Her heart gave a hard thump of recognition, and she curved her hand around his neck to pull him down for another kiss.
Just as their mouths were about to meet, he froze. The look of satisfaction on his face changed to consternation.
Bo frowned in puzzlement. “What’s wrong?”
He was motionless, as if he’d come face-to-face with a rattlesnake. Slowly he cut his eyes to the left.
Bo turned her head. Tricks was standing with her muzzle resting on the edge of the bed, her brows beetled above her dark eyes as if she simply couldn’t believe what she’d seen her humans doing. The accusation in her eyes as she stared at Morgan was plain: he had to be the instigator because Bo had never done such a thing before.
“Ah, shit.” Morgan gently disengaged from Bo’s body and rolled to lie beside her, staring up at the ceiling. “I may never get another hard-on in my life.”
CHAPTER 19
HE WAS, HAPPILY, VERY WRONG ABOUT THAT.
Bo woke naked in his arms, with her head on his shoulder and her legs tangled with his. The bedcovers were evidently somewhere on the floor, given that they were nowhere in sight. She hadn’t been cold at all, not with a living furnace lying next to her. She put her hand on his chest, feeling the crisp hair, the raised scar tissue, the padding of hard muscle. Looking down his long body, she followed the trail of hair down his taut abdomen to his penis and testicles. Men were so interesting, she thought sleepily, with everything out in the open to get in the way and have to be constantly adjusted. How did they even sit down?
His penis twitched, and she blinked in interest, watching closely. Then it began to swell and lengthen, and she smiled. At this signal he was awake, she tilted her head up to find him watching her. “Good morning,” she said, then nestled her head back on his shoulder.
“Morning.” His morning voice was always deeper than normal, and rusty. His hand smoothed down her bare back. “Damn, I like your outfit. You should wear it more often.”
“I wear it every day,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, it’s the extra layers I don’t like.”
Just as he was beginning to show her how much he liked her outfit, he jumped and said, “Shit!”
The tone of voice and word choice were dead giveaways. Bo turned her head, knowing what she would see; Tricks once again was standing beside the bed with her muzzle resting on the mattress, staring accusingly at them.
Morgan rolled onto his side and stared at the ceiling. “This has to be what parents feel like when they’re getting it on and then see their kid standing there watching them.”
She snickered. “Not quite. Tricks won’t ask what we’re doing.”
“Yeah? Look at that expression.”
“It’s past her breakfast time.” Her regular mealtimes were very important to Tricks.
He glanced at the clock. “Just five minutes!”
“She doesn’t care. She knows the numbers on the clock, and she knows we’re late.”
Once he would have scoffed at the idea that a dog knew numbers, but not now. He rolled out of bed and paused to vigorously rub Tricks’s ears, which she enjoyed but which in no way got her attention off of food, before going on to the bathroom. Bo sighed in appreciation of the scenery, because such a tight, muscular ass was worthy of an in-depth study.
Then she realized—well, hell; she needed the bathroom too, and she was disconcerted by his occupation of hers. She hadn’t shared a bathroom in so long the logistics hadn’t occurred to her.
All she could do was roll out of bed, grab some clothes, and trudge down to his bedroom and bathroom. Already he’d marked the territory as his: his scent, his clothes, his toiletry items . . . his pistol on the bedside table. She stood in the middle of the room and simply absorbed the excess of testosterone. Yeah, she was loopy this morning, no doubt about it.
Tricks made short work of her inaugural trip outside that morning because she was behind in her schedule. If a dog’s attitude could say “hurry up,” then Bo was being dog-nagged . . . not that it was the first time. Tricks didn’t deal well with tardiness when it came to her food. Still, Bo bent down and hugged her close, closing her eyes in gratitude that she still had Tricks with her, thinking that she might never completely recover from those moments of terror.
By the time Morgan came downstairs, Tricks had been fed and Bo was sitting at the bar sipping her first coffee. Morgan fetched his coffee, straddled the barstool beside hers, clasped her neck, and gave her a long, leisurely kiss. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble was rough on her face. Morning stubble was such an ordinary thing, but she laid her hand along his rough jaw and cherished the prickling against her palm. She leaned into him, enjoying the kiss, the touch, his presence. She felt at ease with him in a way she hadn’t since she’d first been attracted to him and tried to fight it. The fight was over, and she’d won. Or lost. Or both. She couldn’t make herself care, not today.
He lifted his mouth but kept his hand on her, stroking it down her back. “Do you want to do anything special today?” he asked
She shook her head, a little suspicious. She didn’t want him, or anyone, to be “careful” with her, as if she were frail and in danger of going to pieces. Okay, so she’d gone to pieces a bit the night before, but she’d held it together until she was alone in her room. She had cried; she hadn’t had a full-bore meltdown.
“I don’t need the kid-glove treatment,” she said.
He shook his head, a little grin quirking his mouth and his blue eyes glinting at her. “You’re the hardest woman to court I’ve ever seen.”