Glancing back at him, I nod as I clutch at the desk, vibrating with need. “Yes, honey. Inevitable. We...are inevitable,” I gasp, crying out as he smacks my aching sex with a swat the echoes in the office
“That’s my girl,” he humhs, his praise washing over me. Now my only instinct is to please him. I find myself hungry for his praise, desperate for it. He’s the first man to ever make me feel truly soft—to make me want to lean into a neediness I’ve denied for so long.
Morgan grasps the back of my thighs, pushing them open as he keeps me prone over the desk. My nipples rub against the leather blotter he has me laid out on. I claw at the edge of the desk, whimpering as wet, hot pleasure thrums between my thighs as he licks me. The warmth of his mouth covering my sex, his tongue pushing inside of me, the pressure of my clit pressing against the edge of the desk shoves me towards an orgasm.
“Morgan...I’m going to...I am...” I cry out, reaching back to fist his dark hair.
“Not yet,” he barks, startling me as he stops eating me, smacking each cheek again. All that does is turn me on more, pushing me closer to climax. “No coming before I give permission.” His words vibrate against my pussy and I shout with pleasure, heat racing up my spine. He moves, my head isyanked to the side, and I glance up to see him towering over me. Oh my God. Not just towering over me—he is at the edge of the desk, cock out, the swollen crown pressing against my lips. I do not even hesitate, I open for him. “Ah, that’s a good girl. Might let you come after all. That’s it, take me down that pretty throat. Show me how good you will be for me, honey. Show me how needy I’ve made you for my cock. Just as needy as I am for your pussy,” he grunts, his hips jerking to shove him down my throat.
I open wider, clawing at his desk, letting him push so far I can’t breathe. Who needs to breathe? His big body bends over me and I moan with him stuffed down my throat. He smacks my ass again, my need dripping down my thighs before his fingers push inside of me. The dual pleasure of pleasing him with my mouth as he touches me with those magic hands has me so close to coming, I know I can’t hold off.
Still, part of me wants his permission—to be told I can come.
“Jesus, such a good girl,” he groans, pumping his hips to choke me as his fingers curl inside of me. My clit rubs against the desk and I am spiraling. I am going to come. I can’t stop it. I try. I try so hard, but I’ve never been so turned on, I have never felt anything so good. Just as I can almost touch it, he pulls from my mouth, moving again. “Greedy girl almost came from sucking me down that silky throat, yeah? Should I let you come on my tongue?”
“Please, please, I don’t.... I won’t come before you tell me to,” I pant as I glance back to watch him take his seat. Fuck, he’s beautiful in that suit, his thick, wide cock jutting out, his fist wrapping around it. Sitting there a moment, he strokes himself, gaze fixed on my aching pussy.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful. Not just because I’m about to make you come on my desk so I can suck down your pleasure. Because the way you look at me when you need me... it gives mea sense of manhood that swinging a hammer or closing a deal could never touch.”
“Oh, fuck,” I pant, my thighs trembling as I wait. Wait for that permission, for his words to tell me I can let go at last.
Morgan does not use words. Watching me with hooded eyes, he bends to suck noisily at the pleasure slicking my skin. He pushes on the small of my back, and I shout because it puts perfect pressure on my clit against the desk. His tongue pushes inside of me, wiggling between my folds, then back inside again. He gives a jerk of his head, and I shout again, no longer caring about boundaries or offices or propriety.
“Oh fuck! Morgan, I’m coming! Don’t stop, don’t stop!”
Lost in the whirlwind of pleasure, I give in. I let my climax take me over. I vaguely feel him moving. Then the delicious weight of him presses inside me—just a tease, just the way we did that night at his place. Only this time, he comes with me, jerking inside of me as we share an orgasm.
Once I come to, I am enveloped by him. Holding me close, he rocks me a little in his big leather chair, his fingers brushing through my hair. I cling to him, breathing in his scent, the warmth of his body, the smell of leather, and his musk. It is the single most intimate moment of my life.
Cuddled together, we sit there until the skies darken outside. Then he reminds me of our date. I hardly need a date after what we just shared—but I want it. I want to do all the soft, needy things you do with someone you’re falling in love with. I might not have much experience with men, I may have had one gentle, safe romance before, but it doesn’t make a difference.
I argued about my judgement earlier, and I was right—it is intact. I amabsolutelyfalling in love with Morgan Brant.
Chapter Seven
Morgan
I have never been more nervous about getting things right.
Taking Maren on a date— after all we've shared,'date'feels too small a word—is important to me.
Which is why I want it to be perfect. Why I spent all day setting it up after seeing her at the diner. My brothers gave me a hard time about not doing this right. The way our father would expect me to. To court her, to spoil her, to give her anything she could ever want.
Now as we drive towards the deserted site, I grow more anxious. Each block closer I am worried it was a stupid idea. Maren deserves being courted, flowers, romantic dinners, the works. Taking her to this stupid spot is none of that. Still, it will share a part of me that I have never shared with anyone.
“You look lovely,” I repeat for the third time, giving her hand a squeeze. Our laced fingers sit in her lap as she beams up at me.
“You said that. You look lovely too, Mr. Brant,” she teases me, purring my name the way that makes my need for her pound inside me.
The skyline was bleeds orange and violet as I aim my truck down the dirt road leading out of town. We’ve been on the road for twenty minutes. Passed all the nice restaurants, the theater where Wicked is being staged, all the way past the hotel we first hooked up at. Glancing over as we pull up to the rough fence circling the property, I gauge her reaction.
“Morgan,” she laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Is this where you hide the bodies?”
“No ma’am. We take our kills to Driftwood Peaks,” I tease as park, getting out of the truck to unlock the gate.
Beyond the gate is a site I have dreamt of finishing for years. It’s our grandfather’s land, the first official Brant Brother’s site. It was a hunting lodge, a place for men to be men, he would say. Smoke cigars, drink whiskey, sit by a fire to talk about a hunt or their favorite gal. It was burned to the ground during a wildfire that threatened to ruin all of True Ridge.
This place is the reason my brothers and I do what we do. Coming here as kids with our dad and grandad—rebuilding walls and stacking stones for the fireplace—it molded us. I think we left it unfinished because we always wanted a reason to come back; a way to remember where we started. I’m ready to see it through. I want to bring it back to the place it once was.
