Whether or not he’d told her about his and Morgan’s penchant for pleasuring the same woman, Morgan didn’t know. But like Devon had suggested, Morgan actually could use a day as a carefree playboy. And Fallon seemed to be in perfect harmony with that.
So Morgan went upstairs to his office and left the contract and financials on his desk. He told his assistant he’d be out for the rest of the day and returned to the pier. Fallon was still in her tight little navy-colored dress that she’d worn in the lounge. But she’d slipped off her heels and held them in one hand.
They traveled down to Devon’s boat. Morgan had brought along a lightweight jacket in the event Fallon needed it after the sun set. He helped her board as Devon untethered the boat. They motored out of the marina and then Morgan and Fallon fell into step getting the sails up as Devon steered. They’d done this a million times before and soon the wind carried them south to a much warmer clime.
When they reached a favorite spot, they dropped anchor and Morgan and Devon cast lines while Fallon got comfortable on the thick white-and-blue-striped cushions of the sectional. Morgan’s cock stirred as she worked her bra off without removing her dress and discarded the lingerie. She rested her head against the back of the sofa and propped her feet on the bolted-down coffee table in front of her. Closed her eyes and soaked up the rays under a crystal-clear sky.
As Morgan’s gaze shifted back to his fishing rod, it caught and held Devon’s, who crooked a brow and gave a devilish grin.
This outing was a slippery slope. He and Devon had yet to recover from their last threesome. And suddenly Devon was silently suggesting they jump into another one?
With Fallon of all women?
But then again . . . Morgan spared another glance over his shoulder at her. All that smooth, honey skin and long limbs and just . . . Christ. Everything about her was so alluring. Even the dark-auburn hair she’d twisted at the nape of her neck. A few long strands around her temple had worked free and blew in the breeze.
Morgan tried to focus on fishing—no easy feat. A half hour or so passed and his thoughts were still solely on Fallon.
He set his pole in the holder mounted to the railing and crossed the deck to the sectional. He yanked on the handle of the top drawer of the small table next to the sofa and retrieved the bottle of sunscreen he knew Devon kept there.
Eyeing Fallon, he said, “You should probably have a little protection the rest of the afternoon.”
“I always have been a bit paranoid, since melanoma killed my dad.”
Morgan sat on the edge of the table her feet were propped on and squeezed a bit of the sunscreen into his hands. Then he ran them over her bare feet, along her calves, up to her thighs. Her skirt was hitched high yet still his fingertips skimmed under the snug hem. He covered one leg, then went to work on the other.
Morgan didn’t miss the quiver at the corners of her mouth—and her inner thighs. Didn’t miss the hitch in her breath, either, as his palms glided over her skin. Or the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
He squirted another dollop into his hands and did her arms. Slid his hands along her throat and enticing cleavage above the line of her tank dress.
She smiled. “Nice of you to be so thorough.”
“Well, the reflection off the water does intensify the UV rays.”
From behind him, Devon snorted.
Morgan chuckled. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“You need some fresh lines, buddy. Seriously, you’ve been working too much. And our girl there, too. Cranking out dozens of bottles of lotions and shampoos . . . while working full-time at the club.”
Behind his shades, Morgan’s gaze narrowed on her. “What’s all this?”
“No big deal. I mean, it is a big deal,” she said. “To me. I’ve designed a line of beauty products. They’re currently for sale on a small scale, but Noah Donovan’s going to carry them in his boutique hotel down the coast.”
“Fallon Carteris.” Morgan grinned at her. “You haven’t said anything about being a premier entrepreneur.”
“Still just getting started. Takes time and money, you know?”
Morgan nodded. “It sounds very promising.”
“There’s a building available for me to rent. But I also have to fund the manufacturing equipment and shipping materials. I intend to hire a few people to start up operations with me. But really, this first wave is critical in determining whether I’ve got products worthy of the elite.”
Devon chimed in. “That perfume she was wearing yesterday, driving us both crazy, was actually lotion. Her creation.”
Morgan said, “Then something tells me you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Thank you. Though . . . It’s a huge gamble all the way around. My only safety net is that Sylvia Carter is renting the facility on a month-to-month basis so if I’m an epic failure three months from now, I’m not locked into anything. I can sell the equipment and just go back to whipping up batches in my kitchen for my online orders. Hopefully—fingers crossed—no harm, no foul. No huge debt incurred.”
“Well, it does take a risk to build an empire,” Morgan said. “But I see where you’re coming from.”
“You’re not going to be an epic failure, sweetheart,” Devon added.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence. But I’m being realistic about this business venture. I don’t have a padded savings account to help me bounce back. In fact . . .” She shoved her glasses up to the top of her head and pinned Morgan with a grave look. “I’ll still need my job at the club. Even with the eventual Covington Collection trial and the impending check—that all goes toward operational costs. So I need you to not fire me because I slept with Devon last night.”
“Hey!” Devon bellowed. “I’m part-owner of the club and therefore your boss as much as he is. I have equal say in who gets hired or fired. And trust me, sweetheart. You are not getting fired.” He wagged his brows. “Believe me. Not getting fired.”
Her gaze returned to Morgan. A tinge of pink crept along her cheeks. “I would have suggested calling you to join us, but you were pretty surly yesterday. I was under the impression you weren’t, you know . . . Into my new look.”
“Fallon.” Morgan shook his head. “First . . . Are you even aware that—”
“You and Devon like sharing women. Yes. Perfectly aware. Heard about it long before I came back to Bayfront, in fact. Rumor mill, don’t you know?”
“Not at all what I was going to say, but okay. So you’re—”
“Perfectly enthralled by the idea.” She nodded as her lips curved and her tone turned inviting. “But, of course, it’s a three-way street.” Now her mouth dipped. “You give off a lot of mixed signals, Morgan. I can’t tell if you’re annoyed with me, or if you really just enjoyed rubbing sunscreen on my body.”
“I was this close to reaching under your skirt and dragging your panties down your legs.” He pinched his fingers almost together. His voice was thick with lust.
Fallon said, “You’re near-impossible to read.”
“Whereas I,” Devon quipped, “let her confess she was hot for me and then let her seduce me with candles and champagne.”
“No one has ever had to seduce you, Dev,” Morgan retorted. “You make up your mind within ten seconds of meeting a woman whether or not you’re going to have sex with her.”
“Well . . . This is Fallon. And you did tell me hands off.”
“Yes, I see you took that directive the way you take every other directive in life,” Morgan dryly said. “You come to a conclusion and it’s a done deal.”
“Not always,” Devon said, a bit cryptically.
Morgan slid a glance his friend’s way. Was he having second thoughts about selling the club? In just twenty-four hours?
Did that have anything to do with loyalty to Morgan and their business venture . . . or Fallon?
Morgan wasn’t sure about how this was all unfolding. So he stood, shed his shirt, and went back to fishing, working on his own tan.
But he felt Fallon’s gaze on him.
She knew about him and Devon. That they preferred ménages.
And to complicate and excite matters . . . She was interested . . .