Morgan settled across from him again, studying him with those perceptive eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
He nodded.
She traced the rim of her wine glass with one finger. “Why keep doing this? The helmet, I mean. You know I’m not going to press you about your identity, right?”
Archer considered his response carefully. “It’s complicated.”
“Most things worth doing are.”
He exhaled slowly. “When I’m not covered up, security is a big concern. When this comes off,” he pointed to his helmet. “It needs to be because you’ve taken the time to make that decision with all the information. The line between my professional world and my personal one has always been absolute.”
“And which side am I on?” she asked, the question gentle rather than demanding.
“That’s part of what makes this complicated.” Archer leaned forward slightly. “You’re the first person who’s ever truly existed in between.”
Morgan absorbed this, her expression thoughtful. “And is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I’m still figuring that out,” he admitted. “But I’m here. That should tell you something.”
She smiled at that. “It does.”
After dessert, they moved to the couch with the remains of their wine. Morgan put on soft music instead of a movie, and they fell into easy conversation. She told him more about her college years, her memories of her parents and where she grew up before she moved here.
He shared carefully edited stories from his military days, focusing on the brotherhood with Viper, Diesel, Kane, and Hawk rather than the classified missions.
When Morgan excused herself to use the bathroom, Archer took the opportunity to quickly check his phone. Three missed calls from his VP of Operations and a text:Urgent findings re: Vertex Creative. Call when possible.
Archer frowned. Whatever they’d discovered would have to wait until tomorrow. He wouldn’t let the CEO world intrude on tonight.
“Everything okay?” Morgan asked, returning to find him staring at his phone.
“Just work,” he said, putting it away. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
She settled beside him on the couch, closer than before, her knee brushing against his thigh. “So, Archer who rides as Bullet and works with spreadsheets... what do you do when you’re not rescuing women from bad relationships or taking them on motorcycle adventures?”
The question sounded light, but Archer recognized it for what it was—an attempt to know him better, to fill in the blanks of his carefully curated persona.
“I read,” he said, offering a genuine piece of himself. “Military history, philosophy. I box three mornings a week at a gym downtown. I ride whenever I can, usually alone, sometimes with the guys.”
“Sounds solitary,” she observed.
“It has been,” he agreed. “Until recently.”
Morgan’s hand found his fingers, interlacing them. The simple contact—skin against skin—felt more intimate than it had any right to.
“I’ll turn around.” she stated softly.
Archer removed his helmet when her back was turned. But instead of taking a sip of wine as she might have expected, he moved behind her, close enough that she must have felt his breath on her neck.
“Keep your eyes forward,” he murmured.
“Archer?”
“Trust me.”
He placed his hands gently on her shoulders, feeling her tense momentarily before relaxing into his touch. Slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck.
Morgan’s sharp intake of breath was followed by a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Encouraged, Archer traced a path of kisses up her neck to just below her ear, where he lingered, breathing in the scent of her—vanilla and something uniquely herown.
