“That makes sense,” I murmur as I pull my bathrobe tighter around myself. “Youdon’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 Morganalsowearing precious little under herown 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 itfeelsdifferent. 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’thaveto relax—if there was danger, it’s not like she could magically make me ignore that. But Iwantto relax. Iwantto 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, afuckingmassage?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 notknowingwhere I stand with her, not fromwhereI 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.
Chapter 19
MORGAN
We’re on the jet, and I’ve only answered eight emails in the past ten minutes. I’m distracted. Again.
I can’t get Jamie’s scent out of my nose—those notes of jasmine and vanilla. But I don’t want to. And the beast sure as hell doesn’t either.
