ething about this house has lit a fire in me—creatively and physically--and as I walk back up the stairs to my room I wonder how I’ll survive.
Chapter 11
Clinton
Letting Morgan walk out of my room was the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done.
Harder than my cock right now, which trust me, is like vibranium, the special metal Captain America’s shield is made out of. It’s like Thor’s hammer. Or the Hulk’s fist.
Why the hell am I comparing my manhood to childhood superheroes?
I lean my head against the front door of my suite and breathe, trying to gain a little composure. Dylan called it at our little family meeting tonight. Morgan is killing me. I feel her every mood, her every desire. It’s my special talent, in this form or any other. I sense it all: Danger, desire, fear, excitement. It’s how I know if there are predators around. It’s how I know if it’s safe to hunt. It’s my role in the group. It’s about survival.
And right now the girl has brought all of those emotions into the house, giving the boys an extra dose of hormones and me a raging, never-ending hard-on.
I turn and slide down the door, my heartbeat slowing. I could have had her tonight. Picked that virginity like a cherry from a vine, but despite the want, it shouldn’t be me. I won’t be gentle. Not like Sam or Bunny. Those two will take care of her. Make sure it’s done right. No, the urges she brings out in me come from deep inside.
She needs a mate.
Not just a fuck.
I see my reflection in the cabinet down the hall and I push my hand through my hair. Like I told her, she can use me whenever she wants, but beyond that? I’ve got a job to do and it’s about her wants, not mine.
Chapter 12
Morgan
Over the following days, I find a balance that I know deep down comes from my encounter with Clinton. I wake early and write, using my time to get down a flood of words. Not only did Clinton quench my lustful desires, the gates opened in my mind and I can’t get them down fast enough.
Admittedly, some of my dedication is due to the fact I’m hiding from Clinton. I can’t express verbally or on paper what came over me that night. I’ve never felt such all-consuming want. I mean, sure, there were guys I’d been interested in. Even a few hard-core celebrity crushes in college, but I threw myself at the man, and the following evening at dinner, even though my urges had quelled, I kept my eyes on my plate and excused myself quickly.
I’d probably still be in my room if I didn’t have an appointment to keep. I’m on my way to my first meeting with my graduate professor when raindrops begin to fall. I run down the city block with my bag clutched to my chest, barely making it inside before sheets of rain hit the streets.
“Wow, that was close,” I say to the woman at the desk while shaking the water out of my hair. “I’m here to see Professor Christensen.”
Her eyes flick to the computer monitor. “Morgan Hansen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You can go on in. He’s expecting you.”
I walk down the short hallway and find his name on a small plaque by the door. I knock twice and a voice invites me in. The older Professor stands behind his desk in greeting. “Ms. Hansen, I’m happy to meet you.”
“You can call me Morgan.”
“Please have a seat, Morgan.” I stare at the man, with his graying hair and thick beard. “Is something wrong?”
“No, sorry. You just look familiar.”
He smiles. “I get that a lot. I’m told I favor Brad Pitt.”
His expression is dead serious but I figure out soon enough that he’s joking—although, to be fair, there’s a touch of Brad in his baby blue eyes.
“I wanted to start off by thanking you for setting up the scholarship and housing.”
He stiffens slightly before gesturing to the seat across from his desk. I take it and by the time he’s in his own chair the easy charm has returned. “The Brannon scholarship is unaffiliated with this office. They do their own research and selection. You aren’t having any problems there, are you?”
“Oh, no. My housemates have been very welcoming. And my quarters are the perfect space for writing. I’ve accomplished so much since I arrived.”