Four

Patrick

Fuck, I’m going to hell for this.

Morgan moved forward until our bodies fit together like a seam. Soft and supple met hard and solid. It was temptation at its finest. The serpent’s apple dangling from a thread.

And I didn’t think I could turn back. Something had come over me. The thought of Morgan had never crossed my mind. Then, Thomas had put that thought in my head, and everything had shifted. Once it was there, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop seeing her as this gorgeous, restrained woman who had literally been standing right there all this time.

I wanted to lean in. I wanted to give in to this. I wanted it fucking desperately.

She was here. I’d invited her over. She was offering herself to me. It would be so easy. So goddamn easy. I just had to close that distance. To take what I definitely fucking wanted.

But, fuck, I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t fucking do it.

This was Morgan.

She was my best friend’s little sister. She was still my boss for the next two weeks. And I couldn’t take advantage of her like this.

God, this sucked. If she were anyone else, I would do it. I would go through with it. But other girls had never really mattered to me. Other girls didn’t have consequences.

Morgan was much more than that. We’d known each other our whole lives.

And, if I do this, will it fuck everything up?

My dick was saying to fucking forget all of that and enjoy this moment. But I couldn’t do it.

It went against my nature, but I pulled back. Our bodies peeled apart. I dropped my hands to my sides. I felt the heat dissipate from between us. It felt empty and awful.

“Morgan, we…we shouldn’t do this.”

Her eyes opened, wide with confusion. And hurt. I’d rejected her, and I could see that in her eyes.

“You’re…you’re drunk,” I added as an afterthought.

She instantly snapped back to the person she’d been before the fatal almost kiss. She straightened and pushed her shoulders back, and all that pain was tucked away and hidden. Damn, I never wanted to play poker against her.

“Okay,” she said softly.

“I could, uh…how about those mashed potatoes?”

She pursed her lips and glanced away from me. “Maybe I should just go.”

“Nah, don’t go,” I insisted. I knew it would probably be better if she did go, but I wasn’t ready for her to leave.

“I think I’ll grab an Uber or something. I’m tired.”

I could see the lie on her.

“Just crash here.”

“Patrick,” she said with a sigh.

“Morgan.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“It’s fine. I’ll get you some clothes, and you can take my room. I’ll take the couch.”

I disappeared before she could disagree. I didn’t know why I was pressing this. For all intents and purposes, her leaving was the smart move. I wasn’t usually the gentleman. I’d dated a lot of girls. I’d pushed my luck and gone home with many girls who had had more to drink than Morgan. The only reason I was saying no was because this was Morgan.

Yet I couldn’t let her leave. I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted her in my bed. I wanted to taste that kiss. I wanted to taste a hell of a lot more than that.

Fuck, I hated being conflicted. And I was conflicted.

I changed into lounge clothes, grabbed Morgan a Texas Tech T-shirt and some basketball shorts, and brought them out to her. “They’re both going to be huge on you, but hopefully, you can roll the shorts until they fit.”

Morgan took the clothes in her hands. She stared down at them in disbelief. I didn’t know what she was thinking.

Is she thinking that she’s insane for ever thinking about kissing me? Or is she ready to bolt?

She waffled for a second before turning and disappearing into the bathroom. I blew out a breath of relief. I was being a fucking idiot either way. But I wanted her here.

While she was gone, I got out the supplies for mashed potatoes. I didn’t know why I was even making this right now. We could do a million other things to get back into our easy rhythm that we’d had forever. Yet here I was, peeling potatoes over the trash can and setting a giant pot of water to boil.

“I didn’t think you’d make the mashed potatoes,” she said, appearing in the kitchen.

I turned around to look at her and nearly dropped the potato in the trash. I couldn’t mask my expression fast enough. My T-shirt brushed her mid thigh, and she’d hiked the shorts up so high that I could barely even see them. I’d seen Morgan in skimpy bikinis for over a decade, and nothing was as hot as seeing her in my clothes.

She plucked at the shorts. “They really don’t fit.”

I cleared my throat and turned away. My dick twitched, just thinking about getting under those shorts. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Or at least…I wouldn’t.

“They’re fine,” I said, my voice strained.

I heard her pick up the drink she’d left on the counter and down it. She poured herself another without comment. I didn’t blame her. I actually couldn’t handle the heat in the kitchen.

She hoisted herself up onto the counter and watched me work. I was deft in the kitchen. I’d learned from my parents who were both excellent cooks in their own right. It made me feel in control when I was here.

“Maybe we should talk about this,” she finally worked up the courage to say.

“The mashed potatoes? Don’t worry; I know you like them with sour cheese.”

She huffed. “You know I don’t mean the potatoes.”

“Is that a euphemism?” I joked.

“Patrick…”

“There’s nothing to discuss. We’re friends.”

“Friends,” she said hollowly.

“Yeah.”

I couldn’t believe I’d just friend-zoned Morgan Wright.

She paused and seemed to consider my words before letting out a breath. “These had better be the best fucking mashed potatoes I’ve ever had.”

I laughed and went back to work. Morgan wandered into the living room and turned on some horrid reality TV show. She watched them all whenever she could. I really didn’t understand it, but she always said it made her feel smart. It made me feel like I was losing brain cells.

When the potatoes were finally done, I brought out the entire container and two spoons.

Morgan laughed when she saw the giant bowl. “You’re a dork.”

“Thanks.” I handed her a spoon. “What are we watching?”

“Hell’s Kitchen. I like when he yells at people.”

“Oh, you’ve stepped your game up with cooking shows.”

“I still like Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”

I shook my head. “You’re an enigma.”

She dipped her spoon in and took a huge mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Holy fuck, these are amazing.”

I nodded through a mouthful of my own.

“You should cook more often,” she told me.

“Probably.”

We fell into a companionable silence as we ate through more than half of the bowl of mashed potatoes. When Morgan’s eyes started drooping, I ordered her to bed. I was sure it was the first time in a while that she’d given herself permission to sleep before midnight. She would work herself to death if she didn’t watch out.

I stripped out of my T-shirt and settled onto the couch, cursing myself for this situation. Mostly that I wasn’t in my bed with Morgan right now. That we had spent the night watching cooking shows and hanging out like normal. But also pissed I’d never gotten into setting up a guest bedroom. Then, I wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch. There were worse things…like screwing up a lifetime friendship with one drunken mistake.

I cushioned my head against the pillow and tried to get the image of Morgan in my T-shirt out of my head. Not that I was having much luck. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she looked like in those shorts. I was going to have to go to the bathroom and take care of this. Christ!

This was Morgan. Morgan fucking Wright. I didn’t need to be jacking off to the thought of her in an oversize T-shirt and basketball shorts. I’d seen her practically naked at the lake. I’d seen her in a cheerleading uniform. I’d seen her in skimpy dresses.

What the hell is wrong with me?

A voice cleared from the hallway, and I looked over to see her tiny figure standing there, watching me.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Do you need something?”

She nodded her head.

I couldn’t get up right now to help her. Not without it being completely clear exactly what I was thinking.

“How can I help?”

She took a deep breath and then straightened her shoulders. “Come to bed.”

“Morgan.”

“Patrick, get in bed,” she said in that voice that didn’t broker argument. And she punctuated the entire thing by turning around and walking away.

I was not going to sleep with her.

Christ, I am not going to sleep with her.

I went to the bathroom and paced, thinking about a cold shower and ice water and anything to make my erection less obvious. I couldn’t believe I was going to get into that bed to begin with, but to get in there hard as a rock was out of the question. I could do this. I could sleep next to Morgan. She was just Morgan after all.

My pep talk didn’t do much to help me, but I walked across the hall and into my bedroom anyway. She was on the right side of the king-size bed. The covers were nearly up to her chin. She startled when she saw me in the doorway. Maybe she hadn’t thought I’d show.

I shut the door behind me and got into bed on the other side. My bed was a thousand times more comfortable than the couch, but with Morgan so close, I felt like I was sleeping on hot coals.

“I didn’t think you deserved to be kicked out of your own bed.” She turned onto her side and faced me.

My eyes caught hers in the darkness. The streetlight was the only illumination that cast across her sharp features.

Without a second thought, I brushed her dark hair off her face. “Get some sleep.”

She scooted forward until we were nearly as close as we’d been in the kitchen. “You’re not going to kiss me?”

I swallowed down a lump in my throat. Her asking that made me want to maul her like a wild animal. To kiss her breathlessly until she had to surface for air.

“No,” I struggled to get out.

“You should.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

She reached out and put her hand on my bare chest. She dragged her nails down my abs, past my belly button, and then thumbed the front of my boxers. I stifled a groan and then grabbed her hand.

“You don’t want to do this, Morgan.”

She blinked twice. “How do you know what I want?”

“You’re not the kind of girl who deserves a quick fuck when she’s drunk. And you’re definitely not the kind of girl who should get that from me.”

“What does that mean?” she said, her voice dangerously quiet.

“You’re Morgan Wright,” I said, as if that explained everything.

“Thanks for reminding me.” She glanced down to where I still held her hand. “You haven’t let me go.”

“I know.” I hastily released her.

“Sometimes, I don’t want to be Morgan Wright,” she said so quietly that I almost didn’t hear her.

“Come here,” I said with a sigh.

I couldn’t have what I wanted. I really wanted to give in, and she was making it so difficult, but I didn’t want it to feel like it was her fault. This was my fault. I should have known better.

“What?” she asked warily.

I grabbed her hip and turned her, so she was facing away from me. Then, I tugged her snug against my chest and wrapped an arm around her waist. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough. With her ass against my crotch, I could feel every tiny movement that she made. I could feel as her muscles finally relaxed into me. I could even feel when her breathing evened out, and she succumbed to sleep.

With a sigh, I placed a kiss on her shoulder. A kiss I never would have given her if she’d been awake, and I tried not to notice how she fit perfectly against me.