Page 73 of The Longest Shot
She kisses me harder, grinding down with new determination. She's chasing something now, movements focused, desperate. The thought that Morgan might actually come just from this—that she might fall apart in my lap fully clothed in the study room—sends me dangerously close to the edge.
"That's it," I say, my voice a murmur against her mouth, hands guiding her rhythm. "Take what you need."
She whimpers—actually whimpers—and moves faster. Her thighs tremble against mine.
"Look at me," I hear myself say, voice wrecked. "Morgan, look at me."
Her eyes flutter open, dark and destroyed, mirroring exactly what I feel.
“James, I'm?—"
"I know. Let go."
She comes apart with a soft cry muffled against my shoulder, her whole body shaking through waves of pleasure. I hold her through it, hands gentle on her back, my need secondary to the miracle of Morgan trusting me enough to fall apart.
When she stills, face hidden against my neck, I feel her rapid breathing, her racing pulse where my lips brush her temple. The laptop screen has gone dark. The paper is forgotten. Nothing exists outside this moment—Morgan soft and pliant in my arms.
This is what I've wanted since she walked back into my life. Not the cold professionalism. Not the careful distance. This. Her. Us. The way we're supposed to be. This is what we could have been, for all this time, had I not fucked it up so badly in our senior year.
"James," she murmurs against my neck. "I want more. I want you…"
And, for once, I'm going to be brave enough to want something real as well.
twenty-seven
MORGAN
That thingI swore would never happen?
Yeah…
I'm going to let James Fitzgerald fuck me in a library study room, and the part of my brain that's kept me distant from everyone—kept mesafe—for three years is screaming every reason this ends in disaster. But, right now, I'm struggling to give a damn.
Houston, we have a problem.
The wall digs into my spine through his weight, each breath compressed by his chest against mine. My hands are tangled in his Devils sweatshirt, now soft from a thousand washes, and my mouth is moving against his with the desperation of someone who's forgotten how to drown properly.
The analytical part of me catalogs the tactical nightmare—compromised position, no exit strategy, reasonable chance of public exposure if someone walks into the library at this hour, and every defense currently on fire—but my body has staged a coup.
When he breaks the kiss, his forehead drops against mine. We're both panting, sharing the same air. Through our pressed-together chests, his heart hammers a rhythm that matches mine—too fast, too hard, too much like want to walk us back from the brink.
"Morgan," he says, sounding like a prayer and a question and an apology all at once as his hands move to my jeans.
The smart response would be immediate withdrawal, re-establishing boundaries and extracting myself before this gets worse. We can keep the deal in place, get what we both need from this arrangement—notsex!—and keep going from there.
My mouth opens to issue the retreat order.
Instead, I nod.
One sharp, suicidal dip of my chin.
His fingers fumble with the button of my jeans, shaking slightly, and that small tell cracks something in my chest. The zipper's descent is deafening, each metal tooth releasing sounds like evidence being recorded. And, as he reaches inside to touch me through my underwear, I'm totally lost on him.
Someone could walk by. A security guard. A grad student.
But I don't care.
I plant my feet against his legs and shove my jeans down, kicking them into the darkness beneath the desk. The rough denim of his jeans immediately scrapes against my bare thighs, and the asymmetry—him fully clothed while I'm exposed—makes me feel more naked than actual nudity would.
