Instead, he shuffled a heartbeat closer, until a mere whisper separated her from the raging heat of his body. “There is no reason to be embarrassed about your desires.”
“I’m not. Call me repressed, but I am embarrassed about having an audience during orgasm,” she snapped.
“That’s not true,” he said softly.
Swallowing, Morgan tried to tear her gaze from his knowing, sexual stare. His scent assailed her next, full of man and mystery, spicy as Cajun food and as hard to fathom as the swamp itself.
She inched back. “Do you think you know me now?”
“I know things about you. I know you’re uneasy about your sexuality. You have desires you don’t like to admit to. I see them all in your eyes. A craving to be bound and dominated—”
“You don’t see a damn thing! I’m not depraved.”
“No, you’re not. Anyone who thinks you are is an idiot.”
Jack reached for her again, determination all over the fierce masculine angles of his strong face. She didn’t want to know exactly what he was determined to do. Panic flared, and she batted his hand away and leapt out of his reach. Her back hit the door.
And Jack kept coming for her with soft, slow steps. The pace of a hunter. She had to get away. Had to. Now.
Morgan lunged to her left to evade him. He blocked her way with a strong arm, then anchored it on the door, sealing off that avenue of escape. He used the same tactic on the right before she could make a move in that direction.
Then Jack leaned in, placing one hand on the door, just next to her head. She couldn’t look at him, refused to. As if to get her attention, his body brushed hers, detonating ruthless sparks of desire that burned through her body. Still, that brief contact was enough to light her up like a firecracker.
“Look at me.” He leaned back to put a breath of air between them.
Something inside her wanted to obey. That smooth, rich voice with the hint of French lilt and explicit command tugged at her. The thought of surrendering made her stomach clench with anxiety…and desire gnaw at her clit. The man was a giant contradiction. An aggressive protector. A man who bound women was going out of his way to keep her safe.
It was confusing her. He was confusing her.
Finally, she raised her stormy gaze to clash with his. “What the hell do you want from me?”
“Honesty.”
“No, you don’t. You want me to give in, to spread my legs like a spineless airhead and give you…whatever it is you want.”
A half smile curled up the side of his mouth. “You’re half right. I do want you to give in, cher. I want you to spread your legs when I tell you to. Not because you’re spineless, but because you’re not.” He moved in closer, brushing his body against hers again, all hint of a smile gone. “I want you to burn for me. I want all your fire and independence and sass underneath me. I want to show you what you secretly yearn for and try not to—and how good it can be.”
Morgan swallowed, then opened her mouth to speak. How was she supposed to reply to that? What did a woman say to the man trying to spoon-feed her every sexual fantasy she’d ever denied?
“I don’t think—”
“You think too much. Of all the reasons you shouldn’t. Of all the reasons I scare you. Try thinking of the ways I could please you.”
Oh, she’d thought of those.
One of his hands eased away from the door. He brushed the back of his fingers down her neck, over her collarbones…and kept delving down. He caressed down the terrycloth-covered slope of her breast, then brushed down over the erect nipple begging for his touch.
Even through the towel, she felt that touch all the way to her toes. A hot tingle sizzled her insides like bacon in hot grease. She gasped, felt her gaze locked in place by his dark stare.
He repeated the process again, then once more. Pleasure assailed Morgan from the aching points of her tight ni**les, streaking through her tightly coiled body, straight to her vagina. She dropped her head back against the door, unable to hold in her moan.
“That’s it.” Jack feathered his lips down her throat as he moved in closer. His other hand joined the first in the soft torment of her ni**les with only the thin towel in between.
“I want to see those pretty ni**les. I need to have them in my mouth, cher. Drop the towel.”
Desire bubbled within her, at full boil, even as a last bit of sanity screamed somewhere in her head. The memory of his touch at the strip club and the jolting pleasure it suffused her with still haunted her. The lingering remembrances, coupled with his potent command, sent her self-control reeling.
Of all the men she could desire, why him? Of all times, while being chased by some whacked-out stalker, why did she have to want him now?