“He wants us to…” Morgan’s eyes widened even as shock raised her blood pressure.
“Fuck like rabbits? Absolutely. He’s all for anything that might persuade me to remarry.”
Remarry? Her first thought was that she’d only met Jack in person twenty-four hours ago, so leaping to the concept of marriage seemed extreme. Her second thought was that she’d never would have guessed he’d been married before.
“You’ve been married?”
Beside her, he straightened, tensed. “It was short. We divorced three years ago. End of conversation.”
She frowned. That might be the end of the conversation, but that wasn’t the end of the emotions for Jack. Clearly, his divorce still had the power to hurt or piss him off. But wisely, she let it go. Jack’s personal life was none of her business. Digging into the man’s past was only going to make her more curious about the man as a whole. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened.
“Choose one of those get-ups,” he snapped, gesturing to the lingerie on the bed. “I’ll give you my robe and a pair of socks, then come eat. The food is getting cold.”
Morgan wanted to say she’d just wear what she had on, but as the sun had fallen, the temperature had dropped too much for that. And it wasn’t the best outfit to wear if she wanted to diffuse the awareness between herself and Jack. Not to mention the thong she currently wore was uncomfortably wet and clinging to her swollen folds—a constant reminder of her arousal.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He grunted as he retrieved his robe and socks from a nearby wardrobe, tossed them her way, and left.
Morgan chose the items that seemed the least racy. She crossed the hall and let herself into the bathroom, golden cami and thong in hand, and set about changing.
The new thong was tiny. All lace as it wound around her hips, bisected the cheeks of her ass, and edged the legs of the garment. The fabric covering everything else…totally sheer. The mirror in the bathroom showed her the explicit way the outrageously feminine lace framed the red curls over the delta between her legs, showcasing the fiery color. It was designed to make a man’s eyes latch onto a woman’s mound immediately. Jack’s eyes.
A hitch of both fear and arousal ticked in her belly.
No, bad, bad reaction…
Chastising herself, Morgan peeled off the bra Alyssa had given her. This camisole covered less than the bra, if that was possible. Again, trimmed in golden lace, it dipped low, half an inch above her ni**les. It was form-fitting and offered gentle support below her br**sts, but was cut low in-between to reveal cle**age. Delicate lace decorated the top and bottom edges of the utterly sheer garment, and served as the tie in the laces between her br**sts, accentuating her tight ni**les poking the thin fabric.
Morgan was pretty sure she’d never looked sexier in her life. Knowing that Jack could incite her to massive, broiling orgasms was surely making her feel hyperaware of herself as a woman. Imagining his reaction to this…outfit was arousing the hell out of her.
Her imagination needed to take a vacation.
But it was more than the orgasms, as much as she hated to admit it. With Jack, she’d felt a dizzying freedom unlike anything she’d ever known with a lover. A freedom to want whatever she desired. And utter acceptance of her longings. Despite her head telling her that her needs were wrong, her body ached. She could didn’t even fully comprehend what she craved, but Jack knew. Knowledge sizzled in his eyes, in the things he said to her. Jack could give her everything she’d ever fantasized about. All of that coupled with the feeling of security she had here with him, as if her stalker was a million miles away, encouraged her to explore her dark side with her infuriating, enigmatic protector.
She had to get a grip on herself. Fantasies weren’t reality, and she didn’t really want to perform all those acts that were springing deep from her imagination. Really, she didn’t.
With shaking hands, Morgan grabbed Jack’s robe. She belted the enormous thing around her waist, put on the sweatsocks that were double the size of her feet and marched to the eat-in kitchen’s bleached wood table, hoping she looked frumpy.
When she reached the kitchen, she saw that Jack had laid out some thick soup that had an orangish base with lots of rice and chunks of meat, his aunt’s homemade bread and a slab of butter. A small salad sat in another bowl. A big glass of ice water sat above her silverware.
Jack, on the other hand, was fisting a bottle of whiskey and eyeing her as if she was a tempting treat, unable to completely shield the feral hunger in his eyes that told her he wanted to strip her, cram her full of himself, and make her scream. Apparently, he didn’t see the robe as frumpy.
“I made chicken and sausage gumbo,” he rasped as his gaze roved her face, down her bare neck, to the hint of skin visible between her br**sts. He shifted in his seat. “Ever eat gumbo?”
She shook her head, wondering—though she shouldn’t—if he was still incredibly, mouthwateringly hard.
“It’s thick and spicy.”
Like the air between them. Like the flesh he’d filled her with this morning.
Trembling, Morgan looked away and stared into her gumbo. She had to stop thinking like this, with nothing but her hormones. But she couldn’t eat, all too aware of Jack’s stare fixed on her as he held the whiskey bottle in his hand.
Morgan swallowed, feeling her pulse accelerate. “You’re staring at me.”
He inclined his head. “I am, cher.”
“All you can see is this overlarge bathrobe.”