Awake and Longing

(Kathryn’s POV)

Moonlight pours through the half-open curtains, bathing the hotel room in a soft, ethereal glow that makes everything feel dreamlike. I lie on my back, sheets tangled around my legs, the air feeling too warm, too charged for anything but skin. Sleep refuses to come. My pulse thrums steadily in my chest, adrenaline from the day refusing to fade.

Seeing Joe tonight; hand in hand with Emily, ring glinting under the lights, voice steady and sure as he spoke about her in front of hundreds of fans; made something soft bloom inside me. He looked so damn happy, so confident, radiating this quiet, powerful certainty that made my heart swell even as it twisted a little. That was a different Joe from the awkward, fumbling guy I first met when I stupidly invited him to a hotel room thinking it was just a casual meet-up. We laughed it off, moved past it, and somehow turned that mess into something magical: a pitch that became a teaser trailer so dark, foreboding, and just a little bit sexy that the fandom lost their minds. The way they screamed when it dropped confirmed he knew exactly what he was doing.

On the shoot day. He took on the role of the tattoo artist; becoming brooding, mysterious and dangerous in the best way. When the makeup artist asked if I wanted modesty coverings for my breasts, the word “no” slipped out before my brain could catch up. I told myself it was for authenticity, for the character, but deep down I knew better.

I'd pulled my shirt down slowly, one hand cupping one breast, arm strategically covering the other, skin prickling under the studio lights. Joe didn’t flinch. His eyes met mine; intense, professional, but there was something else there, a flicker of heat that made my breath hitch. As Claire Novak, I was supposed to stare up at him with defiance. But it was Kathryn who gasped softly when his palm pressed against the upper swell of my breast, fingers warm and steady, my heartbeat racing beneath the swell.

I bit my lower lip; hard; as he drew the design, the vibration of the prop gun sending tiny shivers through me. Heat radiated from his hand, seeping into my chest, pooling low in my belly. I shuddered involuntarily, thighs pressing together under the sheet they’d draped over me. In that moment, I almost asked him to come back to my room after wrap. Almost.

Thankfully, I learned about Emily before I could make a complete fool of myself.

There was a shift after she left; Joe turned hyper-focused on the project, producing incredible work, but that spark, that warmth in his eyes, dimmed. When I heard his planned proposal might be off, my heart cracked a little for him. Then Iris told me it was back on, her voice bubbling with excitement, and relief flooded me. We’d get the Joe with the fire again; the one I was so proud to work with.

Before I ever asked him to collaborate, I’d heard the whispers: confident, talented, handsome. But nothing prepared me for the full package. Melissa, my Abigail co-star and one of his former clients, had leaned in when I'd asked about him, smirking. "Control yourself, girl; he creates "fuck me" energy.” I thought she was joking. She wasn’t. It’s not boyish charm; it’s something deeper, rawer. Commanding. The kind that makes you clench just thinking about it.

I sigh, rolling onto my side, silk sheets whispering against my bare skin. That’s when I see it; the gift box on the nightstand. I'd meant to give it to him earlier at dinner. An original, currently unannounced Lego set of the 1967 Impala; “Baby”; the first one off the production line. It was meant to be a little surprise for the newly engaged couple. But they’d slipped away early, hands already roaming, unsubtly **** to celebrate privately. Iris left shortly after, cheeks flushed from that strong espresso martini she’d downed. I hadn’t even finished mine... and I could still feel the **** buzzing through my veins.

I glance at the clock, remembering Iris is on this floor. Maybe she’s still up. She could give it to them in the morning, make it special.

I slide out of bed, skin tingling in the cool air. I grab the thin silk slip I’d worn under my dress earlier; short, clinging, the fabric whispering over my nipples as I move. I pick up the box, heart kicking up again, and head into the hallway.