Page 21 of Unleashed

Why the fuck hadn’t I kept my hands to myself? She’d have stumbled, caught herself, moved on.

Instead, heat clung to my skin where she’d pressed against me. Her scent curled around me, threading through every inhale, wrecking my focus, my willpower—my whole goddamn equilibrium.

We’d played this game for months now. Pretending. Ignoring. Like we could outrun the attraction if we just moved fast enough.

Coming up to her apartment had been a mistake. A stupid, reckless mistake. But I’d had a shit weekend, exhaustion dragging at the edges of my control, making bad ideas look a hell of a lot more appealing. Walking her home was one thing. Stepping into the privacy of her space, her world?

Apparently, I’d decided to end my last season as a full-blown masochist.

Great. Alert the press.

She stared up at me, lips parted, bare of her usual bright red lipstick. An invitation if I’d ever seen one. Those lips, smooth and full, deserved their own fan club. Hell, their own award.

The citrus-spice scent of her wrapped tighter, needling under my skin, feeding the tension coiled tight in my gut.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t break the moment.

I did. A half step. A breath of space.

Then I was right back in it, closing the distance again, hands finding her shoulders, grounding myself in the warmth of her skin through her thin shirt. Steadying her, maybe. Keeping her close, absolutely. Thoughts of motives and repercussions blurred, edged out by awareness humming between my body and hers.

She licked her lower lip, a flicker of pink tongue. Quick, mindless.

My brain short-circuited.

Red flags waved louder than a penalty whistle.

Being alone with her? Mistake.

Wanting to kiss her like I hadn’t wanted to kiss anyone in years?Career-endingmistake.

But I was already moving, already leaning in, drawn to those lips that had haunted too many sleepless nights. Her breath hitched, the smallest intake of air, but I felt it everywhere. Her scent wrapped around my head like game-day adrenaline—addictive, reckless, unstoppable.

Her eyes met mine, a hurricane surging.

Then she stepped back.

My hands slipped from her shoulders, the sudden loss of her warmth under my palms jolting through me like an open-ice hit. I almost pitched forward, momentum carrying me toward her before I caught myself.

She shoved the towel between us, a flimsy, fabric-thin barrier. Color flared high on her cheeks, spilling down her neck, drawing my gaze to the delicate curve of her throat. Her fingers twisted in the towel’s edges, like the cloth was the only thing keeping her together. Her eyes darted everywhere without landing on mine.

“Shirt, Viggy,” she blurted, voice high, unsteady, shaking the towel. “Give me your stupid shirt.”

Viggy.

Not Jack.

My nickname on her lips stung. Like an unexpected jab to the ribs. A minute ago, I’d been the man she’d nearly kissed. Now I was a task to handle, a piece to rearrange.

But watching her now—flustered, breaking apart at the edges of that carefully polished mask—something cracked open in my chest. This wasn’t her usual Hollywood smoothness. No practiced composure, no camera-ready charm. Just raw, genuine reaction.

She shook the towel at me again, almost defensive, like she needed the distance, like touching me had done something to her too.

I stepped back again, the cold fabric of my shirt clinging to me like a reminder of reality, pulling me out of the fog of desire—of the mess of thoughts she’d stirred up. And it reminded me I had time. Time to figure her out. To understand why she affected me like this. And what the hell I was going to do about it.

“Right,” I muttered, bundling the wet shirt, pretending not to notice the way her gaze skipped away. But that blush—it deepened.

The corner of my mouth curved before I could stop it.

---