Page 72 of The Longest Shot
This is it.
The moment when I usually crack a joke or do something monumentally stupid. And for once in my goddamn life, I'm not going to choose the joke. Because that night at the Down Low showed me there'ssomethingthere, but now I just need to convince her to admit it.
"Morgan." My voice comes out rougher than intended, like I've been gargling gravel.
"Don't." The word is barely a whisper, but I hear the tremor in it. "Please don't make this into something we'll regret."
"Who says we'll regret it?"
"History and common sense," she says. "The fact that you're you and I'm?—"
"The most incredible girl I've ever met?" The words tumble out. "The only person who makes me want to be better instead of just louder?"
I reach out slowly, deliberately, telegraphing every intention and giving her every chance to pull back. But she doesn't, and when my thumb finds the loose strand of red hair that's hanging down her cheek, her breath catches, sharp and surprised.
When the hair is back in place behind her ear, I let my thumb trace her cheekbone. Her skin warms, and I feel the tension in her jaw, the way she's holding herself still. And when I reach the corner of her mouth, she makes a sound—barely there, but in the quiet study room it might as well be an alarm.
I lean in at glacier speed, giving her every opportunity to stop this. My gaze drops to her lips—parted, trembling—and the air between us goes electric. Her spine is iron, and then she makes this sound. The softest exhale, not permission or acceptance.
Surrender.
I close the distance and capture her mouth.
The kiss isn't gentle, because six damn weeks—or, hell, three long years—of suppressed want detonates on contact. Her response is fierce, and when my tongue traces the seam of her lips, she opens with a low sound that bypasses my brain entirely, her tongue finding mine, not tentative, not careful.
It's a claim.
I want this. I've wanted this. I've been drowning in wanting this.
Her hands come up to my shoulders. For a heartbeat, I think she's going to shove me away, but then her fingers curl into my sweatshirt hard enough to stretch the worn fabric. She's anchoring herself, pulling closer, and the knowledge that she's clinging to me like I'm her only lifeline makes my head spin.
Without breaking the kiss, I grip her waist, hands spanning the narrow width through her sweater. She comes willingly—no, eagerly—practically launching from her chair. In one motion, I guide her onto my lap, then shift her so she's straddling me properly.
The ancient chair creaks ominously—definitely not rated for whatever we're about to do—but I don't mind if it collapses and campus security finds us tangled on the floor at 2:00 a.m. Her back hits the wall, putting her slightly above me. She uses the advantage immediately, angling to deepen the kiss.
My hands span her waist properly now, and Christ, I can feel how warm her body is through the thin sweater. My thumbs find skin where fabric has ridden up—just an inch of softness above her jeans—and when I press into the dips above her hipbones, she gasps into my mouth.
I'm fully hard, have been since that first soft sigh, and in this position, there's no hiding it. Just obvious, desperate want pressed against her, so I break from her mouth to trail kisses along her jaw, making it clear that I want her and this and everything.
She shivers, and her hips roll forward instinctively. "Fuck," she says, the word so sexy and visceral that I nearly lose it right there.
I move lower, mapping her throat—where her pulse hammers, where neck meets shoulder—and when I graze teeth against skin, her fingers tighten in my hair hard enough to sting perfectly. And when I suck, she arches with complete abandon.
She's already found a rhythm that's going to end me. Each roll sends electricity up my spine, the friction through clothes just the wrong side of not enough but still so good I'm seeing colors that don't exist. I thrust up to meet her, pure instinct, and her head falls back against the wall.
The broken whimper she tries to swallow is the hottest thing I've ever heard.
It's a demand, and in that instant, Morgan giving orders while straddling me becomes my new religion. I comply, thrusting as she rolls down, finding a rhythm that has us bothpanting. My hands slide to cup her ass—firm and perfect—pulling her tighter with each movement.
The chair protests loudly, but neither of us stops. Her mouth finds mine again, messier now. Our teeth click, and I taste copper where one of us bit too hard, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except how she's moving, the broken sounds between kisses, and the heat building between us.
"We should—" she starts, pulling back.
"No." I cover her mouth. "Please. Don't think. Just feel this."
She looks at me, and I see everything—want, fear, and the war between her rules and what her body needs. Then something shifts, settles, decides. It's not just agreement to keep kissing. It's bigger. It's choosing this, choosing to let go, choosing to let go withme, and trusting I won't panic and fuck it up later.
"OK," she whispers.
