Page 45 of Dreaming of Dawson

He steps back and I dodge past him, closing the door behind me and letting out a sigh.

I don’t want to hang around, and once I’m done washing up and fixing my hair to the best of my abilities, I remember Dawson mentioned a toothbrush. I open the cabinet door, finding one on the top shelf. It’s still in its wrapper, and I open it, squeezing a blob of toothpaste onto it, and brushing my teeth.

I can’t shower… not now, but at least I feel a little more awake for having clean teeth, and I step outside the bathroom, half expecting to find he’s still there, waiting. He’s not. His bedroom door is closed, too, and although I know it’s perverse of me, I can’t help feeling a little disappointed by that.

Even so, I know it’ll be for the best if I just get out of here.

I think the most sensible thing is for us to forget about last night’s events, and the easiest way to achieve that is to put a little space between us… just for now.

I dart back inside the guest room, grabbing my coat and scarf and putting on my shoes, before glancing at the bed. I know I ought to make it, but I don’t want to give Dawson the chance to come find me. No matter how much I want him, I honestly don’t think that’s a good idea.

I feel guilty for leaving a mess behind me, but I don’t have a choice.

I rush through his apartment, shrugging on my coat as I go, then make my way down the stairs, stopping at the bottom when it occurs to me Dawson might already be down here in the bar. It’s still early, but what if he’s decided to wait for me – or should that be ambush me – before I leave? He could have done that upstairs in his kitchen, or living room, but…

I open the door into the bar and poke my head through, whispering his name.

There’s no reply and I step out, checking around. He’s not here.

I can go home and think about what’s happened… or I can, if I can get out.

What if the keys aren’t down here? He wasn’t carrying them when I helped him up the stairs, but what if he’d put them in his pocket?

I hunt around the bar, checking the shelves, while keeping an eye on the door marked ‘Private’, just in case Dawson should appear. There’s no sign of the keys, and I’m starting to panic just as I glance over at the main door and notice them in the lock.

Why didn’t I think to check there first?

Because you’re not thinking straight.

It’s true. I’m not. There are too many thoughts rattling around my head… like how good Dawson looked in nothing more than a towel, or two. How much I wanted his arousal to be about me, and how much I want him, even though I know I shouldn’t. He’s my boss. It’s a bad move. I know that. It’s not just that, though. It’s the thought of him spending his day drinking again… and that I don’t want him to. I want him to be over his ex, so he can move on.

With me?

Yes. He’s too perfect not to want.

And no. For the millionth time… he’s my boss.

You see? I told you there was too much going on in my head… which could be why I’m still here, when I shouldn’t be.

I wander over and unlock the door, pulling it open, and going outside into the icy morning air. It hits me, freezing my brain… and all in all, that’s probably not a bad thing.

Chapter Twelve

Dawson

I lean back against my closed bedroom door, shutting my eyes.

That’s not because I’m hungover and need to block out the world. I’m used to being hungover. It’s a fairly permanent state of affairs for me. I’m also used to blocking out the world. It’s something I’ve gotten used to over the last few years.

No, the reason I’d rather not face reality right now is because I can’t believe I handled that so badly. Obviously, I didn’t expect to see Macy standing there, but she was… and while I was saved from having to go out into the snow to find her, that didn’t help. My memories of last night may be hazy, but it seems I have a very clear picture of Macy in her underwear, and as her eyes wandered over me, the picture chose that moment to filter through my brain. Naturally, my cock responded to that in the only way it could, and there was no way she couldn’t have noticed. She was staring at the towel… the one I’d wrapped around my hips, that was doing a poor job of disguising my erection, so she can’t have failed to see it.

For some reason, rather than trying to make something of that, I chose that moment to apologize. It’s what I’d intended to do, but why I had to say the word ‘sorry’ right at that moment was beyond me. It must have sounded as though I was apologizing for being turned on by her… or worse still, for being turned on, and it having nothing to do with her. After all, howwas she to know my hard-on was entirely related to the thoughts of her naked body that were still flickering through my head? It didn’t feel appropriate to explain that, though. I could hardly tell her what I wasn’t apologizing for… or risk embarrassing her any more than I already had.

So, I told her why I’d said sorry. I told her the truth… which was that I hated the fact that she’d witnessed my weakness, that she’d had to help me, that she must have thought so badly of me. Okay, so I didn’t actually say all of that, but it’s what I meant.

Although how she’s supposed to realize that, heaven only knows. Except she might, if I’d handled things differently.

I guess it might have been easier to do that if I hadn’t been so easily aroused by her… but there’s not a lot I can do about that. She turns me on. I can’t help the way my body responds.

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