Page 63 of Decoding Morse

She’d tell me to buck up and ride that biker, which sounded better and better the longer I thought about it. Not every ride had to extend into the sunset. Morse had a painful-looking erection and an obvious fixation with my boobs, and I had fouryears of celibacy and a near-death experience to work out. We could hook up now and work out the details later.

I just had to convince him to stop playing the good guy and ravage me.

Picking my confidence up off the floor, I stuffed it into my pocket and killed the obnoxious mirror lights in favor of the muted shower orbs. The result was a somewhat slenderizing backlit glow that I could live with. I could live without the flattened halo look, but he was a biker. Helmet hair was their thing, right?

I can do this.

Thia will be so proud of me.

I turned on the shower and then posed in the mirror until I figured out the best way to stand to hide the most flaws.

Courage, Amelia. What’s the worst that can happen? He runs screaming from the room?

More importantly, what was the alternative? Flashes of glass shards sticking out of the seat kept tugging at the edges of my psyche, reminding me of everything I wanted to forget. I needed a distraction. We both did.

“Morse!” I shouted before I could talk myself out of it.

Feet pounded, and the door burst open. He appeared in the doorway, gun in hand, as he frantically scanned the room. “Everything okay?”

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lower light and find me, but I could tell the instant he did because flames erupted in his eyes. A noise that could have been a groan or a curse bubbled out of his throat. It was hard to tell because he, too, had removed his outerwear, stripping down to his jeans and a thin white undershirt that clung to every hard line of his torso, making coherent thoughts impossible. Oh my good gravy, the muscles on this man. He really could have carried me into the house if I had let him. The fly of his jeans was undone—likely to relieve the pressure on the massive bulge in his navy-blue underwear—and the way he’d rushed in here undone yet ready to protect me was only the icing on the beefcake. The air thickened with lust as desire burned low in my belly.

I needed to say something sexy.

“The shower’s enormous.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder in case he’d missed the walk-in river-rock monstrosity that took up a good quarter of the bathroom. “Plenty of room for two and multiple heads.”

I snapped my mouth closed before I could start explaining how each one worked because my sexy talk game seriously needed work.

What is wrong with me?

Yet despite my botched seduction attempt, Morse’s attention was fixed on my breasts. His voice came out gruffer than ever when he said, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

He was probably right, but I’d already committed, so I reached behind me and unhooked my bra. “You don’t want to take a shower with me?”

His nostrils flared, the edges of his self-control visibly fraying. “There’s shit we need to talk about first.”

“Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to give in and lose myself to whatever this is. Don’t you?”

“Amelia.”

My name was a prayer on his lips, a plea for mercy I could not grant. I slid the straps down over my arms, and my bra fluttered to the floor.

Morse cursed as his gaze locked on my bare breasts. Reaching behind his back, he locked the door before lowering his gun to the countertop. He took two steps toward me and then reached over his head and yanked his shirt off.

The pain that registered across his features drew my attention from the mouthwatering display of muscle.

“Are you okay?”

His nostrils flared, and hunger ignited in his eyes. He hooked his thumbs on the top of his underwear and jeans, shoving both down in one go. He stalked toward me like a damn lion on the prowl. A thrill shot up my spine, and I backed into the shower.

I was his prey.

And I desperately wanted to be caught.

19

Morse

ICAN’T FUCK Amelia.

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