Chapter 18
JAMIE
I am dead. Deceased. A desiccated husk. Every part of my body aches.
I groan upright, head spinning, and wince at the light streaming in from the suite’s windows. I’m on the couch in the living room, and my shoes are nowhere to be seen, but I’m otherwise in my same clothes.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Morgan says from somewhere behind me.
“Unless my prince is here, I’m going back to bed.”
“Not a princess?”
“Either-or.”
Morgan laughs and plops a smoothie onto the coffee table in front of me.
“Have fun last night?” she asks smugly.
“Fuck, I’m hungover.”
“Drink up.”
I take a long draw from the smoothie and nearly vomit as earthy bitterness fills my mouth.
“Oh, dear god.”
Morgan chuckles. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“You drink this regularly?”
“Every day.”
“You must have an iron stomach…”
“Sure. I figured you’d wimp out, so…” She slides me a Gatorade.
“I can’t believe you stooped to buying a Pepsi product for me. That’s very down-to-earth of you. Though, is it an exotic import here?”
She rolls her eyes, and I crack open the bottle, appreciating the familiar middle-class comfort. Normally, Gatorade is too sweet for me, but this badly hungover, it’s a godsend.
When the bottle’s empty, I feel like I can move again, but my head still throbs.
“C’mon,” Morgan says. “We’re going back to the spa.”
I wince. “If I even see a needle, I’m going to throw up.”
“Good thing that’s not what I booked.”
#
Thirty minutes later, I’m in a fluffy bathroom and a spa employee leads me into a massage room.
But Morgan is also there, leaning against the wall as she checks her phone. I freeze. “Is this a… couple’s massage?”
“Cost saving measure,” Morgan says with the same smugness as at the golf course. “A couple’s massage is cheaper than two separate ones.”
“That makes sense,” I murmur as I pull my bathrobe tighter around myself. “You don’t seem hungover.”
“You’re not very perceptive, then.”
One of the black-clad massage therapists dims the lights and gestures at the table. I have no interest in taking my robe off with Morgan’s violet eyes still dancing over me.
Wait—isn’t Morgan also wearing precious little under her own robe? Maybe she’s naked. Would she open her robe and flash her tits just to startle me? My briefs tighten. Shit.
The massage therapists step out of the room to give us privacy, and I lie down with my robe on, then shimmy out of it once under the sheet. I hear Morgan chuckle, but I don’t dare look towards her. To be safe, I firmly shut my eyes.
The smells of lavender and mint are heavy in the air, soothing and distracting.
The massage therapists return, and I do my best to pretend that Morgan isn’t in the room. I’m mostly successful, but Morgan offers corrections to the masseuse every couple of minutes, so I can never fully establish the illusion.
Every time she speaks, I can’t help but imagine hands on her body in the same places as on mine—nestled at the base of her neck, gliding down her ribs, kneading her ass.
I’m tense with the effort of not thinking any further, not putting myself in the mortally embarrassing position of getting an erection during this massage.
The therapist asks me to roll over, and I open my eyes to orient myself, then get a glimpse of Morgan’s bare, muscular leg.
There’s just two sheets of fabric between our naked bodies. That’s not so different from clothes, but it feels different. Clothes are secure—buttoned and cinched and zipped—whereas a sheet can fall away so easily…
I’m glad to be on my stomach now, my gaze forced downwards, any evidence of my semi pressed beneath me. It pinches, but at least I’m not making anybody else uncomfortable.
The massage therapist smooths her hands down my back and says, “Take a deep breath.”
“You still tense over there?” Morgan asks, and of course my spine tightens in response. It’s a rhetorical question. Morgan continues, “Relax, Jamie. Enjoy yourself.”
The words hit me like a double dose of muscle relaxant, the weight of them pressing my head and chest deeper into the massage table, body gradually releasing from head to toe.
My thoughts go fuzzy and soft, finally letting the massage therapist sink in and work away my hangover pains, as if she’s wringing them out of my muscles.
I should probably be concerned about how much of an effect Morgan has on me. But the suppressants still provide some distance. I don’t have to relax—if there was danger, it’s not like she could magically make me ignore that. But I want to relax. I want to let those words in.
I want to let Morgan in.
Fuck, my cock is aching under me. But I don’t dare adjust it.
Traitor. Just enjoy the fucking massage.
Oh, a fucking massage? that part of me replies, and now I’m thinking about happy endings. God damn it.
I force myself to take a deep breath. I won’t be able to keep enjoying these benefits if I can’t stop being a freak about it.
Who wouldn’t crush on Morgan after spending so much time with her? Being charismatic is literally her job. This is nothing special—I’m nothing special to her. The thought eases my anxiety, letting my body fully relax.
I guess my discomfort has been from not knowing where I stand with her, not from where I actually stand. With the question now settled, I can be too. Sure, there’s a little ache of loneliness left behind. But it’s familiar, almost comfortable.
I finally know how I’m going to get through the rest of this trip—and the rest of this massage.
I savor every word and breath from Morgan and this only-two-sheets distance between us, because I know that this is the closest I’ll ever get.