Page 91 of Decoding Morse

He didn’t even let me finish issuing the command before he hooked me around the waist and bent me over the bed, angling my ass in the air. With a thud, he dropped to his knees on the floor behind me and gripped the sides of my thong, tugging it down my legs. When I stepped out of it, he pushed my legs apart to widen my stance. His shoulders brushed against my knees, his hair tickling my thighs, and then his hot, wet tongue flicked over my clit.

The rest of the world disappeared.

I’d lost count of the number of times Morse had gone down on me in the past two weeks, but every time was a goddamn religious experience. The talent, the creativity, the addition of one finger, and then two…. I hissed out a curse, and my upper body melted into the bed as he licked and sucked, feasting until I begged for his cock.

He stood, and I stayed where I was as he undid his belt and slowly drew down his zipper. I heard the thud of his belt and jeans hitting the floor, then strong, warm hands rounded my ass, reverently stroking. Then he lined himself with my entrance and, in one powerful thrust, buried himself inside me.

I gasped at the intrusion as my body stretched to accommodate him. It didn’t matter how many times we had sex, that first thrust always took my breath away.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes. More.”

He chuckled, pulling out only to thrust back in. Fingers tangled in my hair and pulled, providing the perfect hint of painto drive my pleasure, and I moaned, pushing back against him as he increased his pace.

“I’m not the only filthy one,” Morse said, his words tickling my neck as he snaked his hand around to play with my clit. “You’re dripping wet for me, Angel.”

He slowly pulled out before plowing back in, using his fingers and cock to take me to the edge of my orgasm before slowing down again.

“Asshole,” I complained.

He laughed—something he’d been doing a lot more of lately—and slapped my ass. “You like it, and you know it.”

I did, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting as much. Instead, I let him lead me to the brink again and again before, finally, neither of us could take the torture anymore.

By the time we plunged over the edge together, my right boob had escaped from the bustier, and my hair stuck out in every which direction. Morse helped me out of the costume, making me promise to wear it again after we moved, before wrapping me in his bathrobe and sending me down the hall to get ready.

We had a party to attend, after all.

Forty-five minutes later, I was showered, and my hair and makeup were fixed. I slid my biker vest over the faded Metallica T-shirt I’d stolen from Morse’s drawer, pairing it with black leggings and knee-high leather boots. Channeling my inner badass, I hooked my arm through my ol’ man’s, and we headed downstairs. Quiet Riot was blasting from the speakers as we entered the crowded common room. Morse slid my arm from his and took my hand. Together, we wove through bikers milling about and couples writhing on the dance floor to get to the bar. Once there, he opened me a cider and grabbed himself a beer. Drinks in hand, we went in search of Thia.

Along the way, we ran into Jed, and I tackled him in a hug. I hadn’t seen the prospect since he and Specks had brought backMorgan, so this was my first opportunity to smother him with my gratitude.

“I don’t know what I would have done without you,” I told him.

“Well done,” Morse agreed, thrusting his hand out. “Proof.”

Jed’s eyebrows shot up as he shook Morse’s hand. “Proof?”

“Yeah. Figured it’s about time we gave you a road name.”

“But why Proof?”

“Because you’re hundred-proof, kid,” Rabbit said, clapping him on the shoulder before pulling me into a side hug. He’d recovered from his injury and had gotten his stitches out last week.

Morse chuckled. “No. More like proof of life. You’re one hell of a reliable photographer.”

Jed’s expression fell. I suspected he was about to ask for a cooler name, but Morse pointed out Thia to me, and I made a beeline for my friend, who looked absolutely stunning in a fitted off-the-shoulder blouse, knee-length lace skirt, and ballet flats. She was talking to the ol’ ladies clustered by the sofas.

“Thia was just telling us about the expansion you’re planning for Black Lace,” Julia said, pulling me into a hug. Havoc’s ol’ lady owned a bookstore near the fire station and helped Emily run Ladies First, a non-profit focused on getting women and children out of dangerous situations.

“You guys are really gonna provide makeovers?” Carly asked, sidling up to us. “That’s freaking genius.”

Thia beamed at the praise, as she should, since it had been her idea. “Right? Sitting with Carol made me realize how easy it is for widows to isolate and grow lonely. Black Lace was never about the rations but the companionship. This gives us the opportunity to do more of that. We’ll take them to pick out a new outfit, get them a mani-pedi, maybe a new hairstyle… our goalis to provide a girl-time experience while reminding these ladies that they’re still beautiful and valuable.”

“Well, I think it’s wonderful,” Emily said, chiming in. “And I’m sure you’ll have plenty of volunteers if you two ever need help.”

“We’re counting on it,” I said. “And thank you.”

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