Page 43 of The Longest Shot
Which is the most terrifying thing I could possibly show James Fitzgerald.
He sees the exact moment my armor fails. I see him hesitate, fighting the urge to make a joke or run away, to replace seriousness and silence with noise and motion. But then he swallows, and stays, and suddenly the charge that’s been building between us for weeks has no way to ground itself and dissipate.
He takes a step closer.
Just one, but it changes the entire physics of the space. The stairwell shrinks. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. I can smell him, the same scent that once made me feel safe. My breathing goes shallow, quick little sips of air that don’t bring enough oxygen.
Or maybe that’s just him, standing this close.
My gaze drops to his mouth.
The air ignites.
And we collide.
I surge forward at the exact moment he reaches for me. His hand cups my jaw, rough with calluses from his stick, and warm and large enough that his fingers span from my ear to my throat. His thumb strokes across my cheekbone, just once, achingly tender.
Then his mouth takes mine.
Three years of repressed fury and want explode between us. He walks me backward until cold concrete slams against my spine. The shock of it, the sudden cold through my thin shirt contrasting with the furnace heat of him, makes me gasp.
He swallows the sound with a groan that starts in his chest.
His other hand finds my waist, fingers splaying wide. He grips hard, before yanking me flush against him. Every inch of space disappears. I feel everything—the solid wall of his chest pressed against my breasts, my nipples tightening to almost painful points, the heat burning through our clothes.
And—fuck—the unmistakable ridge of his erection against me.
He’s hard because of me, and that simple biological validation shoots straight between my legs so fast I feel dizzy. Because it's physical proof that I affect him as violently as he affects me. God, my underwear is absolutely ruined, and we’ve barely started whatever this is.
The kiss deepens into something desperate and consuming. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and the taste of him makes me moan—actuallymoan, a sound I’ll deny forever—and then we’re devouring each other, trying to consume three years of denial in a single encounter.
My hands, which had been fisted in his shirt, fly upward with their own agenda. One tangles in his hair, those perpetually messy dark strands that feel like silk between my fingers. I grip hard and yank his head to a better angle, taking control, showing him I’m not some passive recipient.
He makes a sound against my mouth, then his hips roll forward, grinding his erection against me. My body responds without permission, my hips canting forward to meet his. The position is wrong—he’s too tall—so the angle isn’t right, but the attempt alone makes him tear his mouth from mine.
“Fuck,” he gasps against my jaw, the word more prayer than profanity. “Morgan.”
He says my name—not Morgue, not Riley—like something precious.
His lips trail down my throat, hot and open-mouthed. I tip my head back, skull connecting with concrete, grateful for the dull pain keeping me tethered to reality. When he reaches the junction of my neck and shoulder, he bites down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make every nerve ending light up.
I arch against him with a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper, grinding against his thigh. And, I realize then, I’m dry-humping his thigh in a dusty stairwell like we’re sneaking around after the prom. The seam of my jeans catches against my clit with each roll of my hips, and if he keeps this up?—
No.
I amnotcoming in a stairwell.
I have standards.
Apparently flexible ones, considering my current position.
But… standards!
I use my grip on his hair to drag his mouth back to mine, swallowing his protest. Our tongues tangle, fierce and frantic. His hand slides from my waist to cup my ass. He grips hard and lifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly his cock is pressed exactly where I need it.
“Thought about this,” he confesses against my mouth, the words spilling out between desperate kisses. “Every fucking day since I saw you in that meeting.”
“Stop talking,” I gasp, because if he keeps going, if he makes this about feelings instead of fury, I might actually combust.
