Page 67 of Rory Rides Her Fake Fiancé
“With you,” I say, and have to clear my throat before I can continue, “it’s never just a kiss.”
Early the next morning—the bar closes at midnight on Fridays, so I don’t get home until one thirty or so—I sneak into the darkened house. After the scorching kiss in the empty bar, Rory had opted to head home, and my night got busy. Around ten, when things were starting to wind down, I finally had a breather and could look at my phone. Rory had sent me a picture of Princess and Rusty, the fourteen-year-old girl who lives next door, playing in the backyard. I met your neighbor, she’d said.
I don’t blame Rory for not staying at the bar. It was crowded and busy and I wouldn’t have been able to spare her any attention. I’m sure she was tired from her workweek and glad to be home, though I’m not sure my place feels like home yet.
I tiptoe through the den and into the kitchen, where movement and a glint catch my eye, and I jump nearly two feet off the ground.
The glint blinks at me. Oh, it’s Bartholomeow.
“Hey buddy,” I say. He flicks his ear and watches as I resume tiptoeing. My door is open, my room dark, which is expected. Princess is probably in there, snoozing in her bed. But when I flip on the bathroom light, Rory’s door is open too.
I frown. She’s obviously asleep by now, so maybe Princess was with her and she left the door open for my dog?
I lean into the doorway and grab the knob to close it before realizing that Rory’s bed is empty. My first thought is that something’s wrong. Rory’s van, bike, and car are all here, my driveway menagerie full. Where could Rory be?
A small, hopeful voice murmurs at me to check my bed. And there she is, an unmistakable plateau under the covers.
I bite my knuckle and fist-pump.
YESSSSSSSS!
I quickly shower and brush my teeth before crawling into my side of the bed. Princess snores gently from the floor and Rory shifts slightly. She mumbles before wriggling across the bed to curl up against me.
My face hurts—I’ve smiled all the way through the bedtime ritual—but I finally doze off with my queen in my arms.
Rory
* * *
I wake up completely wrapped up with Morgan again.
This time Morgan’s still asleep. His breathing is deep and even, which makes sense because it’s dark out. He didn’t get in until late, whereas I’ve been asleep for almost eight hours.
So I let myself bask in the warmth of Morgan’s embrace until nature calls too loudly to ignore anymore. I carefully slip out—Morgan grunts his displeasure, even in his sleep—and use the bathroom. Instead of cooking, I make coffee and eat a snack bar and an apple from his fruit bowl and read on the couch. Bartholomeow curls up next to me.
The sun is up in full by the time Morgan wakes. In his boxers, he shuffles to the bathroom, and the cat slinks off. I get up and let Princess out to pee and stand in the back door in my sleepwear, one hip cocked against the frame, and let her sniff around for a few minutes.
Morgan comes up behind me, the soft pad of his feet and the swishing of fabric the only warning I get before he wraps his arm around me and hauls me off my feet.
“Morgan!” I squeal and laugh while he shifts me around to drape over his shoulder. Princess barks and clambers onto the porch and then through the door. Morgan shuts it behind her and carries me through the house, his covered butt just inches from my swaying face.
Then the world flips right side up and I bounce on the bed once before Morgan smothers me. His mouth is on mine, hot and demanding. He tastes like mint, so he must have brushed his teeth, and he doesn’t seem to care that I taste like coffee. His hips notch perfectly between my legs and he’s already hard.
My sleep shorts are thin, and the press and grind of his erection against me makes me gasp. Morgan pulls back and smooths my hair away from my face, his eyes lidded and a cocky smile curling his lips.
I pull his head down and we’re making out. My hands trace all over his body, everywhere I can reach—up his back and shoulders, feeling the muscles work as he holds himself up, his weight and pressure just right as he invades my mouth.
We kiss until I can’t breathe properly, until I have to tear away from his mouth and take in big, gasping breaths. Morgan takes advantage of my turned head to work his way down the side of my neck. His kisses are light, a soft murmuring against my skin, until he nips my pulse point and my hips buck up against him of their own accord.
He traces light kisses and hot breath, alternating with teeth and tongue. His finger tugs the strap of my top down and the cold air on my exposed breast is immediately replaced by a warm hand and then a hot mouth.
Everything in me gets tighter and tighter. It’s hard to focus on any one point of my body when there’s so much to take in—the soft hair threaded through my fingers, the way my feet flex with every grind of his body into mine. I’m aching and can barely remember my own name, so it’s a miracle that I can remember his. “Morgan.”
He switches to my other breast, ignoring my plea. That’s fine, I have no idea what I was going to say, what I want to ask for. I can’t even think thanks to the sharp pinch of his teeth on my nipple.
He sucks hard once and lets go with a pop. I shudder against the bed and he rests his chin on my stomach, looking up at me.
“Rory, I want to make you come.”
