by Helen Hoang
He sucked on her bottom lip and laved the sensitized skin before taking her mouth again. The room began spinning, and she realized she’d forgotten to breathe.
Coming up for air, she said, “Oh my God, you taste good.”
For a moment, he stared at her mouth like she’d taken something that he wanted back. He blinked the expression away, and a gravelly chuckle escaped kiss-reddened lips she wanted to touch with her fingertips. “Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?”
“Either that or I don’t talk.” No matter how she tried, she couldn’t overcome it. Her brain simply wasn’t wired for social sophistication.
“I like hearing what you’re thinking. Especially when I’m kissing you.” But instead of kissing her again, he stepped away and tugged on her hand. “Come on. I don’t want to bruise you on this counter.”
That was when she noticed the hard granite pressing into her back. As she let him lead her from the bathroom, she glanced at her hazy reflection in the mirror. She didn’t recognize that girl with the flushed cheeks and wild hair, could hardly believe she’d kissed a man and enjoyed it. Was it possible she’d be able to conquer what came next, as well?
{ CHAP+ER }
4
Michael rubbed his lips to hide a grin as Stella balanced on the very edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. If he kissed her right now, she’d fall to the floor. She was the kind of girl who got weak when she was hot. He fucking loved that. Every bit of effort it had taken to get past her guard had been worth it.
She’d been pretty before, but like this, she was almost too much. Freed from her tight bun, her hair framed her face in large ringlets. Arousal brightened her chocolate eyes, and her lips were swollen from his kisses. Gorgeous. He almost wished they were meeting again after tonight.
Instead of sitting next to her, he stretched out near the center of the king-sized bed, propped himself up on an elbow, and patted the area next to him. After a momentary hesitation, she crawled across the bed and lay down next to him, her body corpse-straight and her eyes staring ahead. Her pulse drummed under her jaw, and she stiffened like she was bracing herself for an attack.
That wouldn’t do.
“I’m going to kiss you again.” Because he sensed she needed to be forewarned, he added, “French kissing.”
“Okay.”
He leaned over her and kissed her, starting right back at the beginning with innocent brushes of their lips and teasing licks before taking her mouth once again. She really had no idea how to kiss, but it was entertaining feeling her learn. What she lacked in skill she made up for in pure enthusiasm.
She kissed him with untrained strokes of her tongue, following his mouth when he tried to pull back so he could dim the lights further. Experience told him she’d be much more comfortable with sex if the lights were low.
He tried to reach for the switch without breaking the kiss, but she buried her fingers in his hair. If there was one thing that drove Michael crazy—aside from BJs—it was having a woman play with his hair. Her nails scraped over his scalp with just the right pressure to send pleasure shooting down his spine, and he forgot about the light.
He ran his hand along the length of her body, cupped the curve of a small breast. Even through the layers of her shirt and bra, he could feel the firm ball of her nipple. He wanted to pinch it, love on it, but there was too much fabric in the way. He kissed her harder, and she arched into his body. If she hadn’t been wearing a pencil skirt, he would have spread her thighs. He’d bet everything she was wet for him.
Leaning back and pulling cool air into his lungs, he assessed his handiwork. She breathed through parted red lips that glistened, and her eyes were pure sex. She was ready for more.
He fingered the button at her collar and slipped it free.
It was like flipping a switch; the change was that dramatic. One moment, her body was loose and languorous. The next, she was tense as a stretched rubber band. The color bled from her face. Her expression went from sensual to downright scared. She dropped her hands to her sides and balled them into fists.
“Stella?”
She gulped down a ragged breath and started unbuttoning her shirt. “I’m sorry. Let me get them.” With uncoordinated fingers, she loosed one button, then another.
He covered her hands with his to halt her progress. “What are you doing?”
“Undressing.”
“I’m not going to have sex with you when you’re like this.” It was wrong. He’d never had sex with a woman who wasn’t one hundred percent into it, and he wasn’t going to start now.
She turned onto her side to face away from him, and her chest shook. Dammit, she was crying. He lowered his hands toward her before hesitating. Would his touch help her or make it worse? Fuck it. He had to do something. He couldn’t let her cry like this. Tears gutted him like nothing else. He wrapped himself around her. When she tried to shrink away, he held her tighter. What the hell? It had just been one button.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. What happened? Did someone . . . hurt you? Is that why you tensed up on me?” The thought of someone assaulting her sent a murderous rage through Michael’s brain, and adrenaline spiked, preparing him for a superb ass-kicking.
She dug her palms into her eyes. “No one hurt me. I’m just like this. Can you please continue and establish the baseline?”
“Stella, you’re trembling and crying.” He stroked tear-soaked tendrils away from her face.
She scrubbed at the moisture and took a hard breath. “No more crying.”
“Other men had sex with you when you were like this?” He strove to sound gentle, but the words came out harsh. The thought of some asshole sweating over her while she was pale and terrified made his fists itch.
“Three.”
“Goddamned piece-of-shit assho—”
His words dried up when she turned around to face him with a wounded expression.
“No, I’m not talking about you. You’re not the problem. It’s those men. Me.” A wrinkle formed between her eyebrows, and he smoothed it out with a fingertip. “You need someone to go slow with you.”
“You have been going slow with me. The others were done by now.”
“I don’t want to hear about the others,” he bit out.
She looked away and held the folds of her shirt together. “What now?”
Michael had no idea. Whatever it was, it had to be ultra slow. He looked around the hotel suite for inspiration, and the large TV mounted on the wall across the bed grabbed his attention. “A movie and cuddling. We can try for the baseline afterward.”
Her face became pained. “I don’t really like cuddling.”
“You can’t be serious.” All women were suckers for it. Even he liked cuddling. At least, he had back before he’d started escorting. Cuddling with clients was something he tolerated at best, but his instincts told him this was something she needed.
“I might like it with you, I suppose. It’s your smell, I think. Your body wages biological warfare on me.”
“So you’re saying I’m your Achilles’ heel?” He kind of liked the sound of that. They’d never see each other after tonight, but maybe she’d remember him. He knew he’d remember her.
Instead of smiling, as he thought she would, she searched his face. She looked into his eyes for a split second before she got out of bed and padded to the bathroom. After several moments inside, she returned wearing her glasses and holding his now neatly folded T-shirt. She set it on the nightstand, picked up the remote, and sat on the far edge of the bed, turning the TV on. As she flipped through the viewer guide, her expression was cool with concentration. Dressed in professional business attire, she could have been at a board meeting—but for the tangled, finger-swept state of her hair. “What do you want to watch?”
Her sudden distance shouldn’t have bothered h
im. But it did. He wanted her back the way she’d been before. “No K-drama, please. My sisters force me to watch with them so they can laugh when I cry.”
Her reserve melted as her lips curved, and everything was right again. “Do you really?”
“Who wouldn’t? People die left and right. There are huge misunderstandings. That super cute pregnant heroine got hit by a car.”
Her smile widened, though it looked almost shy. “That one is my favorite. How about something with more action and less drama?” The movie page for Ip Man, one of the best martial arts flicks ever, covered the screen.
“You don’t have to watch this just for me.”
She rolled her eyes and hit the purchase button.
“Wait,” Michael said, taking the remote from her and pausing the film. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You need to take your clothes off.”
* * *
• • •
Stella clawed at the unbuttoned folds of her shirt, feeling like the walls were closing in on her.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?”
Because she preferred being dressed, needed the tight restriction of fabric to feel safe. Because she didn’t like her body. Because every time she was naked with a man, he ended up using and discarding her.
She wet her dry lips and said the most basic truth: “I’m not used to it.”
Also, she was exhausted. So many new things had happened tonight, she felt shell-shocked. She desperately wanted to go home, but that would be pure cowardice. She was on a mission. Once she decided on something, she was just as single-minded as her mother—and her mascot, the pugnacious honey badger.
When his only response was the raise of an eyebrow, she asked, “Do you honestly think it will help?”
“I do.” He propped the pillows up, kicked the covers down, and made himself comfortable. He looked so beautiful lying back against the pillows that for a moment Stella felt like she’d walked into a magazine cover. The shadows and light loved the striking lines of his face, the sharp edges of his man’s body, and the dragon tattoo. It was difficult to believe she’d mussed his hair to such sexy perfection, even more difficult to believe that the place he’d reserved next to him was for her.
Drawing her shoulders back, she stood up and brought cold fingers to the buttons of her shirt. As the plackets came undone, her heart rate accelerated. Silence roared in her ears like jet engines preparing for takeoff. A film of sweat made the shirt adhere to her skin. After she tugged it free of her skirt and peeled it off, she shivered.
She could feel the weight of his eyes on her newly naked skin, and her hands fumbled on the side zipper of her skirt. Her fingers were so stiff it took three attempts before the small metal clasp came free. The skirt pooled around her ankles, leaving her in nothing but a simple flesh-toned bra and matching panties.
Eyes on the wall, she said, “Maybe I should have gotten better lingerie. Mine are all like this.”
He cleared his throat before asking, “They’re all that same color?”
“It’s the most functional color.”
She winced at how boring she sounded and hazarded a glance in his direction, but he didn’t look put out by her underwear choices. Maybe some of his clients preferred granny panties. Those had a definite time and place. At least she wasn’t wearing those right now.
“You can leave those on if you want. I’m here for you, Stella. Don’t forget you have the final say on everything we’re doing.”
Her stomach untightened a fraction, and she adjusted her glasses and nodded. After draping her clothes on the nightstand next to his folded T-shirt—which she’d spent a good minute covertly breathing in like rubber cement inside the bathroom—she crawled onto the bed and sat next to him.
He eased an arm behind her and pulled her close so their sides came flush together. “Rest your head against my shoulder.”
Once she did as he bid, he unpaused the movie. The opening credits rolled, and dramatic theme music played. She couldn’t focus even though it was Donnie Yen, and, in her mind, he was better than Jackie Chan, Chow Yun Fat, and Jet Li put together. She was on the verge of hyperventilating, and her muscles were so tense, she was one large impending charley horse.
Michael ran his hand up her sweat-misted arm and stared down at her with concerned eyes. “Are you too hot? Do you want me to turn the AC on?”
Her chest constricted. “I’m sorry. I can shower.”
She rocked forward to get up, but he stopped her, wrapping his arms tightly around her and settling her over his lap. Their skin was touching everywhere—her cheek on his chest, his arms around her shoulders, her side to his front—and she was achingly conscious of the dampness of her perspiration. He had to think she was disgusting. She squeezed her eyes shut as she tolerated the embrace. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take.
“Relax, Stella,” he whispered. “I don’t mind sweat, and I like holding you. Watch the movie. He’s about to have his first fight.”
He clasped one of her hands in his, interlaced their fingers, and held on with firm pressure.
As he pretended to watch the movie—she somehow sensed she had his full attention—she stared down at their hands, noting the contrast of his tanned olive skin against her own. Like the rest of him, his hands were beautiful works of art with long fingers and strong veins on their backs. She frowned as her palm registered the scrape of calluses.
She found his free hand and opened it up. One large callus covered the base of his palm while three smaller ones decorated the space beneath his middle, ring, and pinky fingers. She traced her fingertips over the hard patches of skin.
“What are these from?” She couldn’t imagine how escorting gave him calluses like this.
“They’re sword calluses.”
“You’re kidding.”
That lopsided grin stretched over his mouth. “Kendo. Actual sword fighting is nothing like in the movies, though. Don’t get too excited.”
“A-are you good at it?”
“I’m okay. It’s just for fun.”
She couldn’t quite see him kicking ass with a face so pretty, but she had to admit the idea thrilled her. “Can you do the splits?”
“It’s my secret talent.”
“I’d think sword fighting was your secret talent.”
“I have many,” he said, running a fingertip down the bridge of her nose before lightly pinching her chin.
“What are they?”
He merely smiled and fixed his gaze on the TV. “Watch. It’s getting to the part where he lays down the smack.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the question again, but she knew that was rude. He’d purposely refrained from answering. She realized then she knew almost nothing about him. Before, he’d said he only scheduled Friday nights. That left a whole lot of time for another life. What did he do when he wasn’t escorting? Aside from martial arts. Or did he train and work out all day, seven days a week?
Maybe he did precisely that. You didn’t get a body like his doing nothing. He could be one of those guys who woke up at dawn, swallowed five raw eggs, and ran stadiums. It was definitely worth it if he did—unless he got salmonella.
As pictures of him punching frozen slabs of meat flitted through her head, she forgot she was mostly naked. Her breathing evened out, and her body unwound. The pressure of his arms stayed firm, compressing and comforting, and the extraordinary events of the day caught up with her. His smell, the steady rhythm of his heart, and the low volume of Ip Man spanking his opponents lulled her to sleep.
{ CHAP+ER }
5
Stella’s eyes shot open, and she took in the bright interior of the hotel room. After groping at the surface of the nightstand, she found her glasses. The digital clock read 9:24 A.M. Her h
eart lurched.
She’d slept in. She never slept in.
When she sat up in bed, the blankets fell to her waist, and cool air touched her bare skin. She was wearing yesterday’s underclothes. Alarm sirens wailed in her head as she realized she’d completely skipped her night routine. She hadn’t flossed, brushed, showered, and put on pajamas. She had stuffed a dirty body into these clean sheets—well, they were definitely dirty sheets now. Good thing she didn’t have to sleep in them again.
Michael stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered with a white towel around his lean hips. His tattoo looked particularly sexy in the light of day. He grinned around his toothbrush. “Morning.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Her breath had to be rancorous.
He strode casually across the room and dug through a small overnight bag he must have retrieved from his car. It hadn’t been with him last night. As he extracted fresh clothes from the bag, Stella watched the fluid bunch and play of the intricate muscles on his back, admired the twin grooves at the base of his spine. She wanted to touch her fingertips to those dents. Then she wanted to take the towel off and—
“It stops on my right thigh,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder.
It? What was it?
Blinking furiously to clear her mind, she noticed that his tattoo wrapped around his hip, disappeared beneath the towel, and peeked out behind his knee. The dragon had wound itself around his torso and one of his legs. She imagined she’d be doing the same thing throughout the course of their arrangement—which they still needed to discuss.
She parted her lips to speak, but the chalkiness of her mouth overwhelmed her. She jumped out of bed, only then remembering she was all but naked, grabbed the first article of clothing she saw—his white T-shirt from yesterday—and sprinted to the bathroom as she yanked it over her head.