Page 109 of The Longest Shot
And, right then, I make a conscious decision: I let go.
I stop thinking and justfeel—the wet heat of his mouth, the rough stubble against my inner thighs, the way he moans like pleasing me is his primary goal. My hands tangle in his hair, thatsoft chaos I’ve wanted to grip since day one, and when I pull harder than intended, he makes a sound of pure approval.
“Fuck, James, right there?—”
He doubles down with enthusiasm, suggesting he’s found his calling, tongue working while his hands grip hard enough to leave fingerprints I’ll catalog later. When he slides two fingers inside me, the tension in my core reaches critical mass, and my orgasm comes embarrassingly quickly.
I cry out, loud and unrestrained in ways I’ve never permitted, my body convulsing as pleasure washes over me like the tide. It’s not just physical release, it's a total loss of every last vestige of defense against James Fitzgerald as I come apart on his tongue.
In the aftermath, I’m boneless, trembling, held up only by his hands. When I manage to shift back, he’s looking at me like I’ve just revealed some great secret of the universe. His lips and chin glisten with evidence, and his eyes are soft with something that constricts my chest.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, rough and wondering. “God, Morgan, you’re so fucking beautiful when you let go.”
I lean down and kiss him, tasting myself. It's tangy, intimate, empirical proof of trust. He’s still painfully hard against my stomach, and when I shift deliberately, he groans into my mouth with a desperation that spirals fresh arousal through me.
“Another question,” I murmur. “What was Weber’s theory on legitimate authority?”
He laughs, breathless and slightly hysterical. “Are you serious? My brain is soup and you still want to do this?”
“Answer the question.” I slap his hand away as it reaches for my breast. "Or no more fun."
“Three types,” he gasps as I grind against him, feeling his length slide against my wetness. “Traditional, based on custom. Legal-rational, based on rules. And charismatic…” He breaks offwith a strangled sound as I wrap my hand around him. “Based on personal qualities of the leader.”
“Good boy.” The praise makes him twitch, another bead forming. “What do you want now?”
“You.” No hesitation, no performance. Just honesty that lands hard. “I want to be inside you while I make you mine and you make me yours.”
Our eyes meet and I consider crossing this last threshold. I realize now there's not even a moment of hesitation. I position myself over him, three years of anger and denied attraction crystallizing into this single moment, knowing that this time I won't run.
“Morgan,” he breathes, and my name has never sounded like that. It's a vow, a plea, and an answer to unasked questions all in one.
I sink down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.
We both cry out, the sensation overwhelming, him stretching me, filling me completely, heat and pressure as one. His hands fly to my hips, gripping hard, but I don't care because I want proof that this happened, that I let him in, that we chose each other.
I set the rhythm, rising and falling, watching his face contort with pleasure bordering on agony. His eyes keep closing and then snapping open like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks. The wonder mixed with desperation mixed with something dangerously close to devotion makes my heart rate spike.
“You feel incredible,” he gasps, unfiltered. “I can’t?—”
I silence him with a kiss, swallowing his words and his desperate sounds as I ride him harder. The angle is optimal, hitting a spot that makes my vision fracture. I let him have it as hard as I can give, but just as I feel his body start to tense and his release start to build, I realize I want more.
I want to completely dismantle him.
“One more question,” I say, lifting off entirely, the loss making us both whimper.
“Morgan, fuck, please?—”
“What’s Bourdieu’s concept of habitus?”
He actually laughs, breathless and broken. “You’re killing me.”
“Answer the question.”
“It’s the internalized dispositions that guide behavior. The way social structures become part of how we think and act unconsciously. Like how I’m apparently conditioned to get harder every time you quiz me on dead French theorists.”
“Good.” I reposition myself on the sofa, on hands and knees, back arched in clear invitation. “Now fuck me like you earned it.”
The sound he makes defies classification. Then he’s behind me, hands bruising my hips, sliding back inside with a groan that seems molecular. This position is different—deeper, more intense, involving angles that make me see constellation maps and undiscovered stars.
