The old man patted the sofa beside him again and sent her a hopeful glance. Unable to resist, Morgan gave into the charmer.
Jack groaned. “He’s a master fisherman. He just baited, hooked, and lured you in.”
Must run in the family, she thought bitterly.
“Maybe I’m catching her just for you, yeah,” Brice countered. “Thanks to the army, those nice manners your maman taught you ain’t what they used to be. Without my help, I don’t think Morgan would let you near her.”
She froze, then forced a relaxing breath. The old man couldn’t tell what had happened between her and Jack this morning? Thank God…
But one glance in Jack’s direction, and Morgan knew she was in trouble. He sent her a hard, hot glance that forced her to remember and promised more, much more, until she drowned in pleasure. A ravenous ache resounded in her gut, echoing between her legs, and she felt her ni**les swell again.
Morgan bit her lip to hold in a gasp. Too bad she couldn’t contain the flush crawling up her cheeks.
Brice glanced away from Jack, over to her. A new smile danced at his mouth, moving the salt-and-pepper moustache above it. He looked mighty pleased. “Are you Catholic, Morgan?”
The question took her aback. “I—I was raised in the Church. Yes.”
Jack groaned. “Grand-pere, Morgan’s religion is none of our business.”
“Given enough time, it might be.” He slapped his knee and rose to his feet in a surprisingly spry move and handed her the bag with a Cheshire cat smile.
Wondering what the heck he meant by that comment, Morgan couldn’t escape the feeling the old man had pulled the wool over her eyes. He might be eighty-two, but he wasn’t slow— mentally or physically. Jack had warned her…
“Put those to good use.” Brice gestured to the bag with a jerk of his head and a wink.
Then with a slap on Jack’s shoulder, the old man practically skipped out the front door.
Put those to good use, Jack’s grandfather had said. Fingering the golden silk of the lace-edged camisole and matching thong, Morgan could take a wild guess at what Brice thought good use would entail. And it probably involved indulging in lascivious acts with Jack—acts she’d only vaguely heard about.
Cursing under her breath, Morgan stood in Jack’s bedroom still wearing Alyssa’s slut-in-purple costume and tried to decide what to change into. Brice had brought her three sets of undergarments, each sexier than the last. Nothing else.
“Damn it, Morgan!” Jack shouted through the door. “I called you to dinner ten minutes ago. How long does it take to get dressed?”
“Long enough to figure out how to cover all the essentials with the items your grandfather brought.”
“What the hell?” Jack flung the door open and barged into the room.
When he saw the garments all spread out on the bed, he stopped and stared.
His gaze roved over the golden lace-up camisole, drifted to the black corset with garter belts and thigh-high stockings, then settled on the burgundy bra trimmed in champagne lace—with cut outs so her ni**les could poke through. It came with matching crotchless panties.
“Is this all he brought?”
“You got it.”
“Son of a bitch.” Jack’s expression showed his inner war between annoyance and amusement.
“These aren’t warm or practical,” she pointed out, sharing his annoyance, but none of the amusement.
With a turn of his head, Jack pinned his stare on her. Oh, sweet heaven… Heat infused the dark depths of his eyes, tempting as melted chocolate, alive like the rich earth. She knew in that moment he was doing his best to picture her in each set of undergarments.
Worse, Morgan could imagine herself wearing them for Jack. Imagine his reaction. If the hearty erection currently straining his jeans was any indication, he was more than a little interested. The thought aroused her far more than it should. Her vagina clenched, spasming with need. Beneath the leather, her ni**les stabbed at her bra.
“They definitely aren’t warm,” he agreed. “Practical…well, that depends on the purpose.”
“Since I’m not here to reenact a p**n flick, they aren’t practical for my purposes. Was this a joke or a mistake?”
“Neither.”