“No,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut against a moment’s rush of desire.
But it was too late.
Turning away, Morgan spied another table positioned like the crown jewel right in the center of the room. Wide enough to accommodate someone supine, metal cuffs had been welded on each side at the top, center, and end. Most unexpectedly, another set of manacles faced outward like giant pinchers from the bottom of the table’s legs, close to the ground. She didn’t need a degree in aerodynamics to see the table was designed so he could lay a woman flat, immobile and spread wide. Or bent over the table with legs and arms restrained. There were probably other positions, but that’s as far as her imagination could take her.
No matter. She could picture Jack bending her naked body over the table, laying the heat of his broad chest in place as he clasped her wrists in the cuffs, then bent to secure her ankles, his lips trailing the backs of her thighs as he rose again to fit the broad head of his erection against her empty, weeping flesh.
Biting her lip, Morgan exhaled raggedly into the silence. Her heartbeat threatened to take over, consume her, it beat so hard. She had no doubt that she’d ruined another thong over a fantasy she prayed she wouldn’t enjoy in real life.
Tearing her mind from the image, she whirled around to find shelves filled with neat plastic boxes, all clear. Vibrators and dildos, made out of rubber, plastic, glass, some thick, some reedslim, some short, others that clearly intended to stretch the depth and width of a woman’s passage. And Jack would know what to do with each of them. The thought staggered her, made her sex clench in hunger.
On the next shelf up, another organized row of containers held toys for anal play, she guessed. They tended to be shorter with ridges or beads, wide bases. One even looked to inflate with a small hand pump.
Flushing all over, Morgan remembered Jack filling her with one of these. Something slim and ridged and vibrating that had pushed her beyond her limits—right where she’d always dreamed she’d be.
Then he’d left her to deal with her shame and self-doubt the next day. The same shame and self-doubt that was still roiling in her gut.
Morgan spun away. The row of shelves now in front of her held all manner of blindfolds, lotions, cuffs, and clamps—all designed to heighten the senses.
Cinnamon and peppermint gel snared her attention. She wanted to sniff and taste, figure out what he did with that. She didn’t dare. A feather sat next to a sumptuous silken blindfold she stroked with a tentative finger. Soft, like cream, like touching a cloud. Morgan shivered, imagining that next to her skin.
At least until a pair of clamps caught her attention. Tips encased in velvet, separated by a short length of chain, these could only belong on a woman’s ni**les. The tips of her br**sts hardened at the thought of them pinching helpless, sensitive buds. With hesitant fingers, she reached out, ran a finger over the length of chain, only to realize the clamps lay in their original packaging, the seal unbroken.
She knew an insane urge to take them—the one thing she knew he’d never used on another woman—and put them on, parade her br**sts for him. He’d approve…and show it in ways she could barely fathom. Her fingers itched as a heavy ache throbbed in her br**sts. Their tips stood hard, bursting against the lacy bra she wore.
Just once, a voice inside her whispered. Just this one thing…
That’s disgusting! Andrew’s voice invaded her head, replaying their last conversation. Morgan, you’re too smart and cultured to want some…caveman to order you around and tie you down. It’s sordid and bizarre. Can’t we just have sex like normal people? You’re not so depraved that you need pain and someone controlling you to get off, are you?
“Three minutes,” Jack called from the hall in warning.
Gasping, Morgan dragged her hand back from the clamps.
What was she still doing here? Worse, what was she thinking, imagining modeling a device designed to pinch a sensitive part of her body for him?
Stunned by her own thoughts, Morgan shook her head. She could have sex like a normal person, damn it. Being around Jack adversely affected her thinking. She had to get out of this room— now.
Stumbling back, Morgan charged for the door, leaving the hazy red light behind, racing past the office chair and computer in the corner.
Jack blocked the door to the hallway, arms across his chest and looking as moveable as a mountain. “Leaving?”
His inscrutable expression told her nothing. His tone gave away even less. Yet Morgan sensed his frustration and disappointment. His reaction collided with her fear, the desire, whipping through her she wanted so desperately to ignore, clashing with Andrew’s slurs as they reverberated in her head.
Together, it tightened a vise on her heart, ripping a cry from her throat. “Let me go.”
His biceps tightened, bulging with veined muscle. He clenched his jaw. And he stared so dead-on at her, Morgan didn’t know what to do or say. Hurt flashed in his gaze, then disappeared.
Finally, he stepped aside.
Morgan approached with hesitant steps. When she stood beside him, his stare silently demanded that she meet it. She lifted her gaze to him, his searing-hot eyes filled with anger, disappointment, lust—and something else she couldn’t identify. Her breath caught. Her belly clenched. The weight of her br**sts, so achingly heavy, and her ni**les, so painfully hard, screamed at her. God, he was tearing her in half. Making her want what she knew she shouldn’t, what society, her mother, her friends, would all scorn her for. What she wasn’t sure she could live with herself for accepting.
“Go ahead and run, Morgan,” he said, voice disquieting for its softness. “For now.”
But the frightening truth lay between them: It wouldn’t be long before she couldn’t run anymore.
What the hell possessed him to keep pursuing a woman determined to shut him out?
Lying flat on his back, staring at the gleaming wooden ceiling and waiting for the coming dawn, Jack grunted. Possessed had to be the operative word. He couldn’t possibly be in his right mind to keep chasing Morgan. He’d already achieved the biggest chunk of his revenge, and she had told him with an odd combination of four-letter words, tears, and darting from his playroom like a child caught in a nightmare that she didn’t want to spend any more nights in his bed, under his dominance.