Page 17 of My Masked Savior
“Take it,” I growl under my breath. “All of it.”
My rhythm turns brutal, chasing the release I need before sitting across from her in a bar. Before pretending I’m just a concerned EMT checking on a former patient.
The orgasm hits hard. I bite back a groan as I come, Morgan’s name trapped behind my teeth.
Afterward, I quickly rinse off, forcing my breathing to steady. Control reasserts itself, familiar and necessary. By the time I’m dressed—dark jeans, black Henley, leather jacket—the arousal has banked to manageable levels.
I reach the entrance before she does.
The gym doors slide open and closed, spitting out post-workout bodies. I watch each one, tracking faces automatically. Old habit. Then she appears, wearing fitted jeans and a burgundy sweater that hugs her curves.
My pulse kicks up again.
“Ready?” I ask when she reaches me.
“Yeah.”
We step into the December night. Christmas lights wrap every storefront, casting red and green halos acrossthe sidewalk. Morgan walks close—closer than strangers would—and I’m aware of every inch of space between us. Six inches. Five.
She shivers.
“Cold?”
“A little.”
I should offer my jacket.
I shrug out of it, holding it toward her.
“I’m fine.” She tucks her arms around herself. “Really.”
“Take it.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I run hot.”
That makes her laugh—soft, surprised. The sound does things to my chest I don’t want to examine.
She takes the jacket. When she slides her arms through the sleeves, fabric swallowing her frame, satisfaction curls low in my gut. Mine. She looks like she’s mine.
Dangerous thought.
The bar appears half a block later—Brady’s, neon shamrock flickering in the window despite the wreaths and tinsel wrapped around the doorframe. Inside, it’s dim and warm, smelling like whiskey and pine. Christmas lights string across exposed brick walls, casting everything in amber and red.
I scan the room automatically. Exits—two. Occupants—maybe twenty people scattered at tables and the bar. No immediate threats.
The hostess offers us a booth near the window, but I shake my head.
“Corner table.”
Morgan doesn’t question it when I guide her toward the back. She slides into the chair facing the interior while I take the seat with a clear view of the entrance. Old habits.
“What can I get you?” The waitress appears, notepad ready.
“Whiskey. Neat.” I glance at Morgan.
“Um, vodka soda? With lime.”
