Page 18 of Dirty As Puck
“You were staring at me when I came out of the shower. You’ve been watching me all evening like you’re trying to figure out what I really taste like.”
The blunt assessment makes my pulse race, partly because he’s right and partly because the way he says it––low and rough and certain––makes me want to show him exactly what I’ve been thinking.
This is insane. You’re here to write about him, not sleep with him.
“You’re imagining things,” I say, but my voice comes out breathy.
Morrison steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “Am I? Because you’re looking at me right now like you want me to kiss you again.”
Shit.
“I’m looking at you like you’re invading my personal space.”
“Then step back.”
It’s a challenge, plain and simple. Step back and prove I’m not affected by his proximity. Step back and maintain the professional distance I keep insisting on.
I don’t step back.
Instead, I hold my ground and glare up at him, even though my heart is hammering against my ribs, and I can feel heat pooling low in my belly. “Maybe you should step back.”
“Maybe I should.” But he doesn’t move. If anything, he leans closer, until I can feel his breath against my forehead. “But I don’t think you want me to.”
He’s right. I don’t want him to step back. I want him to close the distance completely, consequences be damned.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.
“Terrible idea,” Morrison agrees, but his hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheek in a touch that’s gentle despite all his hard edges.
Last chance to be professional. Last chance to walk away.
Instead, I lean into his touch, and that’s all the invitation Morrison needs. His mouth crashes down on mine, and this kiss is nothing like the one on the plane. That was about distraction, about calming my fear. This is about desire, pure and simple.
I kiss him back with months of sexual frustration and professional tension pouring out in the slide of lips and tongue. Morrison’s other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I can taste the mint of his toothpaste and something darker that’s purely him.
This is insane. This is perfect. This is going to ruin everything.
Morrison backs me against the wall, his body pressing against mine, and I can feel every inch of him––the hard planes of his chest, the heat of his skin, the evidence of his arousal against my hip. When he breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along my jaw, I hear myself make a sound that’s part gasp, part moan.
“Tell me to stop,” Morrison murmurs against my neck, but his hands are already sliding under my pajama top, fingers splaying across my ribs.
I should tell him to stop. I should push him away and go back to my fold-out bed and pretend this never happened.
Instead, I arch into his touch and fist my hands in his hair. “Don’t stop.”
Morrison lifts his head to look at me, and his gray eyes are dark with want. For a moment, we just stare at each other, both breathing hard, both knowing we’re about to cross a line we can’t uncross.
Then he’s kissing me again, more desperate this time, and his hands are working at the buttons of my pajama top while I run my palms over the warm skin of his shoulders and back. Thefabric falls away, and Kai’s mouth follows the path of his hands, lips trailing fire across my collarbone and lower.
His tongue flicks against my skin, tasting, exploring, and I arch into him with a gasp that turns into a moan when he finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. My hands fist in his hair, holding him against me as he works his way down, and I can feel him smile against my skin.
“You taste better than I imagined,” he murmurs, his voice rough with want.
He imagined this. He’s been thinking about touching me like this.
Kai’s hands span my waist, thumbs brushing the underside of my ribs, and everywhere he touches feels like it’s on fire. When his mouth finds mine again, the kiss is hungry, consuming, like he’s trying to devour me whole. I meet him kiss for kiss, nip for nip, my body pressing against his like I can’t get close enough.
His hands slide lower, fingers hooking in the waistband of my pajama pants, and I know we’re seconds away from crossing a line that will change everything. The thought should terrify me, but all I can think about is how good his skin feels against mine, how perfectly we fit together, how much I want him to keep touching me.
