortunately, was hard to ignore.

She wasn't about to go prowling through Jack's closet for something else to wear. Too intimate. Chewing her lip, Morgan hesitated. She couldn't afford to have the bastard to think the outfit was the closest thing to an engraved invitation for sex. Maybe if she gave off her best get lost vibes, he'd buy a clue. If not...

She could find herself screwed—literally—again.

And worse, she'd probably love it every bit as much as she had the first time.

Sighing, Morgan paced the room. What the hell was wrong with Jack, anyway? They had fabulously mind-blowing sex and he ran away? Of course, if he hadn't beat her to it, she would have darted behind a door and slammed it between them in world-record time. But, still...

Jack was confusing the crap out of her. She should be the one freaked out. After all, she had a stalker after her. She'd just let a dominant man impale her against a door and drive her to two dizzying orgasms—after inspiring the two she'd given herself—all in about fifteen minutes' time.

Her desire to submit to him, to obey his raspy voice, thick with need in her ear, was so new—yet felt so natural that she hadn't been able to resist. She'd responded to every whispered command as if he'd poured pure liquid desire all over her skin and let it seep into her blood. In those moments, Jack had made what they were doing feel...amazing. So perfectly normal. So right that she'd ached. She hadn't just been accepted as she was, but needed because of it. The sense of connection to Jack had swept common sense aside and made her cling to him like a life raft in a hurricane.

She'd barely been able to keep herself together while the pleasure Jack gave tore her barriers down. Something about him demanded the surrender of more than her body. She'd refused, clinging to her defenses by her fingernails—barely. He'd left her reeling and stunned. But not broken.

Then Jack had all but run from her, tearing off her rosecolored glasses. She was in the middle of who-knew-where with a man she'd only really met yesterday, wearing borrowed clothes, with no end to the nightmare in sight. Yet he ran away. Gee, she guessed that having sex with a client was a bodyguarding no-no.

The more she thought about his behavior, the more it pissed her off. And it hurt—way more than she wanted to admit.

With an impatient huff, she turned away from the mirror. Mr. Cajun Macho had another thing coming if he thought they were going to have sex again. So he had a touch that sizzled desire through her blood, intoxicating her like the most potent wine. She wasn't going to risk addiction with a repeat performance.

But just the thought of it had her body clamoring for more, turning soft and wet at the prospect of experiencing all his determined sexual fire and tightly controlled power again.

So damn stupid. Not only did Jack have temporary written all over him, the only message about him that was even more clear was the one that pronounced him a very bad boy.

Honestly, she didn't need this!

Down the hall, Morgan heard the click of a lock, the opening of the door. From the heavy footsteps, she knew he'd emerged into the hall. Maybe it was very thirteen year-old of her, but she wasn't in the mood to face him. Not now. Not yet. Let him see how the rejection felt.