“Productive. Several meetings ran long, but I managed to escape in time for dinner.” He gestured to the black bag. “Which brings me to my surprise.”
“I was wondering about that,” Morgan said as she took a seat at the table, curiosity piqued.
Archer reached into the bag and withdrew a black silk sleep mask, like the kind used for traveling, but definitely not one of those flimsy ones that let in all the light. It looked almost like a cushion for the eyes. “I had an idea,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “If you’re willing to try something.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, her pulse quickening.
“You wear this—” he held up the sleep mask, “—and I’ll take off my helmet.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “You want me to wear a blindfold?”
“Yes,” he explained. “I can feed you dinner, and you won’t see my face. Then... we see where the evening goes.”
The suggestion sent a flood of warmth through her body making her heart skip a beat. There was something deeply intimate about what he was proposing—her surrendering her sight while he removed the barrier that had been between them, feeding her with his own hands.
“I like it,” she said, surprising herself with her eagerness.
“Now?” he suggested, his voice warm with anticipation.
Morgan nodded, her heart racing as he approached with the sleep mask. She closed her eyes as he slipped the soft silk over them, the gentle pressure of his hands adjusting it ensuring no light could peek through.
“Too tight?” he asked, his fingers lingering at her temples.
“No, it’s perfect,” she assured him.
She heard the distinct sound of his helmet being set on the table, followed by the rustle of him setting aside the bag. For the first time since that first evening when she was allowed to touch his face, she would experience him without barriers—even if she couldn’t see him.
“Stay right there,” he said, his voice no longer filtered through the helmet. The richness of it, deeper and more textured, sent a shiver down her spine.
Morgan heard him moving around the kitchen, opening containers, the clink of utensils. Then she felt his presence directly in front of her, a warmth that seemed to radiate toward her.
“Open,” he instructed softly.
She parted her lips, and felt the gentle press of a fork delivering a perfect bite of pad thai. The flavors exploded on her tongue, somehow even better without the distraction of sight.
“Good?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“Mmm,” she confirmed, nodding. “Delicious.”
He continued feeding her bites of different dishes, his fingers occasionally brushing against her neck or her cheek, in gentle directive touches that felt deliberately sensual. Without her vision, every sensation was heightened—the textures of the food, the scent of his cologne, his voice now unfiltered by the helmet, the sound of his breathing growing slightly uneven when her lips closed around the fork.
“Drink?” he offered, and she felt the cool press of a wine glass against her lower lip.
Morgan sipped carefully, hyperaware of his hand steadying the glass, his fingers brushing against her jaw. The intimacy of being fed by him, cared for by him, was unexpectedly erotic.
“This is..." she began, searching for the right word.
“Yes?” he prompted, his voice closer now, directly beside her ear.
“Incredibly intimate,” she finished. “I didn’t expect it to feel so..."
“I know,” he murmured. “For me too.”
His fingers trailed down her arms, raising goosebumps in their wake. He scooted closer, his knees bracketing her own.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice rough with restraint.
“Please,” she breathed.
