Page 17 of Dirty As Puck
I grab my overnight bag and escape to the bathroom, closing the door harder than necessary. My hands are shaking as I turn onthe shower, and when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my cheeks are flushed, and my pupils are dilated.
This is so bad.
The shower helps clear my head, but when I emerge twenty minutes later in my most professional pajama set––long pants and a button-down top that covers everything important––Morrison is sitting on the edge of the bed in boxer briefs and nothing else.
Of course he sleeps half-naked.
He glances up when I walk out, and his gaze travels from my damp hair down to my bare feet before returning to my face. Even in conservative pajamas, I feel exposed under his scrutiny.
“Couch folds out,” he says, gesturing to the sitting area.
“Thanks.”
We go through the awkward routine of converting the couch to a bed, both of us hyper-careful not to touch or get too close. When it’s set up with sheets and pillows, I settle in and try to pretend I’m comfortable sleeping fifteen feet away from him.
Just go to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll both pretend this never happened.
Kai turns off the lights, and the room falls into darkness broken only by the city lights filtering through the curtains. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of him settling into the king bed.
Don’t think about him over there. Don’t wonder if he’s thinking about you. Don’t imagine what would happen if you got up and walked over there.
But sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see Kai emerging from that shower, water running down his chest, that knowing look in his gray eyes. Every time I shift position, I catch a hint of his soap in the air––the same clean scent that surrounded me when he kissed me on the plane.
I need water. And air. And to stop thinking about Kai naked.
I slip out of the fold-out bed as quietly as possible and pad to the kitchenette for a glass of water. It’s literally the tiniest kitchen to ever exist, but I’m walking to it anyway. The cold liquid helps, but when I turn to go back to bed, Kai is watching me.
He’s backlit by the city lights, and I can see the outline of his bare chest, the way his hair is messed from lying down. He looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had and tried to ignore.
“Can’t sleep either?” His voice is rough, lower than usual.
“Just needed water.”
We stare at each other across the dark room, and the silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying. The kiss on the plane. The way he looked at me when he came out of the shower. The way I’m looking at him right now, like I want to close the distance between us and find out what happens next.
This is dangerous. This is career suicide. This goes against every professional boundary you’ve ever set.
But I can’t seem to make myself move back toward the fold-out bed. Can’t stop staring at the way the dim light plays across Morrison’s shoulders, or the way he’s looking at me like he’s thinking the same reckless things I am.
“We should talk about what happened on the plane,” I say, because someone needs to acknowledge the elephant in the room.
“What’s to talk about? You were scared, so I distracted you. End of story.”
“Is that really what happened?”
Morrison stands up, and suddenly he’s much closer, the space between us charged with possibility and danger. “What do you think it was?”
I think it was the best kiss I’ve ever had. I think I’ve been replaying it for hours. I think I want you to do it again.
“I think we need to maintain professional boundaries,” I say instead.
“Professional boundaries.” Morrison takes a step closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his bare skin. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
“We’re journalist and subject. That’s all.”
“Right. And journalists always look at their subjects the way you’ve been looking at me?”
Caught.Heat floods my cheeks, but I lift my chin defiantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
