Chapter 5 #2
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.”
“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. The fabric 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.
We’re really doing this. We’re actually going to—
A sharp knock at the door makes us both freeze.
“Kai, you awake?” Jake’s voice carries through the wood. “We’ve got a situation. Coach needs everyone downstairs in five minutes.”
Kai pulls back, and we stare at each other in the dim light, both breathing hard, both looking like we’ve been thoroughly ravaged.
My pajama top is unbuttoned and hanging off my shoulders.
Kai’s hair is a mess from my fingers. We look exactly like two people who were about thirty seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off.
Saved by team emergency. I don’t know if I should be grateful or frustrated.
“Shit,” Kai mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I have to go.”
He grabs a shirt and pulls it on, then looks back at me still pressed against the wall in my partially undressed state. Something flickers across his face––regret, maybe, or frustration that matches my own.
“We’ll… we should talk about this later,” he says.
Talk about what? How we almost had sex against a hotel room wall? How I completely lost my professional objectivity? How I still want him even though this is the worst possible decision I could make?
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I lie, pulling my pajama top closed. “This was just... heat of the moment.”
Morrison stares at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to read something in my expression. Then he nods and heads for the door.
“Get some sleep, Winters.”
The door closes behind him, and I sink down onto the fold-out bed, my legs too shaky to hold me up. My lips are swollen from his kisses, my skin is still burning where he touched me, and I can smell his soap on my clothes.
What the hell just happened?
I know what happened. I let my attraction to Kai override every professional instinct I have. I kissed him back like I wanted him, which I do. I let him touch me like I was his, which I’m definitely not.
This is a disaster. This is career suicide. Is this why Marcus Webb hired me?
Marcus wanted me to use my femininity to manipulate Kai into revealing secrets.
He didn’t actually say this, but it’s obvious.
I mean…me? It’s not because I’m good at my job.
I huff and run a hand through my damp hair.
Marcus didn’t actually want me to actually lose control and nearly have sex with the guy I’m supposed to be investigating.
You’re not losing control. This is just physical attraction. Pure lust. Nothing more.
But as I plop onto the converted sofa bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment of Kai’s hands on my skin, I know this level of sexual tension is dangerous territory.
This is much more complicated than simple physical attraction.
And I have no idea what I’m going to do about it.