Page 39 of Off-Limits as Puck

He kisses me.

It’s nothing like Vegas. That was exploration, discovery. This is desperation. Two years of want crashing together. His mouth claims mine with bruising intensity, and I give as good as I get, caressing my hands on his face to pull him closer.

He lifts me onto the washer without breaking the kiss, stepping between my thighs like he belongs there. The machine vibrates beneath me, adding sensation that makes me gasp into his mouth. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I can’t remember why this is a bad idea.

His hands are in my hair, messing up my careful control. Mine are under his shirt, relearning the geography of his abs. We’re kissing like the world is ending, like we can make up for two years in two minutes, like—

A knock on the door sends us flying apart.

“Anyone in there?” Weston’s voice, casual but curious.

Reed steps back, chest heaving, looking as wrecked as I feel. His lips are swollen, hair destroyed by my hands. Evidence of my complete professional failure.

“Yeah, just grabbing towels,” he calls, voice impressively steady.

“Cool. You seen Doc? Patricia’s looking for her.”

I slide off the washer on shaking legs, frantically smoothing my hair. Reed watches with dark eyes as I put myself back together, and I know he’s memorizing this version of me—undone, wanting, his.

“Haven’t seen her,” he lies smoothly. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

Weston’s footsteps retreat. We stare at each other across three feet that might as well be an ocean.

“This can’t happen again,” I whisper.

“You’re right.” He moves to the door, pauses with his hand on the knob. “But it will.”

He leaves me there, clutching the edge of the washer for support, tasting him on my lips and hating myself for wanting more.

My phone buzzes. Patricia.

Patricia:Final schedule review in my room in 10?

I type back confirmation with shaking fingers, then catch my reflection in the industrial mirror above the sink. Kiss-swollen lips. Flushed cheeks. Eyes wild with want and regret.

Ten minutes to rebuild Dr. Clark from the ruins of Chelsea.

Ten minutes to pretend that washing machine kiss didn’t just destroy my carefully maintained distance with him.

Ten minutes to lie to everyone, including myself, about what happens next.

But Reed’s right about one thing—this will happen again because now that he’s kissed me, there’s no going back.

17

I wake up tasting her on my lips and hard enough to hammer nails, which is exactly how every day should start and exactly why I’m fucked.

The thin wall between our rooms might as well be tissue paper. I can hear Chelsea moving around, getting ready for day two of this professional torture disguised as team building. Every footstep, every drawer closing, every sound that tells me she’s right there, close enough to touch if architecture wasn’t in the way.

Last night replays on loop. Her backed against that washer, hands in my hair, making those sounds I’ve been dreaming about for two years. The way she said my name. The way she admitted I terrify her, like I haven’t been terrified of how she makes me feel since Vegas.

Cold shower. Coffee strong enough to make me sweat. Game face on.

The morning activity is trust falls, because apparently we’re in middle school. Chelsea stands at the front in hiking pants that should be illegal and an Outlaws fleece that makes her look soft and touchable. She’s explaining the psychological benefits of vulnerability while I imagine peeling those clothes off with my teeth.

“Hendrix, you’re up,” Coach calls, because the universe hates me.

I take my position, back to the team. The irony isn’t lost on me—trusting my teammates to catch me when I can’t even trust myself around our therapist.

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