Chapter 14
Morgan
The tip of the blade points at Clinton’s throat. In a blink, he could be dead. One slice and his blood would spill. I’m reveling in my skills when he moves beneath me, sweeping my legs, sending me tumbling to the ground. He moves fast—quick as lightning—and before I can think he towers over me, clasping a hand around my wrist. The sword stays tight in my grip, the magic coursing from the metal, but Clinton squeezes with a mighty force. I grunt bitterly before finally dropping the blade.
The heavy metal is replaced by Clinton’s hand and fingers and in seconds I’m pinned to the ground, not with a sharp sword but by the overpowering man.
“Well done,” he says. His hair falls over his ears and I long to brush it back. “I think you’ve retained some of the Morrigan’s fighting skills.”
“That’s crazy. How could that even be possible?”
“The same way we all cling to memories, rituals, and understanding of the past. It’s in our soul, Morgan. It’s instinct.”
I look up at him, paralyzed by the gray steel of his eyes. The rush of the fight boils beneath my skin—a conflict of desire. I’m finding that I love a fight. I revel in it, the way my body and mind feel when they’re pushed to the brink. But along with that comes the Darkness that has only one cure. “Right now my instinct tells me to kiss you.”
Clinton licks his lips and dips his head to mine. My hands are still bound and although it makes me a little edgy and out-of-control, I like the way it feels. I like the way he feels. He’s big. He’s unpredictable. And I’ve come to trust him completely.
His mouth lands hard against my own and I sink into the mat. I’m sweaty and slick from the workout but so is he. Unlike Dylan and Bunny, Clinton isn’t shy with his affection, but even though he’ll kiss me there’s a firm line and I know soon we’ll have to cross it.
Unlike the others though, something about Clinton scares me. His size maybe, or just his presence. He’s powerful and I’ve felt the hardness between his legs.
Dylan warned me off but it only took a second for him to become putty in my hands. Clinton? I don’t have the same confidence.
I blink and take in the man hovering over me. He releases his grip and cups one hand behind my head. His kisses are perfection. Soft when they need to be, hard when I want it. The dark energy from the training drains with every touch and I want to inhale him.
I lift up on my elbows trying to reach him and his hands move down my sides, sending a ripple through my body. The runes heat up; I feel them under my skin and I desperately want to feel that way all over, inside and out.
I bite down on his lip and grab for the front of his pants. Murmuring in his mouth I say, “I’m ready for this too.”
He responds greedily, raising his hips so I can get better access. I don’t have artist’s fingers, and I fumble, missing the button on his pants. Instead I tug at his hips, feeling the hard length beneath the fabric. Fear swallows me again. But it’s the kind tinged with adrenaline and anticipation. I cling to him, needing his body next to mine, and just as I’m about to reach my hand down his pants I feel Clinton stiffen slightly, a split-second of hesitation.
“What?” I say, barely above a whisper.
He rolls over and I straddle his lap. I grind down a little with my ass.
“You have an appointment.”
My eyes flick to the clock over the door.
“I can skip it.”
“No you can’t.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“Because…” He lifts me off his body, biceps bulging. He grimaces and shifts his pants. “We’re not doing that now. Not here.”
I laugh. Like a burst of hysterical laughter. “Wait, you’re rejecting me?”
Because we both know I was ready to finally go for it. Like do it do it. My eyes catch the sliver of my sword and Clinton’s hand comes down on it. He wordlessly moves it aside.
“I’m not rejecting you.” He brushes my hair aside. “When this happens between us—any of us—it won’t be on a smelly mat in the basement. Or in ten quick minutes before your critique partner arrives.” He leans forward and kisses me with a gentleness I didn’t know he possessed. “It won’t be fast. It will not be quick. Trust me on that.”
A chill runs down my spine at his words. My nipples harden and my lower belly tightens. He’s not helping me turn away. I only want him more. Regardless of my desires, he helps me from the floor, holding the sword.
“I’ll store this down here.”
I nod, feeling light on my feet. God, Clinton does something to me. He has since our first encounter. I start for the door and he grabs me by the arm. He kisses me again and whispers in my mouth, “This isn’t over.”
I don’t reply but I feel it in my bones. No, it isn’t.