Page 44 of Dreaming of Dawson

After all, it looks like dreams are all I’m going to get from Dawson.

And that’s probably just as well. It’s not as though anything good could ever come of it. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

Still, that doesn’t mean I can’t look… and dream. Evidently.

I did quite a bit of looking last night, when I wasn’t holding him up, and I have to say, he’s even sexier than I thought. He’s more muscular, that’s for sure. And he can be quite funny, too, when he wants to be. It would be nice to think he could be that way when he’s sober, and not just when he’s drunk and trying to climb the stairs, rambling about bells. I don’t know where that came from, but it was really random… just as random as him telling me I’m beautiful.

And the sooner I acknowledge that he didn’t mean it, and probably won’t even remember it, the better for both of us. It’s certainly not something I’m going to mention… and I hope he doesn’t, either. It’s best forgotten.

The sound of running water interrupts my thoughts, and makes me realize I need the bathroom… and that the sound is almost certainly the shower, which means the person running it must be Dawson.

It’s strange… I’ve never seen him at this time of the day before. I’ve never seen him sober, either. Although I imagine he’ll be more hungover than anything, given his condition last night. I’d like to see him sober, though… to see the real Dawson. The one he’s not masking with alcohol.

Before I can contemplate any of that, though, I really need the bathroom.

I can’t hear the water anymore. It must have shut off while I was contemplating what Dawson would look like first thing in the morning, and I leap out of bed, taking a second to realize that was a really dumb move when my need is as pressing as it is. I take a breath and wonder about dashing to the bathroom as I am. Dawson must have come out by now, surely? He’s a man. What can he have to do in there?

He’ll be back in his bedroom, won’t he?

He should be.

But what if he isn’t?

Is it worth the risk of getting caught in my underwear again?

Especially as I don’t even have a good reason this time… other than poor bladder control.

I clench my fists, hoping it’ll help, and grab my jeans and blouse from the chair in the corner, coming back to sit on the bed. Sitting seems to make it easier, and I shrug on my blouse, doing up the buttons before I put my feet into the legs of my jeans. I stand again to pull them up and fasten them, and decide I can’t wait any longer.

I dash to the door, pulling it open, just as Dawson comes out of the bathroom.

“Oh… God.”

The words leave my lips, but not because he’s blocking the way to the bathroom, and my ultimate relief. No… it’s because he’s standing there, looking like a god. A god, wearing a towel, and nothing else.

Okay, so he’s wearing two towels, but the one around his neck is just for decoration. It’s not concealing anything, and I ignore it, allowing my eyes to drop from his tousled hair, and roam over his toned chest and rippled abdomen to the top of the second towel… the one that’s wrapped around his hips, but seems to be tented at the front.

Oh, my word.

My body heats as memories of my dreams filter into my head, and I marvel at how he looks even better than I’d imagined. That pressing need suddenly doesn’t feel so urgent, and I struggle to swallow, licking my lips as I raise my head and find he’s staring down at me, his eyes darkening.

It would be easy to reach out and pull away the towel… the one around his hips, that is. It would be the work of a momentto drop to my knees and worship him. That’s what you do with gods, isn’t it?

Except I shouldn’t be thinking like that. Not in real life. Those thoughts are for dreams, because in real life, when the man I’m thinking about is my boss, I can’t go there.

“I’m sorry,” he says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, and I can’t hide my disappointment.

“W—What for?” I ask. It’s the natural question, and I have to say something, don’t I?

Now I’ve asked, though, I’m dreading that he’ll say he’s sorry for getting so obviously aroused in front of me… or for calling me beautiful last night. Either of those would be mortifying. He shouldn’t have to apologize for being turned on by me… unless it’s not about me, of course. That might be a horrible thought, but it’s perfectly possible, and I suppose it would make things easier… because no matter how I look at this, I still work for him. There’s no getting away from that, even if I like the idea of his arousal being linked to my presence. As for calling me ‘beautiful’ – or even ‘fucking beautiful’ – on the whole, I think I’d rather he didn’t remember that brief interlude than that he felt it necessary to say sorry for it.

I stare up at him, and he tilts his head, frowning slightly. “I would have thought that was obvious,” he says. It’s not to me, but before I can tell him that, he goes on, “You shouldn’t have had to see me like I was last night… or had to help me in the way you did.”

I’m relieved, and struggle not to let it show, just shaking my head and whispering, “It’s okay. There’s no harm done.” He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything else and risk completely bursting my bubble, I beat him to it. “I just need the bathroom…”

“Oh. Sorry.”

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