Beneath the surface

Chapter 4- The Unplanned Trip

Leyla stood in front of her open suitcase, tapping her lip with a crimson fingernail, biting the inside of her cheek.

Two nights, he said.

She stared at the short silk nighty she’d tossed in. A blush crept up her neck. Why had she packed that?

It wasn’t like she expected anything to happen. It was a business trip. Nothing more.

And yet...

She added one more backup blouse — button-up, modest — and zipped her bag, heart fluttering with something she refused to name.

The Drive & Arrival

The car ride was quiet. A smooth jazz track played low in the background, the city melting into coastal roads. Miran sat beside her in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally running through his hair.

He didn’t look like a man going on a work trip.

White T-shirt stretched across his sculpted chest, low-slung jeans hugging his thighs, sunglasses obscuring his dark gaze — he looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in a boardroom.

Leyla shifted in her seat, legs crossing instinctively, as if protecting herself from her own thoughts.

She tried not to glance at his hands. She failed.

His thumb tapped lazily on the steering wheel, and she imagined that thumb brushing across—

No.

Focus.

Check-In Surprise

The hotel was sleek and modern, with open architecture and subtle coastal luxury — like stepping into a perfume ad.

Leyla brushed a hand over her dress — soft floral fabric hugging her waist — and stepped into the lobby.

“Two rooms under Mr. Miran Demir,” the receptionist repeated, typing. Then hesitated. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. There’s been a systems error. We have… only one room available.”

“One?” Leyla echoed.

Miran didn’t even blink. “We'll manage.”

Easy for you to say, she thought, pulse thudding in her ears.

The Room – Tension in Every Detail

It was a suite. Soft lighting. Pale wood floors. A floor-to-ceiling window that opened onto a balcony overlooking the sea. And in the center…

One massive bed.

Leyla’s heart lurched.

She stepped inside slowly, placing her bag down as if it might explode.

“I’ll take the couch,” she said too quickly.

Miran’s brow lifted. “Why?”

“I— You know why.”

He let out a low, warm laugh and kicked off his shoes. “Leyla, we’re not twenty. You’re not going to get pregnant just by sleeping in the same bed with me.”

She glared at him. “I didn’t say that.”

His gaze lingered on her mouth. “But you’re thinking it.”

She folded her arms, suddenly aware of how his eyes roamed her curves — not lewdly, but slowly, hungrily. Like he was undressing her with a thought, but wouldn’t dare touch.

Yet.

The First Night – The Bed is Too Small for this Much Heat

Later, she emerged from the bathroom in a hoodie over her nighty, hair tied loosely, bare legs visible up to mid-thigh. She padded toward the bed, trying to act casual.

Miran was already shirtless.

The lamp bathed his olive skin in warm gold. His torso was carved, his muscles relaxed but unmistakable — like a lion at rest.

He looked up. And stopped.

His eyes moved from her bare legs to the glimpse of satin peeking out from beneath her hoodie. He didn’t speak.

She hesitated. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You just… surprised me. I figured you’d wear something more… buttoned up.”

“I was aiming for comfort.”

“You succeeded.”

Leyla climbed into bed, turned her back to him, and pulled the covers up to her chin.

But his presence behind her was like heat itself — the way the mattress shifted when he moved, the sound of his breath, the faint scent of his skin: clean, sharp, male.

They lay in silence.

But nothing about it was quiet.

The Almost Touch

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

Sleep was nowhere near.

Leyla’s heart raced, her body pulsing with awareness. She rolled slightly, trying to find a comfortable position — and her leg brushed against his.

Just lightly.

But enough.

She held her breath.

He shifted slightly closer. Their legs touched again.

She should move.

She didn’t.

Instead, her thighs clenched instinctively, her breath catching. She felt the air shift, thick with something neither of them dared name.

Behind her, Miran’s voice came, low and rough.

“You’re not sleeping either.”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned closer, not touching, but close enough that she felt his breath at her ear.

“I’m being good,” he murmured. “But God, you make it hard.”

Leyla swallowed, lips parted, pulse thundering in her ears.

“Goodnight,” she whispered, barely able to speak.

He didn’t say it back.

He just rolled over with a sigh — and left her wet, aching, and more alive than she’d felt in years.