Page 45 of Dirty As Puck
Her eyes don’t waver. In fact, they seem to dare me, challenging me, and it’s all I can do to keep my hands from gripping her waist, pulling her flush against me. The air between us is thick, charged with desire so raw it makes my blood burn.
“You really shouldn’t be in here alone with me, Rochelle,” I murmur again, my voice low and rough, but I know she doesn’t care. She’s far too good at reading me, too good at making me lose control.
“Then don’t stop me,” she whispers, letting her words hang heavy in the air, as she moves even closer.
That’s it. That’s all I need. I close the last inch between us, and our lips crash together, with hunger and desperation. Her hands find my chest immediately, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt, and I respond in kind, sliding my own hands under her blouse, and tracing the curve of her waist, feeling her tremble against me.
The kiss deepens, and it’s aggressive, urgent, our bodies pressed together in a way that leaves no space for hesitation. I feel the arch of her back, the tilt of her hips against mine, and it’s like every nerve ending in my body is on fire. Her breaths are quick, shallow, and I can hear the catch in her throat as I pull her even closer.
She presses herself against me harder, legs wrapping around my waist before I even realize it, and I let out a low groan. The wall behind her is cold under her back, but she doesn’t care. Every brush of skin, every shiver, every gasp from her only fuels the fire inside me.
The water from the shower drips down our bodies, steam curling around us, wrapping us in our own private heat. Her hair clings to her neck and shoulders, her skin glistening, and I can’tstop myself from drinking it all in, from letting my lips roam wherever they can reach, claiming her with a need that’s almost painful.
Her hands clutch my shoulders, sliding down my back as our mouths separate just enough for her to breathe, but the longing in her eyes mirrors my own. Every touch, every press of our bodies, every low moan and sharp intake of breath is a silent confession that neither of us wants this to end.
A sudden sound, like someone is returning for an equipment, makes both of us freeze, our hearts hammering, and bodies pressed together. For a moment, neither of us moves, we just listen to the faint footsteps outside, pulse racing. When the footsteps fade, I pull her back to me, and the tension snaps again, desperate, unrelenting.
When we finally break apart, gasping and flushed, she presses a hand to her chest, trying to calm herself, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
“This is insane,” she whispers. “Anyone could have seen us.”
I let out a low laugh, still gripping her waist, eyes dark with satisfaction and something like concern. “Worth the risk, though,” I murmur, leaning in just enough that my lips brush her temple.
We both know we’ll keep crossing the line, and the thrill of it is intoxicating. She straightens her clothes quickly, backing away, and I step back, letting her go, but the air between us still burns.
As she leaves the locker room, I watch her retreating figure, my pulse still racing. I have no idea how far we’ll push these boundaries next, but I know that I’m not about to stop.
15
My laptop hums softly, an open tab flashing articles about the bar fight incident I’ve been obsessing over. I force myself to take a deep breath, knowing Marcus Webb would chew me alive if he knew I was still chasing scraps of information instead of producing scandal.
I scroll through the police reports again, cross-referencing names, dates, and witness statements. Something has always felt off about the coverage. The narrative painted Kai Morrison as aggressive and reckless, a man who couldn’t control himself. But my instincts and the little footage I saw myself, told a different story. And now, with the patience of a journalist on the hunt, I’m starting to see why.
I click through another archived article and freeze. The woman in the surveillance footage isn’t just anyone. Her name catches my eye. Kennedy Walters, Senator Walter’s daughter. The connection hits me like a punch to the chest. Suddenly, thebar fight takes on a whole new context. This isn’t just a drunk altercation blown out of proportion. It is a high-profile situation that Kai Morrison stepped into to protect someone who could easily destroy him in the media if things got twisted.
Nodding in new understanding, I lean back in my chair, pressing a hand to my forehead, and trying to process it. Kai Morrison, hockey’s aggressive bad boy, defending someone. Shielding them. The thought makes my chest tighten in more ways than one. I remember the way he moved in that footage. He was calm, controlled, and protective, the opposite of the violent image the tabloids had been selling.
It makes me think about him differently, yet again. That same man who pushed me against the conference room wall, whose hands and mouth left me breathless in the locker room a few days ago, was also capable of selfless action, of restraint when it was necessary.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, wanting to type out the revelation, but also hesitating. This could change everything about the story Marcus expects from me. There’s no dirt here, no easy scandal, only a truth that complicates everything I thought I knew.
I feel my pulse quickens as I realize I’m caught between admiration for Kai’s integrity and the pressure of my professional obligations. I can’t tell Marcus this is the real story, or else he would fire me without hesitation. But lying feels wrong, even as my heart pounds remembering the locker room moments from three days ago. The memory of his hands on me, the hot tension and reckless desire, lingers, threading through my thoughts and making it almost impossible to focus.
I close my eyes for a moment and let the tension settle in. I’ve been chasing shadows, trying to dig up dirt on him whilehe’s been showing a side of himself only I’ve glimpsed at. He’s protective, careful, commanding in ways that have nothing to do with the headlines. It’s infuriating and exhilarating all at once.
When I open my eyes and glance at the surveillance footage on my screen, the woman’s frightened expression frozen in time, and Kai’s body blocking her from harm. A shiver runs through me, not entirely from the cold, and I realize the story I’ve been chasing isn’t a scandal at all. Rather, it’s a truth I never expected to see.
And as I lean back in my chair, the heat from that locker room encounter creeping back into my memory, I can’t help but wonder just how many sides of Kai Morrison I’ve yet to discover, and what that means for me, my article, and the line I’ve already crossed with him.
The hotel lobby is a swirl of movement by the time I arrive, the sound of excited chatter and soft classical music mixing with the clinking of champagne glasses. I tuck my notebook under my arm, moving carefully through the crowd of well-dressed attendees, all of them sparkling under the chandeliers and camera flashes.
The charity gala is a sight to behold, with glittering lights, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and everyone dressed to show that the night itself demands perfection. I keep my professional composure, reminding myself I’m here to cover the event, not to get swept up and distracted by it.
And yet, even as I make my way toward the press area, my pulse skips when the crowd parts for him. Kai Morrison. Black tuxedo tailored to perfection, crisp white shirt, the sharp lines accentuating the bulge in his arms. The moment he steps intothe room, all the noise seems to dim around him. Conversations falter mid-laugh and eyes flick towards him. I feel the familiar tug in my chest, that pull I always try to ignore yet fail miserably every time.
He scans the room, pausing briefly before his gaze finds mine across the marble floor. A brief acknowledgment, a nod, and an almost imperceptible smirk. His smirk alone is enough to make my knees betray me. I force myself to adjust the strap of my clutch, mentally reminding myself that I’m here to work, to gather notes for the story, not to get lost in the mess of desire and complication he always stirs in me.
Even as I try to focus, I can’t help but notice the way other women gravitate towards him like moths to a flame. Puck bunnies in sequined dresses, socialites with sharp heels and sharper smiles, each one leaning in with touches on his arm, flirtatious laughter, and whispering compliments. His politeness is effortless. He has an irresistible charm, and his attention is measured yet it still has that magnetic pull. He acknowledges everyone without missing a beat, letting them bask in the glow of his attention, while somehow, impossibly, still holding the space for me in his peripheral vision.
