“I won’t.”
His hand reaches for my neck and he thumbs the spot where Sam left his mark. I should be embarrassed but I’m not. I feel something different, a deep need. Not the kind I experienced with Sam.
“Sam…” I start but he cuts me off.
“I know all about you and Sam. The house quaked when you orgasmed last night, Morgan. Your power and your energy are barely contained.”
It’s a fucking weird thing to say but I know that he speaks the truth. I felt a tremor when I came on the back porch. I saw the knowing in Bunny’s eyes earlier in the hallway. We’re all linked and I have no doubt I’m the conduit.
I reach my fingers into the waistband of Damien’s pants and tug him close. His eyes search mine and I tilt my head upward. He responds by placing both hands on my face and kissing me hard.
Emboldened, I move my hand to the front of his pants and feel the hard lengthening of his erection beneath the fabric. His kisses turn frantic and his hands leave my face to graze down my shoulders and arms.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, dipping his hands around my backside. I want him. All of him, but I also feel the urge to control. To take. I thumb the button on his pants.
Damien backs into the work table, tools and instruments scattering in the process. I tug his pants down, revealing the enormity of his size. This isn’t my first time doing this. I’m a virgin, not a prude, but the sheer size flusters me until I look up and Damien rubs his thumb over my lip.
/> “You’ve got this, babe,” he tells me, and it’s the most awkwardly wonderful thing to say. It’s like he knows. Like all the others, they know my heart and desires. My needs.
I do have this.
With a strong push against his chest, Damien falls back, leaning his elbows against the counter and I take him in my hand, stroking the velvet tip. He groans in approval.
I lick my lips and kiss him before dropping to my knees. His hand moves to my hair and with a tentative lick I feel a different type of power course through my veins.
I am invincible.
I am complete.
These men are mine.
Chapter 15
Morgan
I leave Damien weak-kneed in the studio. I never knew how doing that could be so…empowering. To have a man like Damien, strong and confident, call my name out in worship…I just didn’t know. But now I do. And there’s more, too.
I feel it clearly now. I cross the yard and look up to the attic dormers. Someone, there’s little doubt who, is watching from way above. Keeping guard. It’s time for me to speak to him.
I pass back through the library and then the down the hall. Sue is busy in the kitchen preparing for dinner and rich, delicious scents travel down the hallway. True hunger rumbles in my belly, not the false kind I’ve felt for the last week. I touch my lips, still puffy from being with Damien, and feel satiated for the moment.
I take the long walk upstairs, eventually stopping in front of Dylan’s rooms. I’ve never been invited in before, but something tells me he’s been waiting for me to arrive on my own. This is only confirmed as the door opens when my hand hovers mid-knock and Dylan awaits, dark and brooding on the other side.
His blue eyes hold mine, and I can’t quite read what he’s thinking, but I step into the giant studio without further greeting. I have questions and I know without a doubt he has the answers.
The first is on the tip of my tongue but one look around the room throws me into silent awe. The walls are covered floor to ceiling with books, their binds old and cracked. An ancient map hangs from the ceiling with tiny black pinpoints. There’s a cluster near my university in Georgia and another surrounding our building here in New York.
I spot a red pin at Professor Christensen’s office. Another at my ex-sort-of-boyfriend’s apartment down south, and several others dotted around familiar locations.
A photograph on a massive mahogany desk catches my attention from across the room. I leave the map and my growing questions and approach the work space.
“What is this?” I finally ask, pointing to the picture. It’s a little girl, around three, with a halo of dark curly hair. She stands on chubby legs in a green, grassy yard pointing to the sky. I have a vague recollection of wearing the glossy red sandals strapped to the girl’s feet. “Where did you get it?”
He stands in the doorway, tall and broad. His shoulders block out half the light. Dark, leather cuffs are clasped around his wrists. “Your parent’s house.”
That stops me cold. “What do you know about my parents?”
“Morgan, I know everything about you. I was there the day that photo was taken. I was there the day your parents died. I’ve been with you since the beginning.”