Morgan was pretty sure she’d never looked sexier in her life. Knowing that Jack could incite her to massive, broiling orgasms was surely making her feel hyperaware of herself as a woman. Imagining his reaction to this…outfit was arousing the hell out of her.

Her imagination needed to take a vacation.

But it was more than the orgasms, as much as she hated to admit it. With Jack, she’d felt a dizzying freedom unlike anything she’d ever known with a lover. A freedom to want whatever she desired. And utter acceptance of her longings. Despite her head telling her that her needs were wrong, her body ached. She could didn’t even fully comprehend what she craved, but Jack knew. Knowledge sizzled in his eyes, in the things he said to her. Jack could give her everything she’d ever fantasized about. All of that coupled with the feeling of security she had here with him, as if her stalker was a million miles away, encouraged her to explore her dark side with her infuriating, enigmatic protector.

She had to get a grip on herself. Fantasies weren’t reality, and she didn’t really want to perform all those acts that were springing deep from her imagination. Really, she didn’t.

With shaking hands, Morgan grabbed Jack’s robe. She belted the enormous thing around her waist, put on the sweatsocks that were double the size of her feet and marched to the eat-in kitchen’s bleached wood table, hoping she looked frumpy.

When she reached the kitchen, she saw that Jack had laid out some thick soup that had an orangish base with lots of rice and chunks of meat, his aunt’s homemade bread and a slab of butter. A small salad sat in another bowl. A big glass of ice water sat above her silverware.

Jack, on the other hand, was fisting a bottle of whiskey and eyeing her as if she was a tempting treat, unable to completely shield the feral hunger in his eyes that told her he wanted to strip her, cram her full of himself, and make her scream. Apparently, he didn’t see the robe as frumpy.

“I made chicken and sausage gumbo,” he rasped as his gaze roved her face, down her bare neck, to the hint of skin visible between her breasts. He shifted in his seat. “Ever eat gumbo?”

She shook her head, wondering—though she shouldn’t—if he was still incredibly, mouthwateringly hard.

“It’s thick and spicy.”

Like the air between them. Like the flesh he’d filled her with this morning.

Trembling, Morgan looked away and stared into her gumbo. She had to stop thinking like this, with nothing but her hormones. But she couldn’t eat, all too aware of Jack’s stare fixed on her as he held the whiskey bottle in his hand.

Morgan swallowed, feeling her pulse accelerate. “You’re staring at me.”

He inclined his head. “I am, cher.”

“All you can see is this overlarge bathrobe.”

Jack set the whiskey aside. Suddenly, she felt her chair being dragged along the hardwood floors, closer to him. She looked down to find his foot hooked around the leg as he pulled it beside his, right next to his heat and spice.

“Yeah, I’m staring. First, I’m male, and you’re a gorgeous woman. Second, I’m wondering which of those outfits of teasing torture you decided to put on beneath my robe. Third, I haven’t forgotten exactly what you feel like pulsing around my cock.”

Morgan sucked in air as desire slammed into her, leaving her short of breath. Clearly, any restraint exhibited here would be up to her.

Not good news, since she didn’t have much.

He leaned down and nuzzled the sensitive skin below her ear. Morgan shivered as he said, “You were slick and tight, cher. So amazing to fuck. You responded to my commands like you were born to submit. Like it was so natural. I’ve thought about nothing all day long except tying you down and spending morning, noon, and night finding ways to make you come until you scream your throat raw, then beg for more.”

Blunt. Graphic. Unapologetic. His words should have been a turnoff. The feminist in her thought she should be offended that he found her so purely sexual. She wasn’t that lucky.

Jack was her mind’s nightmare—arrogant, demanding, difficult. But he was her psyche’s fantasy—hot, untamed, determined to have her and force her to experience every naughty fantasy her fevered mind had ever conjured up.

A fresh rush of moisture dampened her new thong and her clit began to ache anew.

Morgan closed her eyes. This had to stop. Had to. Or she was going to give in. She wasn’t sure she could live with the repercussions—or herself—if she did.

“Jack, I’m interviewing you for a TV show about your lifestyle, not inviting you to tell me every one of the thoughts lurking in the dark corners of your mind. If you can’t keep it to yourself, you should take me back to my car. I—I’ll return to Houston and—”

“And wait for your stalker to find you? Rape you? Shoot you? Kill you? We’ve been over this. You’re in the middle of a swamp and much safer here, surrounded by sophisticated security systems and a bodyguard, than you are anywhere else. My buddy Deke is putting together a profile. Once we have it, we can figure out who your psycho is and nail him. Until then, I think you’d be wise to stay. Unless you’re more afraid of sex than a stalker?”

Damn it, he’d picked the worst possible time to be logical. “Of course not. You’re just making me uncomfortable.”

“The truth is making you uncomfortable; I’m merely making you aware of it. I want you. You want me. It’s pretty simple.”

“It’s oversimplified, big boy.”

He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took a long swallow. Morgan watched in fascination as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his tight-muscled throat.

When it was empty, he set the bottle on the table. “You can’t lie, cher. Your eyes, they tell me you want to be cuffed and clamped and fucked often. And you want me to be the one doing it.”

Mind trying to outrace the desire searing her brain, she shook her head. “Look, we both had an itch this morning and we scratched it. After, you ran as if I was diseased. You couldn’t get away from me fast enough. If you hadn’t, I would have. We’re done with each other.”

“You think, little girl? What we did, it was powerful, yeah,” he said, those dark eyes boring into her, forcing her to listen, willing her to understand. “If I hadn’t left, I would have carried you to the bed, tied you down, and not let you up until I’d fucked all of your perfect pink entrances and found each of your hidden sensitive spots and every way possible to drive your body insane.”

Morgan gasped. That should not arouse her. The idea that he would have touched her anywhere he pleased, demanded a blow job and, if she look him literally, anal sex, absolutely shouldn’t make any part of her leap with excitement. Curiosity and wicked fantasies were one thing. Actually indulging… No.

But there was no denying the desire that charged through her with the force of an invading army, pulsing need and heat into her clit, making her beaded nipples ache.

Just like there was no denying that if she tried to leave here and return to Houston, the person after her would very likely try to kill her again. And this time, he might succeed.

She let out a shaky breath. What a hell of a place to be, trapped by danger with a man capable of giving her amazing pleasure while making her submit to every wicked desire she’d ever denied. Damn it, she’d been fighting her wants since Andrew’s rejection, warring against her dark side until she hurt. She couldn’t just roll over and spread her legs for a dominant stranger—no matter how appealing her newly awakened body might find that notion.

“I grant you that I’m much safer here than in Houston or Los Angeles. I’m not stupid, and I know I can’t fight a man I haven’t seen and don’t understand.”

“But?”

“I want things platonic. I’m supposed to interview you. You’re supposed to protect me. Nowhere in those job descriptions is the wild thing mentioned. We got waaaaayyy off track this morning.”

Jack leaned closer, until she felt his breath on her mouth, smelling faintly of whiskey and something spicy. “Platonic?”

“You know, polite. Friendly.” Morgan tried to scoot her chair away. “No sex.”

He wasn’t budging. “I know what it means, Morgan. Why do you think we shouldn’t be having the most amazing sex of the year with each other?”

“I don’t want what you want. I’m just not into your…scene.”

She focused on her gumbo. It would be easier if she could tell him she thought his desires were twisted and wrong. Hurting him might make him go away faster. But having been on the receiving end of such slurs, she couldn’t do it to him.

You’re not a talented a liar, either, a voice in her head whispered. She shut her eyes against it.

“And,” she went on, “despite what happened earlier, I’m not a casual sex person.”

Jack said nothing for the longest minute. He simply stared, as if trying to decipher her every thought. He didn’t touch her. He just stared—hard, hot, as if he was picturing and plotting to do every wicked thing to her she’d ever imagined. The explosive desire on his face ripped past her defenses, searing her clear to her unruly imagination, to her throbbing clit still so hungry for him, to the inexplicable draw she felt in her soul to him.

Damn it, she had to get away from him, now. Morgan wrapped the robe’s lapels tightly around herself and started to rise.

He clamped a hand around her arm, holding her in place. “Those are the only reasons? You’re not into casual and you’re going to keep lying to yourself that you don’t like the way I fuck you?”

“I want you to stop saying such outrageous crap and agree to keep our interaction professional.”

“You want me to promise not to touch you?” His grip tightened on her arm.

“I’ve been saying that, yes.”

Chin high, eyes declaring her resolve, Morgan hoped she looked convincing. She hoped that Jack had no idea that inside, her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. That his nearness, scent, and touch just brought back the rush of pleasure and exhilaration she felt when he’d been deep inside her.

“You’ve been saying it; I just don’t believe it.” Jack laughed, an ironic chuckle, complete with a mocking smile. “What are you afraid of, cher? If I don’t excite you, then, when I touch you, say no. If you’re not interested, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I shouldn’t have to!” Morgan gaped. “You’re pissing me off. Can’t you just be a gentleman and agree?”

“With chemistry like ours, no. Even if I wanted to keep my hands off you, which I don’t, it would only be a matter of time before I was balls deep inside you, pounding away.”

“Stop, damn it! That’s not true. I don’t say yes to every man who snaps his fingers.”

He slid his palm up her arm, to her shoulder, then diverted to her breast. His thumb encountered a hard nipple and flicked it, as if to make a point. She gasped, then bit her lip as she realized her huge error. Jack gave her a long, wicked smile—the kind that only made her more wet. Between that and his touch, he turned her on as easily as he flipped on a light switch. The hard pulse between her thighs was something she couldn’t ignore.

“Sure it is. The street is going both ways, here. I can tell,” he said. “As I see it, my job is keeping you safe. But I’m going to show you what your body craves and help you be honest with yourself. That,” he caressed the hard point of her breast again, “is my pleasure.”

Then he released her and rose, gumbo bowl in hand.

“Maybe you’re lying to yourself about what I want,” she blurted to his retreating back. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe you’re totally off base.”

Jack paused, turned, and pinned her with a blunt stare that made her heart stop. “If that was the case, you wouldn’t be wet enough for me to smell, and I wouldn’t know that you’d soaked two thongs in one day.”

Hazy morning. Sunlight slanted across the swamp in lazy golden rays to settle on his porch, illuminating the small figure of a woman’s fiery tresses as they cascaded down her narrow back, covered by a man’s dark shirt. His shirt.

Contentment and yearning. Hope and need. And lust. It all hit him as she tilted her head. A corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. Happy. He wanted to see her happy, protected.

He’d never loved anyone so much in his life.

The woman, a mystery, was his. Jack knew that as well as he knew his own name.

Just once he wanted to see her face. After six months of futile dreaming and waking up hard with no relief in sight, of feeling this yearning for a woman he’d never seen, he needed to know who she was.

Turn around! he silently demanded.

Slowly, so damn slowly, she began to turn his way. A delicate ear, a graceful neck, a stubborn slope to her jaw, fair skin like porcelain. That was more than he’d ever seen of this woman, but the greedy part of him wanted more bared to his gaze. He wanted everything. She kept turning. A hint of apple in her cheek…