Page 91 of The Cruiser
“Are things back on track with Olivier?”
Morgan, who’s been breathing lightly and quietly, stills. “Why do you ask?”
“Monday at lunch when he texted you seemed … bothered.”
“I’d rather not talk about him right now.”
He sounds put off that I’m bringing him up, so I quickly backpedal.“No problem. I don’t know why he popped into my head.”
I snuggle into him, trying to tamp down any remaining ruffled feathers. His energy softens, and silence settles around us, Tuesday night in Monaco soundless as a graveyard.
“Amazing how quiet it is up here,” I whisper.
He kisses the back of my head, a smile returning to his voice. “We could change that.”
Full and warm and pressing behind me, he's not quite ready for the starting gate, but not far off. A flutter of excitement skims my chest. I can still feel the shock of cold mango and the heat of his mouth devouring it.
“What do you have in mind? Or dare I ask?”
He nuzzles my ear and quietly asks, “Can I have all of you?” My heart skips a beat, or maybe it stops altogether. Tension gathers between my shoulder blades and he feels the apprehension. "I’m in no rush,” he says.
I’m not surprised he’s asked because the message has been clear. Where his hands automatically go. A girl always knows. Morgan is one hundred percent an ass man. Asking is a requirement in my books, but I've never gone down this path so early with anyone. And he’s a different caliber.
I take a deep breath and let the scales tip back and forth in my mind. I’ve done it before. Don’t mind the simple, dark pleasure. What am I scared of, other than wanting him more than any man I’ve ever wanted? So I burrow deeper into him, curl up tight in a way that says I’m ready to be unwound.
Communicate without words.
And that’s how it starts.
His fingers drift over me like sensory dust, writing invisible love letters on my skin. We tumble in the sheets that smell like sunshine and he suckles my nipples, refusing to relent until I writhe and beg. Then he moves lower and finds new ways to send me down the rabbit hole of bliss. And when I'm a whimpering ragdoll misted in sweat, he flips me over and readies himself before readying me with a cold smear of foreshadowing from the tube he procures from his bedside table.
“Tu es mon ange. Mon ange parfait,” he murmurs and pinions my wrists above my head with one capable hand.
Face down and defenseless, the pounding of my heart takes over and all other sounds disappear. Morgan’s undemanding and gentle but I still suck in the pillowcase, tremors triangulating into a bright white pinpoint. Then it’s me moving instead of him, because it’s easier. Bodies on a slow crawl, funneling together, I’m dimly aware of sensations and textures. Black and white shadows slivered on the wall, the soft chafe of his linen sheets against the rise of my nipples. His invisible scent. He asks if I’m okay and my answer is absorbing him until no room is left.
I hear the breath catch in his throat. I can feel him inside me, throbbing in the tightness. All I ask of him is to go slow.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says. “At any time.”
Dominant and tender, strength in check, the intrusion, the shock of him, gives way to a particular thrill no words can describe. He ebbs and flows slowly, like low tide drifting in and out, his moans cresting like waves. And when we’re long past the point of joining, my fists buried in the sheets, I dissolve into a shadowy world deeper than the ocean, where nothing else matters except this—to exist for the pleasure of a lover.
