Morgan’s gaze stayed riveted to her screen as she waited for more. For a long, silent moment, she held her breath…but nothing. Master J wasn’t going to reply further. Just like in the bedroom, she supposed. He had the power to give or withhold.
Finally, a longer reply appeared in the little chatroom window.
Sorry, but I’ve had an urgent call. Have to go. If you feel I have the background to assist with your show, let’s meet. I’ll answer your questions then. Someplace public, so you don’t worry I might be a serial killer luring you into danger. I can talk faster. I’ve mastered a lot, but not typing <g>. I still hunt and peck.
Morgan scuttled her impatience. Not hard when the man made her smile at his jokes.
I understand, she answered. Can we meet tomorrow at 3? I Googled and found a place that seems to be popular there in Lafayette called La Roux. Know where that is?
Cher, I’m a native. I know every crack in the sidewalk around here.
Morgan smiled and typed, Cher? I’m not that tall or old enough to have had a singing career since the 60s!
LOL. It means dear in French, he translated. I’m Cajun, so I grew up speaking the language.
Morgan read his reply and ignored the little flutter in her belly. Flirtation was a French thing, and he’d been raised with the culture. It was as natural to him as breathing, no doubt.
<blushing> I’ve lived in Los Angeles too long, I guess. I’ll see you then?
You will. How will I know you? Lots of pretty girls in Louisiana. I want to make sure I reveal my innermost secrets to the right one.
He was a charmer, Morgan bet. He’d have to be with his interest in wielding whips and chains. Certainly, most “normal” women would run screaming in the opposite direction at the thought of a little pain and a lot of obedience with their sex.
I’ll be wearing a straw hat, sunglasses, and a big, boxy coat, she answered.
Sounds more like a disguise, Master J returned.
He had no idea. And she wasn’t advertising the fact she had a stalker. Morgan only hoped the reason she needed a disguise would be caught and start rotting in hell soon.
See you tomorrow, she jotted back.
Au revoir.
The message on her screen told her moments later that Master J had left the private chatroom. With a sigh, she moved to close the chatroom window.
Her hand trembled. No, her whole body trembled, despite the heat snaking under her skin.
She was tired, that’s all.
Tired doesn’t make you ache in very personal places, the voice in her head taunted. Tired doesn’t make you wet.
“Tired makes me hear pesky voices in my head,” she grumbled.
She tried to push Master J, the man, aside and focus on the questions she’d ask him tomorrow. The show’s outline had to be in soon, and she wanted to be prepared to launch her second season with a bang. Already, she had a growing cult following. With the right material, the show could skyrocket.
Which meant she had to keep her eye on the prize and focus on work.
But after ten minutes of staring at an empty screen, Morgan admitted that Master J wouldn’t leave her mind. What was it about him?
Other than the fact he lives out the fantasies you’ve ached about?
Morgan shook her head, determined to ignore the maddening little voice. She was curious, not deviant. No matter what Andrew said or her mother would think.
With a sigh, she reached for the phone and dialed the number of the production assistant in Los Angeles.
“Reggie,” she said when he answered. “Hey, I talked to this Master J guy you hooked me up with and I read his bio. I’m meeting him tomorrow. What’s his scoop? Learn anything new?”
“Yeah,” returned the older man, his voice scratchy from his two-pack-a-day habit. “I did some calling around Louisiana, asked people at bondage clubs if they’ve ever heard of him, just to make sure he’s legit. He checks out.”