Authors: Anya Breton
“Whoever it is would be foolish to try anything at a party,”
she said.
Was that why Brook had let him walk out without her? Thank
the god of the ocean the Ranger couldn’t read his silent irritation that she
hadn’t shackled herself to his hip. Or something a little closer to the center.
Morgan scrubbed a hand over his face. “I was nearly shot. In
public. I’m taking no chances with anyone.”
“But
yourself
.
”
“As I told you. It would be suspicious if I hid away.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“And whoever it was would take it out on those I care for.”
He hadn’t meant to look Mira in the eye when he spoke the words. No doubt she’d
read it as a soulful gaze—one with far more emotion behind it than he meant to
broadcast. For a Water witch, Mira was obtuse regarding the emotions of others.
But then he had been with her as well.
“Please,” he said with a low sigh. “I take my people’s
safety very seriously.”
“But you don’t take your own seriously.”
“I will. In fact, I shouldn’t be away from Brook for long.”
Mira’s eyes narrowed into fine slivers. The drawing
sensation coincided with what he’d felt from her the moment he’d spotted her
dark head of hair. Jealousy still. Morgan might have assured her there was
nothing to concern herself over. He didn’t.
A part of him, initially small but quickly widening with
disturbing speed, wanted Brook despite their vast differences. Perhaps
because
of them.
“Take care, Mira,” he said in distraction when the line
opened for his assistant to fetch her things. “I’ll call…”
He didn’t finish his thought because he’d forgotten what it
was, if he’d known to begin with. How could he remember a damn thing when his
attention was riveted on
her
?
How had Irvin persuaded Brook to
dance
? And why did
the formerly gangly female have to move with grace foreign to a tomboy? How had
she learned to move like that?
Who
had taught her?
Never before had Morgan felt inclined to harm his uncle. But
the hand inches below Brook’s flared hips should have been
his
, not
Irvin’s. And never had he experienced the urge to drag a woman out by her hair.
The image of his fingers slicing through those spiked,
cropped locks flared in his mind’s eye. He’d let the tips of his digits linger
at her nape until she shivered with desire. Only when he’d drawn a reaction
with the heat of his gaze would he slide the straps of her gown over her bare
shoulders.
Morgan’s cock roused when Brook’s gaze met his across the
dance floor. And she shivered. Deliberately he stepped to the wall rather than
cut into their dance. He couldn’t be trusted. Laughable that, considering he
was the most principled male he knew. Brook had always gotten him in the worst
trouble.
His uncle sent a glance over his shoulder. Irvin’s lips
quivered in the mere moment Morgan had seen his face. And then he was bent over
Brook’s figure, whispering in her ear. Morgan’s chest tightened at the sight of
them in the intimate embrace.
Brook jerked her head to the right. A shapely shoulder
appeared beyond Irvin’s frame. As soon as Morgan had seen it, it disappeared
behind his uncle’s body.
Frustration.
Hers. He could feel it across the room
without an empathic link. Morgan shot forward in time to hear her protesting.
“He’s a sitting duck alone over there and I don’t want to
dance.”
“You were dancing peacefully while he stroked Mira,” Irvin
said before he realized Morgan was within earshot.
Stroked
Mira? Was the male trying to make Brook
jealous? Morgan’s gaze switched to hers, eager to know if it had worked. Her
eyes were narrow, but the emotion he noted when his empathic link snapped into
place wasn’t jealousy. No, it was more irritation.
Brook Lochlan was one giant ball of vexation—a sexy ball in
a slinky gown that left little to the imagination.
But she wasn’t Brook
Lochlan
any longer. How could he
have forgotten she’d married?
He knew how. Morgan hadn’t wanted to remember. Lust had made
him stupid.
“May I cut in?” he asked of his uncle now that he’d
successfully iced his baser needs.
“If you must,” Irvin said with stiffness he ordinarily
reserved for their opposition. “We were enjoying each other’s company.”
A glance at Brook merited no assistance. Her plump lips were
set together as they often were, neither thinner nor poutier than normal. She’d
been arguing when he’d arrived. But she wasn’t arguing now even though Irvin
had lied.
Or had Morgan misunderstood what he’d overheard? It would
have been easy, especially given how badly he’d wanted to believe she hadn’t
been enjoying herself.
Still Morgan stepped into their space. Irvin released her
waist and her hand and then moved with a mocking flourish to the left.
“Do try to enjoy the
rest
of the dance.” Irvin’s
sardonic emphasis pointed out the fleeting moments left in the ensemble’s
current piece. He sauntered into the crowd without a backward glance.
Morgan’s attention slipped away, settling upon Brook’s
face—her
glaring
face.
“I was getting somewhere with him when you
interrupted
,”
she said.
“You were trying to stop dancing when I interrupted.”
“What I was
saying
and what I was
doing
were
two different things.”
“You?” Morgan brought his head back to give her a once-over.
The motion was meant to be feigned incredulousness—a mocking gesture she’d
surely understand. Instead, Morgan had noted how the silky fabric of the gown
skimmed her inner thighs far too closely. Lust he’d thought he’d conquered
melted his brief, icy resolve.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she ground out before recognizing
the scene they created. Brook stomped forward in her silver sandals. She
grabbed hold of his hands, setting one to her waist and the other out to the
side, exactly as he should have done.
It was an open invitation to touch her. And touch her he did,
forming his fingers over her firm hip. Her breasts thrust between them, barely
avoiding the brush of his chest. Morgan didn’t allow himself the pleasure of
stepping forward to fix that.
“It means that you don’t like pretending,” he said when she
cleared her throat in noisy impatience. “The old Brook Lochlan wouldn’t have
said one thing and done another.”
“The old Brook Lochlan wasn’t a Ranger,” she said at a
volume the vanilla humans wouldn’t hear. “She still doesn’t like pretending,
but sometimes it’s required for the job. And what the
crap
am I doing
speaking about myself in the third person? There is no Brook Lochlan anymore.
There’s only me. Brook
Calder
.” Her profile swung away—an avoidance
tactic.
“I never thought I’d see the day you’d be a married woman.”
Brook’s gaze snapped back, fixing on his probing eyes.
Confusion.
It wasn’t in her expression but he
sensed
it in her. He sensed
everything—the frustration, the confusion, the resentment and the
desire
.
The link wobbled.
Uncertainty.
And then she opened
her mouth. “I’m not married.”
Morgan experienced brief relief that he hadn’t been drooling
over a married woman for days. Words tumbled from his mouth he’d not meant to
ask her. “Is that against Ranger rules?”
She gave a mirthless laugh. “No.”
“Were you married?”
“Priest Seaton, the surname is my mother’s. I took it after
my father died. You could have asked instead of fishing.”
“Fishing is what Water witches do best.”
“No, Water witches feel emotions best. And yours are all
over the place. Focus on one. It will help you calm the others.”
“You don’t want me to focus on one, Brook.”
Her head tilted to the right, a weary expression that didn’t
fit what he sensed from her. “You’re just going to have to fight it.”
“What if I don’t want to fight it?” He let his hand slip
down her hip to her derrière. It clenched beneath his palm—a taut, wonderful
bit of muscle he imagined gripping while he plunged into her repeatedly.
And then his hand headed up when he realized he’d brushed
nothing
beneath her gown. He searched for the band, for the line of elastic that
had
to circle her hips.
“What are you doing?” came her sharp voice when his fingers
grazed up her hip to her waist.
Morgan leaned forward, setting his lips to her ear. “You
wore panties, Brook, you had to.”
“In
this
thing? Are you crazy?” She tried to pull
away but he clamped his arms around her waist, holding her where she was. “I
didn
’
t have anything that wouldn’t
show.”
Using her to hide the erection straining at his tuxedo
slacks probably wasn’t the best of ideas. But it
was
her fault.
“Neptune’s net, are you
trying
to drive me mad?”
“Of course not—”
He inhaled the brisk scent of her skin near his lips, barely
resisting the urge to kiss the tender patch behind her ear. He believed her. It
wasn’t simply that he experienced her indignation.
Brook wouldn’t intentionally try to seduce him. Morgan
doubted she’d know the first thing about making a male lust after her. And that
made him want her more.
“Next time you force me into formalwear, I’ll be sure to
wear panties,” she said breathlessly.
“See that you do, or I guarantee you won’t be in your
formalwear for long.”
Morgan shoved away from her, unable to stand her sweet heat,
firm body and thrilling scent a moment longer. He didn’t look back no matter
how badly he wanted to know if her nipples strained the fabric. Because if he
did, he knew he’d drag her out by the hair exactly as he’d wanted to minutes
earlier.
Brook always brought out the worst in him. The only
difference now was the worst would end in emotional pain rather than the kind
that left a visible mark.
Every brush of the gown against Brook’s skin was a form of
torture. Tender nipples were visible for the entire party to see. She only
hoped she’d not stained the gown with the
other
reaction to Morgan’s
proximity. Carefully she kept her thighs spread on the trip to the restroom.
He’d been bold. Morgan of old would have tried to soothe
their discomfort away with white lies. This Morgan hadn’t hidden his desire.
But
she
had. Pretending his hands on her didn’t
exhilarate was a kind of falsehood. Brook of old wouldn’t have pretended. Then
again, Brook of old hadn’t found any need for boys. Certainly not the soft kind
like him.
Brook discreetly cleaned up her body’s reaction with a little
warm soap and water. A drop of water settled onto the satin. She called on
magic to suck away the moisture from the tiny spot. And then she was on her way
back to the party.
She found Morgan on the dance floor in the arms of the
married woman, Henrietta. Her head was far too close, nearly nose to nose. He’d
not drawn back.
Did he have a thing for married women? Brook shouldn’t have
pondered the question. Especially not when the next inevitable point was to
wonder if he’d left her on the dance floor because he’d learned she
wasn’t
married.
Whatever the case, Brook needed to set him straight.
She settled against the wall to be the vigilant guard she’d
agreed to be. Her attentive scans of expressions and emotions turned up nothing
beyond the usual crush of vanilla human drama. If Morgan’s attackers had put in
an appearance, they’d kept themselves under control.
The same thing couldn’t be said of the high priest and his
bodyguard.
* * * * *
Morgan allowed his head to fall away from the limo window.
He’d stared at the tinted glass to avoid noting how the folds of Brook’s gown
skimmed her thighs. They hid everything and nothing. It was terribly
distracting.
“What?” he asked, because though he’d heard her words, he
hadn’t the first idea what they meant.
“The Ranger-client agreement.” Her plump lips opened again
when he said nothing. “Per the laws and codes of Neptune’s Rangers and the vow
I gave, I must keep my interaction with you on a strictly professional level.
You signed the contract. You agreed not to violate those laws and codes.”
He had.
But that was before.
Even now Morgan’s thoughts raced for a
professional
reason for why she ought to flick the slit along her thigh open. He needed to
see the proof she’d attended that party nearly nude. Desire thundered in his
ears, rumbling within his veins.
He turned his head from her again, gathering the control
that had earned him his position.
“I’m sorry,
”
Morgan lied.
They were silent for several minutes on the trip to the lake
house.
“Is there anyone we can call for you?”
He emitted a questioning grunt.
“A female?” she asked. “Someone to ease your…discomfort?”
“By the great blue sea, Brook!” He growled at the window.
“You’re not
helping
.”
“So you’ll just take another cold shower. Take business into
your own hands. And then plague me all over again tomorrow?”
That was exactly what he’d planned.
“There has to be someone—”
“There’s no one,” Morgan snapped.
She had an empathic link to him yet she persisted in jabbing
at his last nerve. “What happened to you? Weren’t you the boy who insisted his
children would live with
both
their parents?”
He was. He had. But then he’d grown up and recognized how
the real world worked.
“I thought for sure you’d be married to some airhead with
one of those picket fence houses and two dogs,” she said.
Morgan didn’t answer. She’d mock him for it. It was what she
lived for.
“What about Mira?”
“No.” He
’
d
barked the response before she’d finished her question.
“She wants you. You’re not too clueless to note it.”
“I haven’t been the clueless one, Brook.”
“I can handle…”
Morgan’s head whipped toward her, shocked at what he’d
thought she’d begun to say.
“Protecting you both for a few hours.” Her light eyebrows
lifted at him. “You thought I’d say something different?”
Yes, he’d thought she’d say she could handle him being with
Mira.
Could
she? Did he dare try it?
And why did he desperately want the answer to be no?
“I have no interest in Mira,” he said what she ought to know
already.
“You’d better let
her
know it. She’s carrying a
serious torch for you.”
He said nothing.
“There has to be someone else.”
Morgan’s jaw clenched as he stared at the beautiful woman
blinking innocently at him. It was a killer—that she was
actually
trying
to help even though her assistance tormented him further. He wanted to torment
her back.
So he did.
“No one else is going to fix my need to bury my cock in you,
Brook.”
Her lips parted in surprise. Color flared in her cheeks. The
heavy lift of her breasts next was due to a gasp, not intentional torture. He
knew that. But it didn’t stop his bad behavior.
“You could parade the entire female population of my region
in front of me nude, and it still wouldn’t
ease
my
discomfort
.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Morgan nearly smiled at her breathless indignation. She
didn’t see it, she didn’t understand she wasn’t just one of the guys to him.
She could never be that to him.
“Only one contract stands between us,” he said.
“One contract and my
permission
.”
Morgan gave her a telling look. He dropped his attention to
her chest, to the full nipples clearly visible under the gleaming navy gown. As
if he’d need to
ask
.
“I haven’t given it,” she said.
He lifted his arm slowly, giving her plenty of time to
protest. Though her mouth was parted, no words exited with her next exhalation.
Morgan eased his palm over her breast. Carefully he squeezed the globe, reveling
in the fullness that filled his hand. Her inhalation was a ragged draw of air.
Brook shifted ever so slightly toward him—an instinctual move he doubted she’d
noted. The motion brought her thighs closer. And parted them.
Morgan couldn’t keep his attention from dropping to the
skirt. The slit had migrated to her inner thigh but had yet to show what he
wanted to see. Would fixing that bring the protest she’d failed to give?
He found he didn’t want to hear it. If he could prolong
this, he might persuade her to ignore the contract they’d both signed. No one
need know.
Except
he
knew.
Morgan’s conscience flooded his mind. Sibilant whispers
reminded him of this woman’s role. She’d been sent to protect him. Against her
will, she’d agreed to take the job. Only the promise of a promotion had kept
her in Indiana. And now he was going to violate the contract they’d both
signed.
He’d been respectable until
she’d
arrived. She’d
always brought out the worst in him. But he wasn’t going to fight it this time.
His need outweighed concerns of morality.
Lifting his free hand, he allowed her to see it—to note his
intention before he set his palm to her thigh. She drew in another ragged
breath. But she didn’t protest. He swallowed down a groan, keeping the noise in
the cabin to a minimum.
Her skin was silkier than the fabric covering it. She was
made delicately for such a ball-breaker. His fingers splayed along her leg in
his drive to feel her.
Morgan wanted to kiss her. More than anything. But instinct
kept him aloof. She
would
fight the moment his head neared hers. Now,
with her eyes locked on his arms, she could forget who he was and how wrong
their actions were. His lips on hers would break the illusion.
It would increase the intimacy.
They might not have seen each other for years, but he could
read her as easily as he had then. He had a deeper understanding of her than
any empathic link could bring. And it had nothing to do with his skill as a
Water witch.
Her lips parted wider, emitting a small, sexy sigh when his
hand crept between her thighs. She adjusted her pose on the leather seat,
giving him better access.
Brook
allowed
this. He was hyperaware of that. And
also keenly mindful of her tendency to change her mind faster than the wind
chose a new direction.
Before she did that, he had to
see
.
Cautiously he spread the skirt over her opposite leg even as
he continued his slow, upward march. Though the cabin was dim, Morgan stared at
the artful folds he’d revealed. Pink, fragrant and glistening. Brook was more
feminine
there
than any female he’d ever looked upon. He barely kept
himself upright when the urge to dive into her pussy was stronger than the
ever-present need to dive into the nearby lake. He’d soak in her if he could.
Slow
, he silently chanted.
A dozen different images rushed his mind, drawing his cock
and balls painfully tight. Fantasies of shoving her shoulders to the leather
seat, lifting her hips to his chest and feasting on her until she kicked out
one of the windows plagued him. Or of wrapping her thighs around his waist so
he could bury his cock in her lovely pussy while her head bobbed out the
sunroof. He imagined taking comfort in her body heat in the cold lake. All
night long. And then falling asleep tangled in the sand with her.
He knew she could sense his need. They’d shared an empathic
link for hours. And he also knew his need would drown hers. Whatever illusion
she clung to must have been strong to avoid acknowledginghe had his
hands on her.
Finally Morgan’s fingers reached her mound. Her eyelids slipped
shut. The cords in her neck tightened as her head fell fully against the seat.
He imagined licking the soft column and then nibbling the delicate skin as she
writhed in need. In real time he settled his palm atop her pussy, unmoving
while he focused his attentions above.
With the same caution he’d employed all along, he released
her breast and moved to the gown’s strap. Brook’s chest thrust high at the
grazing of his nails along her shoulder. A small noise whistled between her
teeth.
He longed to thrust his tongue where the air had recently
left. Had he read her wrong? Would she allow it? Brook had already allowed much
he never would have guessed she’d permit. But he didn’t dare push. Not yet.
Morgan concentrated on drawing the strap over her arm, on
baring her breast rather than concerning himself with kisses yet. He bit down
on a groan as he revealed the perfectly rounded globe. The dusky areola was a
beautiful wrapper for the puckered bud begging to be licked. Likewise the skirt
had revealed a nude sex ripe for invasion. And her neck was stretched like a
sensual offering.
Neptune’s hidden depths, Brook was desire incarnate.
He abandoned caution in the face of the jutting breast.
Morgan closed his mouth over her nipple, sucking the nub between tightly drawn
lips. Her body arched. Brook’s hot folds slipped along his arm. He could no
more resist that offering than that of her breast.
Morgan ground his palm against her damp skin. He groaned his
pleasure into her breast when she thrust in return. Brook dug her fingers into
his hair, as sure a sign to continue as any he’d been given. He curved his
hand, careful to reach her entrance so he could coat his skin in her natural
lubrication. Meanwhile his tongue flicked a tormenting path over her nipple in
between tenderly nibbling the sensitive peak.
Brook rocked into his hand even as she clutched his head to
her breast. He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted. No sane male would have
considered leaving her now.
No, any sane male would consider how to move this to the next
level.
And Morgan was definitely sane.
Brook’s every muscle quivered in anticipation of what the
male would do next. Or what he
wouldn’t
do. Her nails sank into his
scalp to keep him from slowing the attention he paid her breast.
A plea stalled on her lips as he stroked her pussy. It was
good, so good, and yet she wanted him to finish this. Brook nearly released an
arm from his head to guide him.
That would make this too real. She’d be an active
participant rather than something he’d used.
And then he drew his rocking hand
away
. Brook
couldn’t stifle her disappointed whimper. Her eyes fluttered to note why. The
neglectful fingers sat atop her right shoulder where they drew down her
remaining strap. He brought the fabric along her body until she was nude from
the waist up. With the skirt spread wide, she might as well have been wearing a
cape and nothing else.
He lifted his head to her neglected breast. She scrabbled at
his hair without acknowledging why.
Her eyelids shot wide at the telltale
snick
of a zipper.
She exclaimed in horror upon noting him reaching within his
black formal slacks. “Morgan!”
He jerked as if he’d been hit. His languid expression
immediately twisted into something dark. Anger rose in the cabin, drowning
nearly everything else she sensed—nearly everything
but
lust. He shoved
himself into the farthest corner from her, clearly furious.
“I can’t,” Brook said even as he zipped his slacks. “I
signed an agreement.”
He shot a look that said everything at her bare breasts. And
simply so there was absolutely no question what that silent message was, Morgan
then dropped his gaze to her lap. Brook quickly slapped the skirt over her
thighs. She twisted away, fixing her bodice over her tingling breasts before he
spoke the derisive words in his eyes.