A week has passed since I moved into Morgan's mansion, and I'm starting to find my rhythm here. The days blur together in a surprisingly pleasant routine of cooking, cleaning, and maintaining this sprawling house that feels more like a small luxury resort than someone's actual home.
Morgan works far less than I expected, only two or three days a week at the studio, handling her consulting work. The rest of the time, she lounges around the house in various states of undress, usually sporting one of her collection of loose black silk robes that barely reach mid-thigh. It's her house, after all, so I can hardly complain about her wardrobe choices, even if they do make it challenging to focus on my tasks sometimes.
I've had my share of emotional moments this week. The grief hits at unexpected times, when I'm folding laundry and remember how Lana used to steal my t-shirts, or when I'm cooking dinner and instinctively make one of her favorites. More than once, I've found myself crying alone in my room or the laundry room, letting the tears fall while the washing machine drowns out the sound.
But Morgan seems to have an uncanny ability to appear whenever I'm at my lowest. She'll materialize with a bottle of wine or suggest we watch a movie together, her presence somehow making the ache in my chest more bearable.
Right now, I'm standing at the kitchen island, watching her demolish the cheese and herb omelet I made for her breakfast. She's perched on her usual stool, legs crossed beneath another one of those black robes, her red hair still tousled from sleep. The morning light streaming through the windows catches the silk fabric, making it shimmer as she moves.
"This is absolutely marvelous," she speaks through a mouthful of eggs, closing her eyes in apparent bliss. "I swear, you're spoiling me rotten."
I can't help but smile as I sip my coffee. "That's literally what you're paying me for."
"Mmm, but there's a difference between competent cooking and..." she gestures vaguely at her plate with her fork, "whatever magic this is."
I feel that familiar warmth in my chest, the satisfaction of being appreciated.
"Any plans for today?" I ask, refilling her orange juice glass.
Morgan sets down her fork and stretches languidly, the silk robe shifting to reveal more of her pale thighs. "Actually, I was thinking we should celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Your first successful week as my work husband," she says with a grin, using the nickname she's been calling me for the past few days. It started as a joke when I reminded her about a conference call, but it's stuck. "I'd like to get absolutely piss drunk with you tonight. What do you say?"
I raise an eyebrow, surprised by the suggestion. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
Morgan waves dismissively. "Oh please, Adam. We're adults. Besides, I have some very expensive whiskey that's been collecting dust, and I hate drinking alone, remember." She leans forward on her elbows, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Come on, when's the last time you just let loose? Really let loose?"
I consider her offer, swirling the last of my coffee in its mug. The truth is, I haven't been properly drunk since that night at the hotel with her, the night I apparently trauma-dumped all over her without remembering a word of it. Granted our wine nights do leave me tipsy.
"I suppose I could use a drink," I admit.
"Excellent!" Morgan claps her hands together, looking genuinely delighted.
There's something in her tone that makes my pulse quicken, though I can't quite put my finger on what. She slides off the stool and heads toward the doorway, pausing to look back at me over her shoulder.
"Fair warning, though," she says, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "I'm a very affectionate drunk. Hope you can handle that, work husband."
Before I can respond, she's gone, leaving me standing in the kitchen with my heart beating just a little faster than it should be.
Morgan returns fifteen minutes later carrying a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid that catches the afternoon light like liquid gold. Her face is lit up with an almost mischievous expression, her lips pulled back in a grin that reminds me of a kid who just found the cookie jar.
"Come on, sit with me in the living room," she says, giggling as she gestures toward the plush seating area with its oversized leather sectional. "This is going to be fun."
I follow her, watching as she settles into the corner of the couch with feline grace. As she leans forward to set the decanter on the coffee table, her silk robe shifts and falls open, revealing the pale curve of her breast. She doesn't seem to notice at first, too focused on arranging the glasses she's brought.
When she finally glances up and catches me averting my eyes, her smirk is pure wickedness.
"Ohhh, lucky boy getting a show so early," she purrs, making no immediate move to adjust the fabric. "And we haven't even started drinking yet."
My face burns as I settle onto the opposite end of the sectional, trying to give her space to fix her robe while also trying not to stare. Morgan laughs at my obvious discomfort, finally pulling the silk back into place with deliberate slowness.
"You're adorable when you blush," she says, uncapping the decanter. The rich scent of aged whiskey fills the air between us. "This is a twenty-five-year-old Macallan. I've been saving it for a special occasion."
She pours generous amounts into two crystal tumblers, the liquid glowing like amber honey in the late afternoon light streaming through the windows.
"What makes today special enough for the good stuff?" I ask, accepting the glass she offers.
Morgan settles back into the cushions, tucking her legs beneath her. "Because," she says, raising her glass toward me, "you survived your first week working for me without running away screaming. That's worth celebrating."
Morgan motions for me to come closer with a gentle wave of her hand, patting the cushion beside her. "Don't sit all the way over there like I have some contagious disease," she says with a laugh. "Come here."
I slide across the sectional until I'm sitting right next to her. The proximity makes my heart rate pick up slightly.
"You know," I say, settling into the plush leather, "work has been really fun. I genuinely like it here."
Morgan's face lights up with what appears to be genuine pleasure at my words. "I've really enjoyed your company, too, Adam. More than I even expected to, honestly." She reaches for her glass, holding it up between us. "So here's to us. To new beginnings and unexpected partnerships."
I pick up my own glass, the crystal heavy and warm in my palm. "Cheers to us," I echo, clinking my tumbler against hers.
The whiskey burns beautifully as it slides down my throat, smooth and complex with notes of honey and oak. Morgan watches me over the rim of her glass as she takes her own sip, her green eyes sparkling with something I can't quite identify.
"God, that's incredible," I breathe, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.
"Twenty-five years will do that," Morgan says, settling back into the couch. She's close enough now that her thigh brushes against mine when she shifts.
The conversation flows as easily as the whiskey, and before I know it, we've polished off half the decanter. My head feels pleasantly fuzzy, the sharp edges of the past week's pain softened by alcohol and Morgan's easy laughter. She's telling me some ridiculous story about a mishap during one of her early shoots, complete with animated gestures that keep making her robe slip in interesting ways.
"And then the director yelled 'cut' because there was a fucking seagull on the balcony, just staring at us!" Morgan dissolves into giggles, nearly spilling her drink. "Like it was judging our performance!"
I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt, the absurdity of it all enhanced by the whiskey coursing through my system. This is the most relaxed I've felt since... well, since before everything went to hell.
"Oh god," Morgan fans herself with her hand, her cheeks flushed pink from alcohol and laughter. "It's sure hot in here."
I glance around the living room, noticing she's right. The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows has warmed the space considerably, and the whiskey isn't helping either of us cool down.
"Do you want me to turn the AC on to cool you down?" I ask, already starting to rise from the couch.
"No, no," Morgan waves me back down, her hand catching my wrist. "Don't you dare move. I have a better idea."
Before I can ask what she means, she's already standing, swaying slightly as the alcohol hits her. Her fingers work at the belt of her silk robe with deliberate slowness.
"Morgan, what are you…"
"Relax, work hubby," she purrs, letting the black silk slide off her shoulders to pool at her feet. "It's just skin. You've seen it before."
She's right, of course. I caught glimpses during her morning swims, and there was that morning, she appeared in my room wearing only a towel. But this feels different somehow, more intentional. She stands before me completely naked, her pale skin glowing in the golden afternoon light, absolutely shameless in her nudity.
"There," she sighs, stretching her arms above her head in a way that accentuates every curve. "Much better."
My mouth goes dry as I try to look anywhere but at her perfect body. The whiskey has lowered my inhibitions enough that I can't quite manage to avert my eyes completely.
"You're staring," she observes with amusement, settling back onto the couch beside me. The leather is cool against her skin, and she shivers slightly at the contact.
"I'm trying not to," I admit, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Why?" Morgan tilts her head, genuinely curious. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"
"Not uncomfortable. Just... trying to be respectful."
Morgan laughs, a sound like silver bells mixed with sin. "Respectful?" She shifts closer, her bare thigh pressing against my jeans. "Adam, we're way past respectful at this point."
Before I can process what's happening, she swings her leg over mine, straddling my lap with fluid grace. Her naked body is warm against me, and I can smell her perfume mixed with the faint scent of her arousal.
"Don't you remember cumming in me during our little shoot when you wore that mask?" she purrs, her hands resting on my shoulders. "We sure did have some good chemistry then, didn't we?"
My breath catches in my throat. Of course I remember the shoot, it's burned into my memory despite the haze of that performance pill. The way she felt around me, the sounds she made, how real it all seemed despite the cameras.
"Of course, I remember," I whisper, my hands instinctively moving to her hips to steady her. The whiskey has made me bold, or maybe just honest. "It was... intense."
Morgan's green eyes sparkle with satisfaction. "Intense," she repeats, rolling the word around her tongue like fine wine. "That's one way to put it." Her fingers trace patterns on my chest through my shirt. "Do you know what I was thinking about the whole time?"
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
"How perfectly you fit inside me," she murmurs, leaning closer until her lips brush my ear. "How you responded to every little thing I did. Like we'd been made for each other."
My grip tightens on her hips involuntarily. The combination of alcohol, her naked body pressed against mine, and the memory of that afternoon is making my head spin.
"Morgan," I start, but she silences me with a finger pressed to my lips.
"Shh," she whispers, her fingers already working at my belt buckle with surprising dexterity for someone who's had as much whiskey as she has. "Don't think so much."
Her movements are urgent, almost frantic, as she fumbles with the button of my jeans. There's something desperate in her eyes that cuts through the alcohol haze in my mind.
"Morgan, hold on," I say, catching her wrists gently. "I'm not ready for something like this."
She pauses, looking down at me with eyes that seem almost wild, pupils dilated with more than just alcohol. There's a manic edge to her expression that makes my stomach flutter with unease.
"Please, Adam," she breathes, her voice taking on a pleading quality I've never heard from her before. She shifts against me, and I can feel the heat and wetness of her arousal through my jeans. "I need this so badly right now."
Before I can protest further, she's managed to free me from my clothes, her movements swift and determined. My body betrays me, responding to her touch despite my mental reservations.
"I can't fuck my boss," I manage to say, even as she positions herself above me.
"It's no strings, Adam," she whispers, her voice barely audible as she slowly takes me inside her. "I promise you're safe."
She slams down onto me with sudden force, impaling herself completely on my cock in one fluid motion. I gasp, my hands flying to her hips as she takes me to the hilt, her pussy gripping me like a velvet vise.
"Fuck!" I cry out, the sensation overwhelming.
Morgan's eyes glitter with triumph as she grinds against me, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around my shaft. She leans forward, her breasts brushing against my chest as her lips find my ear.
"You're probably so pent up, aren't you?" she purrs, her voice a husky whisper that sends shivers down my spine. "It's been a week since you've had release. I can feel how hard you are inside me."
Her hips begin a slow, torturous rhythm, rising until I'm almost completely withdrawn before slamming back down. Each impact sends jolts of pleasure rocketing through my body.
"Don't you want to release into me one more time?" she breathes, her teeth grazing my earlobe. "Let go, Adam. Fill your mistress up."
The word 'mistress' makes my cock twitch inside her, and she moans in response, feeling my reaction. Her pace increases, the wet sounds of our joining obscenely loud in the quiet living room.
"Let's use each other," she continues, her voice dropping to a feral growl. "No emotions, no complications. Just two animals fucking."
I'm lost in the sensation, my hips thrusting upward to meet her downward plunges. The alcohol has lowered my inhibitions enough that I'm no longer fighting the pleasure. My hands slide from her hips to her ass, gripping the firm flesh as I drive deeper into her.
"Jesus, your pussy feels incredible," I groan, my head falling back against the couch.
Morgan's eyes flash with something predatory as she slams her hips down harder, taking me impossibly deep. Her fingernails dig into my shoulders. The slight sting only heightens the pleasure coursing through me.
"You have no idea what I can do to you," she pants, her voice ragged with desire. She grabs my face between her hands, forcing me to look directly into her eyes as she grinds against me in tight circles. Her gaze is intense, almost manic, pupils blown wide with lust and something darker I can't quite name.
I try to look away, overwhelmed by the intimacy, but she tightens her grip.
"Look at me while I fuck you," she commands, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I want to see your eyes when you're inside me."
Her pussy clenches around my cock with deliberate control, milking me with rhythmic pulses that make my toes curl. She's impossibly tight, impossibly wet, her arousal coating my thighs and the leather couch beneath us.
"Fuck, I'm getting close," I warn, feeling the familiar tightening at the base of my spine.
Morgan immediately stills her movements, rising until I'm barely inside her. The sudden absence of stimulation makes me groan in frustration.
"Not yet," she hisses, her eyes never leaving mine. "You don't get to cum until I say so."
She reaches behind herself, her fingers finding where we're joined. I feel her trace the stretched rim of her pussy around my cock, gathering her wetness before bringing her fingers to my mouth.
"Taste how good we are together," she purrs, pressing her slick fingers against my lips.
I open instinctively, tasting the tangy sweetness of her arousal mixed with my own precum. The depravity of the act sends another jolt of pleasure through me, making my cock throb inside her.
Morgan watches me suck her fingers with an expression of fierce possessiveness that makes my heart race. She slowly begins moving again, establishing a new rhythm, deliberate and torturous.
"That's it," she breathes, her eyes locked on mine with unnerving intensity. "Take what I give you."
She leans forward, her red hair falling around us like a curtain, creating a private world where only we exist. Her movements become more frenzied, more desperate, her breathing harsh and uneven.
Her lips crash against mine, hungry and demanding. I'm caught off guard by the intensity, but my body responds instantly, my mouth opening to receive her. Her tongue slides between my lips with devastating precision, exploring every corner of my mouth as if mapping territory.
"God, you taste so good," she moans against my lips, breaking away only to dive back in deeper.
Her tongue flicks against mine, teasing at first, then growing bolder. She captures my tongue between her lips and sucks hard, drawing it into her mouth with a wet, obscene sound that sends electricity straight to my groin. My hips buck involuntarily, driving deeper into her slick heat.
Morgan doesn't release my tongue, continuing to suck on it with increasing pressure. The sensation is unlike anything I've experienced intimate in a way that feels almost more invasive than our actual fucking. Her eyes remain open, fixed on mine with an unnerving intensity that makes my pulse race.
When she finally breaks the kiss, a thin strand of saliva connects our mouths. She licks it away slowly, deliberately, her gaze never wavering. There's something feral in those green depths, something possessive and wild that sends a shiver down my spine.
"Don't stop moving," she commands, rolling her hips in a hypnotic rhythm. "I need to feel you everywhere."
She dives back in, her tongue immediately seeking mine again. This time she swirls around it, sucking with such force, I feel lightheaded. Her hands cradle my face, thumbs pressing into my jawline with surprising strength, holding me exactly where she wants me.
Between these devastating kisses, she grinds against me with calculated precision, her pussy gripping and releasing my cock in perfect counterpoint. I can feel myself approaching the edge again, the pressure building at the base of my spine.
"Morgan," I gasp, tearing my mouth away from hers, my voice strained and desperate. "I can't hold it anymore."
Her eyes flash with something primal at my words. Without breaking her rhythm, she slides one hand between our bodies, fingers finding her clit. She works herself in tight, frantic circles, her breathing becoming ragged, uneven.
"Look at me," she demands, her voice husky with need. "Don't you dare look away."
I couldn't look away if I tried. There's something hypnotic in her gaze, something that holds me captive as surely as if she'd bound me to this couch.
Suddenly, she places both hands on my chest and shoves me down hard. I fall back against the cushions, momentarily startled by the forceful move. Before I can react, she's leaning mere inches from my lips.
"Open your mouth," she commands, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
I obey without thinking, opening my lips slightly. Morgan's mouth hovers above mine, her breath hot against my face. Then she parts her lips, a thick strand of saliva forming between them. With deliberate slowness, she lets it drop into my waiting mouth.
The intimacy of the act is shocking, filthy, and inexplicably arousing. I moan as her spit hits my tongue, my hips bucking upward involuntarily. She grins, a predatory flash of teeth, before capturing my mouth in another bruising kiss.
"That's it," she breathes against my lips. "Take everything I give you."
Her pussy clenches around me with brutal force, milking my cock with rhythmic pulses that make coherent thought impossible. She's riding me with single-minded determination now, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders.
"Fuck, Morgan, I'm going to…"
"Do it," she hisses, her eyes never leaving mine. "Fill me up."
The pressure building at the base of my spine finally explodes. I cry out as my orgasm tears through me, my cock pulsing inside her as I empty myself completely. Morgan's eyes widen, her lips parting in a silent gasp as she feels me cumming inside her.
She doesn't stop moving, continuing to grind against me through my climax, prolonging every wave of pleasure until it borders on painful. Her rhythm grows erratic, desperate, and I can tell she's close to her own release.
Without warning, she leans down again, her mouth hovering over mine. This time, when she parts her lips, a heavier stream of her saliva falls directly onto my tongue. The depravity of it pushes her over the edge. She convulses around my still-hard cock, her entire body shuddering as her orgasm crashes through her.
"Fuck, Adam," she gasps, her inner walls pulsing around my cock as she works through her climax. Her eyes never leave mine, holding me captive in her gaze even as pleasure contorts her features. There's something triumphant in those green depths, something that sends an unexpected chill down my spine despite the heat of our joining.
As the waves of her orgasm subside, Morgan collapses against my chest, her breath coming in ragged pants against my neck. Her body trembles slightly, aftershocks rippling through her as she clings to me. For several moments, we stay like this, connected and breathless, the enormity of what just happened settling over us like a physical weight.
I just had sex with my boss. My employer. The woman who's giving me shelter after my life imploded.
"Morgan," I begin, my voice rough and uncertain, "I don't think…"
She places a finger against my lips, silencing me again. "Shh," she whispers, her eyes suddenly soft as she gazes down at me. "Don't overthink this. It was just sex. Amazing, mind-blowing sex, but just sex."
She shifts, wincing slightly as she lifts herself off me. My cum leaks down her thigh as she stands, and there's something oddly possessive in the way she watches it trail down her skin.
"Besides," she continues, stretching languidly, completely unashamed of her nakedness, "this doesn't change anything between us. You're still my house manager, and I'm still your boss." She reaches for her discarded robe, slipping it over her shoulders without bothering to close it.
"Of course," I reply, feeling a rush of conflicted emotions. The whiskey clouds my judgment, but I'm clearheaded enough to recognize that something significant just happened between us.
Morgan adjusts her robe loosely around her body, not bothering to tie it closed. She runs her fingers through her tousled red hair and gives me a languid smile.
"I think I need to lie down for a bit," she says, her voice husky from our encounter. "All that... exertion has worn me out."
She turns toward the hallway that leads to her bedroom, her movements still fluid despite the alcohol. The silk robe clings to her curves, revealing glimpses of her naked body beneath as she walks away.
"I'm going to take a mid-day nap," she calls over her shoulder, not looking back. "You're free to join me if you'd like. No pressure."
I remain frozen on the couch, watching her disappear down the hallway. My mind races with conflicting thoughts. Part of me wants to follow her, sink into her bed, and continue what we started. Another part screams that this is a terrible idea.
No sense in shame now.
I get up and head for Morgan's bedroom.