How he felt, how she felt—none of it mattered. She had to focus on staying safe and doing research for her show. Drooling over the heavy slabs of muscles covering Jack’s shoulders and chest that screamed virile and contemplating all the ways he could use that power to pleasure her wasn’t going to improve her show— or her chances of staying alive.
“How are you? Okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said finally. “What time is it?”
He shrugged and glanced out the window. “About five in the morning. You can go back to sleep. I’ll be here to watch over you.”
Morgan stared back. The knowledge that Jack’s eyes were on her was really going to induce her to roll over and sink into dreamland. As if. She could hardly breathe with Jack’s gaze all over her. Sleep would be impossible.
What was it about this man? Sure, he was yummy, but she’d dated good-looking guys before. Something about the way he stared?
The truth finally hit her like a slap. No, it was his intensity, his self-possession, his air of controlled power. She’d always been a sucker for men of power. And unlike the other men in her past, Morgan knew Jack was the real deal.
He wielded one of the ultimate powers, a sexual one. He wouldn’t just tie a woman down; he would dictate her response and his, be in complete control of her body, her orgasms, and in that moment, her very soul.
The thought appealed to Morgan far more than was wise.
Easing toward the edge of the bed to put distance between them, she said, “No, I’m awake. Do you want the bed to catch some sleep? I can get up.”
“Stay.”
The single syllable ricocheted through her body. It was a command, pure and simple. Every place it bounced around inside her, the heat intensified, confusing her. She didn’t like being bossed around—by anyone. But Jack barking orders at her made her uncomfortably achy in all the wrong places.
Hell, maybe she was just horny in general, and it had nothing to do with Jack. After all, it had been nearly a year since she’d split up with Andrew.
“I’ve been sleeping in the chair,” he clarified.
“That can’t be comfortable.”
He laughed. “Cher, go spend a few months in Afghanistan with the army. This chair will seem like the Ritz.”
Morgan nodded, conceding the point.
“If you’re awake, I want to ask you some questions. You need coffee first?”
She shuddered. “I don’t drink the vile brew. Too bitter.”
A flash of white teeth told Morgan that he smiled. “I wouldn’t say that too loud around here. We’re known for our thick chicory coffee. Not drinking that is sacrilege.”
“I’m likely to burn in hell for some other things in my life, starting with painting my cousin’s G.I. Joe’s fingernails pink when I was five. I’ll just add that to the list.”
Jack laughed, a scratchy sandpaper sound. “Wow, that is vile. Satan’s got a special place reserved just for you.”
Morgan nodded. Then the room turned quiet. The momentary banter drifted away, leaving a tense silence in its place. Still, she felt Jack’s gaze on her, lingering on her hair.
Self-consciously, she pushed the strands off her shoulders, behind her back. “You took off the wig. I—it’s red,” she stammered. “My hair, I mean.”
He hesitated. “I didn’t expect that.”
His stare changed then, turned pensive. Morgan frowned. What had he expected? Why did the color matter? Maybe he only liked blondes. Maybe…but his stare said otherwise.
“And I see you took off the boots.”
“They looked uncomfortable.”
The idea of Jack touching her as she slept unaware raised the heat coiling in her body another notch. Had he touched anything more intimate than her head or feet, while she slept?
That question ratcheted up her body heat again, now laser focused between her legs. Morgan squirmed, seeking relief. She didn’t find it.