Tangled Love

Chapter Eight

Eyes closed, Morgan rolled over and stretched in the warm, rumpled sheets. Her muscles felt deliciously heavy and relaxed, if a tad sore in some unusual places. But wow, such hard, dreamless slumber had rejuvenated her. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this rested. Smiling, despite her lingering drowsiness, she drew in a deep breath. The scents of leather, male musk, midnight, swamp, and sex bombarded her.

Scents that belonged to Jack.

The events of the previous night rushed back. Every bit of it. In sudden, excruciating detail. Gasping, Morgan sat straight up in bed, gathering the sheet in her fists. Everything she'd done... Not just done—reveled in. Lust boomed in her gut and her vagina clenched in fresh hunger as memories besieged her in vivid color.

Her mind shook with a mix of shock and disbelief. Dismay wasn't far behind.

And she was still naked. She, who never slept bare, still lay in the bed of the man who instigated her downfall into the most forbidden sin and found a way to make her pant for it. And now, she laid in his bed like she was waiting for him to do it all again.

Frowning, Morgan remembered him sleeping beside her last night. No, not beside her; tangled with her. His solid warmth curled around her back, his hand splayed over her abdomen. The steady rhythm of his hard male breathing had drifted into her ear.

She hadn't slept well in weeks, not since the problems with her stalker had started in earnest. But even when she felt safe in her relatively secure apartment, she never slept that deeply. Next to Jack, she'd felt cherished, protected—totally able to fall into the black chasm of slumber.

She'd also felt claimed, especially when he awakened her deep in the night. He'd positioned her flat on her back and fitted his hips between her wide spread thighs, gasping at the silken thrust of his cock into her swollen sex.

Despite being half-asleep, the euphoria of his slow, lazy strokes had sent her into a red haze of need. Within minutes, she'd tried to claw at Jack's shoulders in silent plea—only to realize he'd tied her down again. And blindfolded her.

He'd released the ties at her ankles suddenly, she recalled, then shifted her close to the head of the bed. Keeping her wrists tethered, he'd sat her up and, with a grip of controlled fervor, guided her down on his cock.

"Ride me, cher. Squeeze me with that pretty pussy and ride me," he whispered in the midnight air.

With his hands clutching her hips, Jack dictated the speed and depth of his penetration. Never too deep, never too fast. Never enough to do anything but reduce her to a panting, pleading mass of tingles.

Morgan had whimpered for more. Perspiration dampened her belly, her back, as she strained toward a release he wouldn't give her. Instead, he merely drove her up, up, up to mindlessness with endlessly slow strokes.

"Jack..." she moaned.

"Non." He sat up beneath her, then nipped at the tip of her breast with his teeth, even as one of his hands struck her bare ass.

The double pleasure-pain ricocheted through her body, spiraling sensations through her body like hot lava. She gasped for air as Jack buried himself deep, deep inside her. He thrust up, but still in long, lazy strokes that multiplied the friction, exploded shivers of sensation within her.

"Wrong," he chastised, lifting her up, nearly off his cock. "What should you call me?"

Morgan hesitated, teetering on the knife's edge of need. Panting, her sex on fire, her bound hands preventing her from touching him, she cried out, "More. Please..."

"You'll get it when you address me properly."

"Sir." She managed to get the word out of her mouth in a rush. "Sir."