I step through the gleaming glass doors of South Coast Plaza and immediately feel like I've wandered onto another planet, one where money flows like water and every surface sparkles with untouchable perfection. The mall stretches before us like a luxury labyrinth, storefronts glittering with promises of transformation through consumption.
"Holy shit," I breathe, turning in a slow circle as I take in the seemingly endless array of high-end boutiques. "I've heard about this place, but I didn't realize it was this... massive."
Morgan chuckles beside me, barely recognizable in her incognito outfit. The baseball cap pulled low over her forehead, and oversized sunglasses hide most of her striking features, transforming the glamorous porn star into just another shopper. Her red hair is tucked up under the cap, only a few strands escaping at the nape of her neck.
"Three hundred stores and counting," she murmurs, slipping her arm through mine and giving it a gentle squeeze. "This place is basically a temple to capitalism. But they have everything we need."
I glance down at my clothes, the same outfit I've been rotating with a few others Morgan picked up for me after we fled to the beach house. Three weeks of beach life have been paradise, but I'm starting to feel the limitations of my hastily assembled wardrobe.
"I just want to get you some more clothes," Morgan says, following my gaze. "And I thought it'd be nice for you to stretch your legs a little. Get out of our love nest for a few hours."
Our love nest. The phrase makes my heart do a little flip. Three weeks of bliss, of whispered confessions and passionate encounters. Of building something that feels both terrifyingly fast and absolutely right.
"Should I get a new phone too?" I ask, eyeing an Apple Store as we pass.
Morgan's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on my arm. "Oh, is calling your sister from my phone getting on your nerves?" she asks, her tone light but with an undercurrent I can't quite identify. "Isn't it fun to detox? Being unreachable, just the two of us?"
"Actually, it's been surprisingly easier to detox than I thought," I admit with a small shrug. "I don't even miss my phone that much anymore."
Morgan scoffs, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as she pulls me closer. "That's because I keep you busy all day," she purrs, her voice dropping to that sultry tone that still makes my stomach do somersaults.
Heat rises to my cheeks as memories of exactly how she's been keeping me occupied flash through my mind, tangled sheets, her body arching above mine, breathless confessions in the dark.
"Don't get shy now, lover," she teases, noticing my blush. She stands on her tiptoes, pressing her lips against mine in a quick but possessive kiss that leaves me wanting more, public setting be damned.
"I love you," I whisper against her mouth, still marveling at how natural those words feel now.
Her eyes behind those oversized sunglasses gleam with something that looks like triumph, like power. "I love you too," she replies, her voice honey-sweet but with an edge that sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
She pulls away, adjusting her baseball cap with practiced casualness. "I don't think you need a new phone just yet," she says, her tone light but firm. "Let's focus on getting you some decent clothes first."
"Okay," I agree easily, following her lead through the gleaming corridors of wealth.
Morgan leads me into the first store, some Italian designer whose name I can barely pronounce. A saleswoman materializes instantly, her practiced smile widening when Morgan says she's ready to spend.
"We need everything," Morgan announces, gesturing at me like I'm her personal project. "Head to toe."
The next hour becomes a blur of changing rooms and Morgan's critical eye. I emerge in slim-fit trousers that cost more than my monthly rent back in Seattle.
"Turn," she commands, twirling her finger. I obediently spin, feeling ridiculous yet strangely exhilarated.
"Those make your ass look incredible," she declares, loud enough that the saleswoman blushes. "We'll take three pairs in different colors."
At the next boutique, Morgan tosses shirts at me in rapid succession – cashmere, silk, Egyptian cotton, fabrics I've never felt against my skin before.
"This blue brings out your eyes," she says, stepping close to adjust my collar, her fingers lingering on my neck. "It makes me want to devour you right here."
I nearly trip over my own feet trying on designer shoes at the third store, sending Morgan into a fit of giggles that transforms her face, making her look younger, carefree. I find myself purposely being clumsy just to hear that laugh again.
"You're such a dork," she says affectionately, steadying me with her hand. "My dork."
At the seventh store, I lose count of how many bags we're accumulating. Morgan insists on carrying nothing, having arranged for everything to be delivered to her house.
"This is getting excessive," I protest weakly as she hands over her credit card for what must be the twentieth time.
"Nothing's too good for my man," she replies simply, and the possessive pride in her voice silences any further objections.
By the time we finish our shopping marathon, my stomach is growling loudly enough that Morgan laughs and steers me toward the upscale steakhouse on the mall's upper level.
"You've earned a proper meal," she says, her hand possessively on the small of my back as the host leads us to a table.
The restaurant is all dark wood and soft lighting, creating an intimate atmosphere despite being in the middle of a bustling shopping center. Our server approaches with a practiced smile, requesting that Morgan remove her hat and glasses for "establishment policy." She protests briefly but complies, tucking her sunglasses into her purse and revealing those striking green eyes that still make my breath catch.
Once we order, Morgan sips her red wine, watching me over the rim of her glass with that intensity that both thrills and unnerves me. The server brings our steaks, both rare as Morgan suggested.
I cut into the deep red center of my steak and take a bite, the rich flavor flooding my mouth.
"How do you like it?" Morgan asks, her eyes never leaving my face.
"I don't usually get rare," I admit, chewing thoughtfully.
A mischievous smile plays across her lips. "No? Do you like it raw instead?" she asks, her voice dropping to a teasing purr on the word raw.
I chuckle, feeling heat rise to my cheeks at her obvious double entendre. "No, usually just medium," I reply, "but it's nice to try new things with you."
Her smile widens, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "I'm glad you're open to... experimentation," she says, reaching across the table to stroke my fingers. "There's so much more I want to show you."
Morgan's finger traces circles on my wrist when a sudden commotion erupts behind me. I turn to see what's happening, and my stomach drops.
Outside the restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows, a group of teenage boys are pressed against the glass, their eyes wide with recognition as they stare at Morgan. One of them points frantically, mouthing something I can't hear through the thick glass.
"Oh shit," I mutter as they start pounding on the window, their faces contorted with excitement.
"Morgan Bliss! Holy shit, it's Morgan Bliss!" Their voices penetrate the restaurant now, drawing the attention of other diners who turn to stare.
Morgan freezes, her hand tightening painfully around mine. The color drains from her face as she reaches desperately for her discarded hat and sunglasses.
"Yo, show us your tits!" one of the boys yells, his face pressed against the glass, breath fogging the window. Another makes an obscene gesture with his hands and tongue that makes my blood boil.
"Look at the lucky bastard she's with!" another shouts, pointing directly at me. They all pull out their phones, cameras flashing as they capture Morgan's mortified expression.
The restaurant manager hurries over, apologizing profusely as he signals security. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Bliss. We'll handle this immediately."
"Ms. Quinn," she corrects sharply, her voice cutting through the chaos. Her eyes flash with something dangerous as she stares down the restaurant manager.
I reach across the table, ready to offer comfort, but before I can speak, Morgan's expression transforms. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by cool detachment.
"Don't worry about them, Adam," she says, her voice steady and dismissive. "They're nothing. They're ants." She takes a deliberate sip of her wine, holding my gaze. "Don't let them ruin today."
There's something mesmerizing about her composure, the way she reclaims her power even as the boys continue their lewd gestures outside. I nod, lowering my hand back to the table.
As if on cue, two burly security guards appear, dispersing the teenagers with stern words and threatening gestures. The boys scatter reluctantly, still snapping photos as they retreat.
We return to our meal, though the atmosphere has shifted. Morgan cuts her steak with mechanical precision, her movements controlled and deliberate. I follow her lead, trying to recapture our earlier intimacy.
The manager approaches our table again, wringing his hands nervously. "Ms. Quinn, if you'll follow me, we have a private booth available." He gestures toward the back of the restaurant. "I sincerely apologize. We didn't know you were someone who required discretion."
Morgan's lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "How thoughtful," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "A bit late."
Servers gather our food as we follow the manager to a secluded booth tucked behind a decorative screen. The lighting is dimmer here, the space intimate and shielded from prying eyes.
"I've taken the liberty of refreshing your drinks," the manager says, gesturing to the fresh glasses of wine waiting for us. "And your meal will be comped, of course."
"That won't be necessary," Morgan replies coolly, sliding into the booth. "But I appreciate the gesture."
After the manager retreats, I reach for Morgan's hand across the table. "Are you okay?" I ask, searching her face for any sign of distress.
She squeezes my fingers, her expression softening. "I'm fine, Adam. This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last." She takes a sip of her wine, studying me over the rim. "Does it bother you? Seeing how people react to me?"
There's something vulnerable in her question, a hint of insecurity that seems out of place on someone so confident.
"It bothers me how incredibly rude they were," I say, feeling my jaw tighten with lingering anger. "Those kids had no right to treat you like that. But it's not your fault at all."
Morgan slides out of her seat and moves around to my side of the booth, settling in right beside me. Her thigh presses against mine as she leans in close, her perfume enveloping me in that familiar, intoxicating scent.
"You're not worried?" she asks, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "About the negative attention I might bring into your life? Those boys took pictures. By tomorrow, your face could be all over social media as 'Morgan Bliss's new boyfriend.'"
I consider this for a moment, the implications sinking in. My parents might see it. Old friends from high school. Maybe even Lana.
"I hadn't thought about that," I admit, reaching for my wine glass. "But I'm not ashamed of being with you if that's what you're asking."
Morgan studies my face with those piercing green eyes, searching for something. "People can be cruel, Adam. They'll say horrible things about you. About us. They'll make assumptions about what kind of man dates a porn star."
I laugh, the sound lighter than I expected. "Former porn star," I correct her, raising my wine glass in a small toast. "Plus, it's not like this is my first rodeo."
Granted, Lana and I hardly ever went out because of her stardom.
The realization hits me suddenly, and my smile falters. "Though Lana probably won't be happy about this. Seeing pictures of us together online."
Morgan shakes her head, taking a sip of her wine. "Lana already knows."
"She does?" I stare at Morgan in surprise, my fork suspended halfway to my mouth.
She simply nods and turns her attention back to her steak, not elaborating further. I consider pressing for details but decide against it. Whatever communication has happened between them is probably best left unexplored.
"Then it's fine," I say with a shrug, cutting another piece of my rare steak.
Morgan's lips curve into that enigmatic smile that still makes my heart race. "Maybe they'll respect you for taming a porn star."
I can't help but laugh at that, nearly choking on my wine. "I feel like I was the one who got tamed more so than you."
Her eyes flash hungrily at my words, something primal and possessive darkening her gaze. She leans in closer, her breath warm against my ear.
"Yeah," she purrs, her hand sliding up my thigh under the table. "Maybe you're right."