Really nailed that.
I should tell him.
Obviously.
That would be the clean thing. The adult thing. The thing a person with no career complications and a functioning conscience would do.
But I have full embedded access, a recorder in my bag, and a job I already know I am dangerously close to screwing up.
Also, we have known each other for exactly one stolen-cat-food argument.
There is no version of ‘by the way, I may have contributed to your professional trauma package’that lands well at a hotel vending machine at midnight.
So I do what I always do when something is too big to touch.
I put it somewhere I can pretend is temporary.
Chapter six
Jax
Igetbacktomyroom.
Close the door.
I’m hard before my jacket hits the floor.
No point pretending otherwise. Four seconds of contact—her arm under my hand, her pulse jumping once against my palm—and now I’m standing in a hotel room in Pittsburgh trying to act like I’m still in control of anything.
I’m not.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
I should ice the shoulder.
I don’t.
I get my hand around my cock because this is a problem with one obvious fix and I’ve always been a practical man. Handle it. Get some sleep. Reset.
Simple.
Except the second my hand moves, she’s there.
Not vague. Not half-formed. My brain goes straight for detail like it’s been waiting for this all night.
Her eyes in the hallway. That flash of green going wide before she pulled it back under control. That half-second where she just stopped. Mid-sentence. Mid-breath. Looking at me like I’d knocked something loose.
My grip tightens.
That hoodie on her. Brody's number. Hitting mid-thigh.
The way she went still when I touched her. Not pulling away. Not leaning in. Just there. Waiting. Deciding.
I’m already thick and aching and I haven’t been at this thirty seconds.
I slow down.
Deliberately.
