“I do not need your instruction,” Morgan said coldly. “I was battling demons in the deep before your grandfather was
born.”
Long enough to fear that Gau, for once, might have spoken truth.
An unfamiliar fear crawled up his back. The island was warded. But once Zachary entered the water, once he was beyond
the wards‟ protection, the boy was vulnerable. What would happen then?
Gau‟s threat burned in Morgan‟s brain. “We will take them from you. The boy and the woman both.”
He mounted her, pushing her thighs wide as she strained toward him, wet and open and aching under him, their joining
sharp as orgasm, shifting as a dream.
In one shocking, glorious thrust, he shoved himself full length inside her, thick and hard. Filling her. Stretching her. She
had never been so full. Only once. Only . . .
She moaned in pleasure and in need as he ground against her, seated deep inside her. She ran her palms down the line of his
back, dug her short nails into his buttocks, pulling him closer, urging him on, reveling in his hot, smooth, bare skin, in his
strength and weight pressing her into the mattress. It had been so long. Too long. He slammed into her again and she arched,
shuddering with sensation, delighting in the power of his body, the scent of his sweat, the healthy slap of wet flesh on flesh.
She panted. “More.”
He reared up, his odd, pale eyes with their deep, dark centers gleaming golden in the dark.
Morgan.
She woke to the rasp of her own breathing and the emptiness of her bed.
Oh, dear God.
Liz lay on the damp sheets, willing her heartbeat to return to normal.
She was married. Had been married. After three years, she was resigned to rolling over at night reaching for Ben. Wanting
Ben. She missed her husband beside her in their bed, the intimacy of touch and breath that was deeper than sleep, more
satisfying than sex.
This was different. Dangerous. Disloyal.
This was Morgan, Morgan‟s face she had imagined over hers in the night, Morgan‟s weight on her, Morgan‟s flesh in her,
Morgan filling her. Fucking her.
She drew a sharp breath.
“I am offering you sex,” he had said to her.
“That’s not enough.”
Maybe not.
But the prospect, the promise in his voice and in his eyes, left her empty and aching for him.
The foggy remnants of her dream lingered the next morning, clogging her brain, pounding like a hangover in her head. She
rummaged in the back of her drawer for underwear. She needed to do laundry. Her hand closed on a folded square. She pulled
it out. Stared at it blankly.
And was transported back sixteen years in time.
Morgan, standing in the light of early dawn, the scratches of her nails on his shoulders. His face calm, composed, polite, as
he turned to offer her something. His hand? A handkerchief.
She managed to sit up and take it, pleased to notice her hand was steady. Evidence of her awesome self-control, she
thought, and winced.
Then he hadn‟t simply invaded her dreams, Liz reminded herself. He‟d trampled them.
She finished dressing, dabbing concealer on the bags under her eyes. Her familiar reflection stared back from the mirror,
pale, resolute, in control.
It bothered her she could not control her dreams. She felt betrayed, as if her mind and body were in collusion against her.
Stumbling downstairs, she fumbled through her morning routine, fueled by coffee and the need to maintain a pretense of
normality. She packed snacks and a peanut butter sandwich for Emily, propped a note in the middle of the kitchen island
where Zack would be sure to see it when he woke.
Walking into the front hall, she felt Morgan‟s presence from the night before like a ghost brushing her skin.
Steadying herself with a hand on the banister, Liz called up the stairs. “Emily! Time to go!”