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Or more seductive?
Shaking away her thoughts, Morgan knew the clock was ticking. Jack would come back in less than fifteen minutes. If she was still standing in his lair…he’d take that as an unequivocal yes—to anything, everything. The only boundaries between them would be his own, coupled with the limits of his imagination.
In other words, there would be no limits.
Morgan swallowed against a flush of heat. Regardless of whether the room and its contents made her more afraid or less, she had to see, and not just out of curiosity. Labeling her emotions mere journalistic or feminine interest was too simple.
Morgan had to see that room because it would tell her about the alluring, mysterious conundrum named Jack.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she took a tentative step toward the red light in the corner that drew her like a siren.
One foot forward. Yes. Then the other. Repeat the process.
Sheer nerve kept her moving, coaching herself with each step. Finally, she stood at the door and opened her eyes. She hadn’t even realized she’d closed them.
Air tumbled out of her as her jaw dropped. Shock pounded her as she stared.
The question wasn’t what did Jack have in here. The question was what didn’t he have. Just from the doorway, she first saw something that, with two horizontal bars about two feet apart, looked a bit like a standing towel rack. But given the wrist and ankle cuffs attached to each bar, those lowest to the ground fairly far apart, Morgan knew better. Had he stood a woman in that spot, restrained her with legs spread and… Finishing the picture disturbed Morgan too much.
She put herself in the picture instead. And instantly, fresh moisture seeped from her sex.
Did she honestly like the thought of being restrained and toyed with? Of being locked in place, helpless to do anything but take the pleasure or pain Jack gave her?
Yes.
“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 nipples. The tips of her breasts 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 breasts for him. He’d approve…and show it in ways she could barely fathom. Her fingers itched as a heavy ache throbbed in her breasts. 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 breasts, so achingly heavy, and her nipples, 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 m
ind 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.
But Morgan was lying to him—and to herself. Jack felt that down to the bottom of his toes. She’d had a taste of submission and responded so beautifully…except that little bit of herself she withheld. Still, the knowledge she’d given in at all would haunt her, drive a wedge between her and Brandon. But that wasn’t enough anymore. It would be so easy to abandon revenge and focus on snaring Morgan for his own.
But with every cry of passion, every acceptance of his demands, she’d been cheating on a man she was about to vow to love until death parted them. And he wondered if she could ever belong to him.
Beyond Brandon, there was a reason she hadn’t submitted herself totally, psyche, free will, and all to him. He had no idea what. That bothered Jack—a hell of a lot.
So why couldn’t he just accept Morgan actions? She’d cheated on her fiancé, and he’d proven to Brandon—with video— that he’d nailed his former pal’s woman. Why couldn’t he just walk away from her and let her relationship with Brandon fall apart on its own? Why get tangled up with another woman not willing to really submit, who was willing to break faith?
Cursing, something vile and sibilant, he scrubbed a hand across his tired face. The truth was, he wanted Morgan more than he hated the fact that been cheating. He was determined to win her full surrender. Which made him a stupid ass. And with every passing minute, he feared his yearning to possess her had to do with this strange instinctual urging to claim her as his own, not for revenge or even a great submissive fuck, but for emotions he didn’t want to identify. That made him an even stupider ass.
He clenched his fists in silent frustration. It made no sense, but he needed to go beyond ending her engagement, beyond ruining her for Brandon’s vanilla touch. He wasn’t going to be content until she called him sir naturally and he’d used his body in every possible way to satisfy her. Denying that was self-delusional and pointless.
Was he going to have to hear her say that she was his to be satisfied?
Jack rubbed at gritty eyes as soft gray light eked into the cottage, heralding the encroaching dawn. Jackknifing up, he sat on the lumpy sofa where he’d spent the previous, mostly sleepless night and scowled. He wasn’t sure if he or the sofa were older, but it didn’t matter. No doubt they both looked their age this morning. He certainly felt his.
Except around Morgan. Anytime he got near her, he felt hornier than a teenager seeing his first naked woman.
He’d had dozens of women, most of them eager to please. Hell, he could find one in the next hour, if he wanted. So why would he keep after a woman who claimed she wasn’t interested?
Sighing, Jack rose to his feet, ambled to the kitchen, and made a pot of coffee. A glance over his shoulder showed that the door to the bedroom was still closed. No surprise there. The only surprise was how badly he wanted Morgan to fling it open and invite him in.
He’d like to believe that the challenge she presented goaded him into pursuing her. An affront to his manly pride and all that. But he’d been turned down before, accepted it with a shrug, and moved on.
That didn’t seem possible with her. Last night as darkness fell, his cock rose and the raspberry-spice scent of Morgan flooded his senses—and strangled his restraint. If she hadn’t already been soundly asleep by the time he barged into the bedroom and her tart refusals hadn’t been ringing in his head, Jack wasn’t sure what he would have done.
Where Morgan was concerned, he’d made an ass out of himself during Deke’s visit. No need to repeat his stupidity. He had to get control of himself before he approached her again.
Grasping his coffee cup in one hand, Jack shuffled outside, onto the cottage’s wrap-around porch. The sun peeked golden fingers over the shadowy domain of the cypress trees and Spanish moss. Sitting on a chair in the corner, he breathed in the heavy smell of vegetation, rich earth, water, and wildlife. And something spicy that epitomized Louisiana. That’s why he loved it out here, why he’d bought the old place from Brice when his grandfather had gotten too old to see to its upkeep and to be so far from a hospital. But he knew his grandfather missed the silty swamp mornings, complete with beignets and bullshit.
The old man was a character, full of colorful stories. And of course the family legend.
Jack snorted. According to Grand-pere, every male on his mother’s side of the family dreamed of the woman meant to complete them, be his soul mate, before meeting her. Supposedly one of his long-dead ancestors made the mistake of marrying the wrong woman and found his true love too late. As the legend went, the man paid a Voodoo priestess to “curse” all his male descendants.
Jack frowned. He’d been certain Brice had made the entire tale up to explain why, at twenty-four, he’d eloped with a girl of sixteen. Now, Jack didn’t know what to think. His grandfather believed it. Once Brice had learned that Jack had not dreamed about Kayla before marrying her, his grandfather had never accepted her. Never treated her like family. Said she didn’t suit him. Hell, he hadn’t even attended his only grandson’s wedding. A silent protest, Jack knew. The hell of it was, Brice had been right; he and Kayla hadn’t been suited in the least.