by Helen Hoang
Her face went bright red, but she nodded.
“Come here.”
She crawled to him and pressed herself to his front, nuzzling his neck as her hands snuck behind him under his shirt and grasped his back. The hard tips of her nipples grazed his chest, and Michael couldn’t resist cupping her tits and tweaking the pebbled flesh with his fingers. Her breath was a ragged sigh against his throat before her teeth scraped at his skin.
“You’re wearing a lot more clothes than I am, Michael.”
“Then take them off for me.”
Her eyes brightened, and a smile curved on her lips. As he’d known she would, his Stella really liked the idea of undressing him. She brushed her hands over the black silk of his vest before she pushed it over his shoulders and set it on the nightstand carefully—because it was his work, and she respected that. Such a simple thing, but it made him want to wrap her up and never let her go.
His shirt came off, was draped over the nightstand as well, and when her attention returned to him, she lost her focus. She ran greedy hands over his arms, chest, and abs, traced his tattoo. She kissed the dragon’s eye, licked it.
“I love your tattoo.”
“You don’t strike me as a tattoo girl.”
“It’s yours, Michael,” she said simply.
He pulled her hips against his and arched into her so she could feel what she did to him.
Her head fell back, and her body softened. Michael was good, but he’d never been this good. It was like Stella was made for him, specially designed to respond to him. Only him. The thought filled him with fierce possessiveness.
His hands grew rough as he touched her body, molding her to him as he claimed her mouth. The kiss was a savage thing of teeth and tongues, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she matched him roughness for roughness, kissed him until she was gasping.
He was unprepared when she stroked over the fly of his pants. Pleasure coursed through him in a heated wave. His cock jumped, and a hoarse groan tore from his throat. His stomach muscles flexed as he tried to catch his breath.
“I love this part of you,” she whispered with another stroke. “Show me how to make you feel good.”
Some vague sense of self-preservation told him to deny her, warned that he shouldn’t arm her with tools that would lead to his downfall, but as always, he couldn’t refuse her. He unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and withdrew the hard length of his cock, almost losing it when her eyes went dark with naked longing.
“Like this.” He wrapped her fingers around himself with a groan and taught her the rhythm he preferred, the pressure that drove him out of his mind, things he’d never shown his clients. They’d only cared about themselves.
Stella was different. Her entire being was focused on pleasing him. Because she wanted to learn how to do this for someone else or because he mattered to her like no one ever had? He knew which one it was. He still wanted her anyway.
He eased his hands down the swan line of her spine and hooked his thumbs in the elastic of her panties, pushed the material down her thighs. They were soaked clear through, and the scent of her arousal pushed him to the edge of his control. He almost spilled into her palm. She might be pleasuring him as part of her sex ed, but she was loving it, too. You couldn’t fake this kind of evidence.
After settling her back onto the bed, he tore her panties off, balled them up, and brought them to his nose to inhale her scent. “I’m keeping these.”
“They’re not—they’re—”
He spread her thighs wide and took in the sight of her beautiful pussy. Wet, swollen folds flushed deep pink and blossomed wide open for him. His fingers rubbed over her of their own volition and pushed into her.
Fuck, the heat, the tightness. So perfect for him. His body became one enormous ache of wanting.
“Stella, do you have any idea how hot your—”
“Michael,” she whined, bending her legs restlessly. “Don’t say it.”
He paused. Her words said no, but her body . . . Her chest heaved on ragged breaths, and she was clenched tight around his fingers.
“I think you like it when I talk dirty to you,” he whispered.
She shook her head frantically. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Your pussy doesn’t think so. You’re milking my fingers, Stella.”
She clenched even harder in response and arched her hips against his hand, driving him deeper.
“It’s y-your fingers. I love when you touch me.” She shut her eyes and ran her cheek over the sheets.
With his free hand, he caught her clit between his fingers and stroked, slow and sure. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and tightened around him. But not as violently as before.
His Stella liked to be spoken to. A lot.
That was fine. Michael liked to talk.
“I think it’s the words,” he said as he continued to stroke her with both of his hands. “It’s a shame you can’t see what you look like right now. My fingers are all the way inside your pussy, and you’re drenching my palm. Does it feel good?”
She bowed her back and bunched the sheets in her hands as she called out his name.
Her nipples caught his attention, and his tongue curled in his mouth as he remembered her taste and texture. “Do those candy nipples ache?”
She nodded, bumped her hips against him, and slid her hands up her belly to her tits. A frustrated sound tore from her throat as she pinched at the tips. She dropped her hands to her sides. “It only feels good when you do it.”
Because Stella’s mind needed to be seduced as much as her body, and apparently, her genius brain really liked Michael. He was just her practice boyfriend, but she responded to him like she’d never responded to anyone else.
He put them both out of torture and sucked a decadent nipple into his mouth. “You’re made of candy, Stella. Sweet, sweet, sweet.”
She rocked against his hands with increasing speed.
“Are you going to come for me so soon? I haven’t even licked your pussy yet.”
A whimpering sound escaped her lips, and her expression went pained. She locked down so hard he thought that was it, but after a breathless moment, her muscles eased.
“Maybe I should try out other words,” he whispered as he trailed his lips down her belly.
Tiny muscles fluttered around his fingers, and he knew she was close. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip as she threw her head back, inhaling sharply.
He touched his tongue to her clit before asking, “Is it your . . . box?”
“No.”
“Your . . . Lady V?”
She smiled into the blankets. “No.”
“Beautiful vagina.”
Her smile widened, and she shook her head.
He licked her again, sucked on her with the faintest pressure, and she arched against his mouth. Still, she hovered on the brink, exactly where he wanted her.
“I know.” He kissed her inner thigh. “It’s your . . .” He accented each word with a kiss upon her damp skin. “Wet. Hot. Sweet potato.”
She burst out laughing, and the sound worked into him and around him, fanning embers of happiness into full flame. He loved the sound of her laughter. He loved her smile. He loved—
He cut off that train of thought before it could finish. Now was not the time for thinking. It was time for feeling. He licked her clit into his mouth, and her laughter turned into a long moan. She wove her fingers into his hair, undulating against his face, and he willfully lost himself in her taste, her scent, her erotic sounds, and the feel of her on his tongue. Nothing was this good.
When she gripped his shoulders and pulled insistently, he looked up in confusion.
“Michael, I want it. I need it. Now. Please,” she said between heavy pants for breath.
“It?” Fuck, was she going to
talk dirty to him?
She continued trying to drag him up over her. “I’m aching for you, Michael.”
Too shy, after all, but her words hit him just as hard. He had to take a moment to focus on breathing and not spilling all over the sheets before he climbed off the bed, turned her over, and pulled her hips to the edge of the mattress. This was the way she needed it. It was too personal for her to do it with him face to face. Maybe with her next man, she’d—
He distracted himself from that shitty image by running his hands over her generous ass. Their relationship was just practice for her, but this moment, right now, was real. “I love your bed, but it’s too low to the ground. There is something mine is perfect for.”
She buried her face in his sheets. “Now, please.”
But when he patted his pocket, it was empty. He groaned in disbelief. Forget blue or indigo. Violet. His balls were violet. “I don’t have a condom.” He was an escort, for fuck’s sake, and he’d forgotten a condom. He’d been too eager to see Stella to go through his regular pre-session checklist.
“Don’t tease me like that, Michael.” She arched her hips, presenting him with a glimpse of her swollen pussy. God.
He wanted to press into her so badly he hurt.
“Not teasing. I left the box in my car.”
She stared back at him with tormented eyes.
“I’ll be right back.”
With that, he adjusted his painfully hard flesh, zipped and buttoned his pants, and ran from his apartment.
{ CHAP+ER }
19
Stella collapsed onto Michael’s bed. After her first three sexual encounters, she’d been convinced intercourse wasn’t for her. It had been messy, at times painful, and extremely uncomfortable. Right now, it was all she could think about.
Her body throbbed from the force of her craving, aching to be filled, and held, and . . . spoken to.
She grinned as she recalled what he’d said. Did other people laugh during sex?
She tapped her fingers on the bed as she waited, but patience had never been one of her strong suits. She was a person of action. She hated wasting time. And she hadn’t finished investigating Michael’s apartment.
She lowered her feet to the floor, grabbed her glasses, and pulled his shirt on, smiling to herself when the tails fell to her knees. The non-French seams bothered her skin, but his smell made up for the irritation. Besides, she wouldn’t be wearing this for long.
A peek inside his closet filled her with vast contentment. Yes, it rocked her world. All of his beautiful suits and shirts were perfectly lined up, organized by color, fabric sheen, and stripe width. She trailed her fingers over the sleeves of his suit jackets before she turned and considered his dresser. She wanted to open the drawers and see how he kept his socks, but that seemed intrusive. What if he caught her snooping? Would he think she was searching for something? Was she searching for something? Maybe she was, but not for anything in particular. She just wanted to understand him better.
She padded out of his bedroom, walked past his TV—she’d already seen most of the titles there and had stuffed Laughing in the Wind in her purse—tracked her fingertips over the cold surfaces of all the ordered dumbbells on the rack by his workout bench, slammed her fist into his punching bag, and then rubbed at her knuckles because that had hurt.
A look in his fridge told her he cooked regularly. It was filled with Asian cooking sauces with mysterious labels, fresh produce, and all sorts of healthy things Stella had no idea what to do with. There were a few containers of the yogurt she liked, though.
As she ambled over to admire the plant on his dining table, the papers on top of his metal filing cabinet caught her eye. Bills, from the look of them.
And Michael had money problems.
She snuck a glance at the front door, but it remained shut. She perked her ears, listening for the sound of his footsteps. Nothing.
Her heart pounded. She knew this was a violation of privacy. She shouldn’t.
She unfolded the top bill and read it as fast as she was capable. Just an electric bill. Less than a hundred dollars a month. She was about to fold it back up when she noticed the name on the bill. Michael Larsen.
A strange pain pierced her chest. He hadn’t trusted her with his real name.
She grimaced. If she didn’t know who he was, she couldn’t stalk him after things ended. She put the bill back the way she’d found it, but even with how bitter she felt, she couldn’t help scanning the other one on the file cabinet. A medical bill from the Palo Alto Medical Foundation. It wasn’t addressed to him, however. The name on it was Mrs. Anh Larsen.
Stella snatched it up and read the itemized list of procedures: CAT scan, MRI, X-rays, blood draws, blood tests, et cetera. The total came to a staggering $12,556.89.
Wasn’t insurance supposed to cover these things?
She pressed an unsteady hand to her forehead. Had his mom gotten sick without health insurance? Was Michael paying her medical bills? How was he paying . . .
Her breathing went erratic, and her stomach twisted and sank. Michael didn’t have a drug addiction or a gambling problem.
He just really loved his mom.
The room went blurry as her eyes watered. She straightened the bills back to the way she’d found them and swallowed around the knot in her throat. He’d slept with all those people, with her, because his mom was sick.
She pressed a fist to her lips as she curled up on his couch. The door swung open.
Michael took one look at her and rushed to her side.
“What’s wrong?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
He scooted onto the couch and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her temple, wiping the tears from her cheeks, running his hands down her back. “What is it?”
What did she do now? How did she solve this? She didn’t know how to cure cancer. Maybe she should have gone to medical school after all.
She locked her arms around his neck and kissed him.
He tried to back away. “You need to tell me—”
She kissed him harder. He softened slightly and kissed her back for one drugging second before he pulled away again.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he said firmly. “Why are you crying? Did I go too fast again? Did I do something you’re not ready for?”
She didn’t know how to communicate what she was feeling. Her chest was bursting with emotion. It was too much, too intense . . . Terrifying.
“I’m obsessed with you, Michael,” she confessed. “I don’t want just a night or a week or a month with you. I want you all the time. I like you better than calculus, and math is the only thing that unites the universe. When you’re done with me, I’m going to be that crazy client who stalks you just so I can see you from a distance. I’m going to call you until you’re forced to change your number. I’ll buy you an extravagant car, anything and everything I can think of, so I can feel connected to you. I lied when I promised I wouldn’t get obsessed with you. That’s my nature. I have—”
He sealed his lips over hers, and his urgency seared through her. He grasped her with rough hands, but she didn’t care. She clawed at his pants until she could free his length. Then she tore away and worked her way down his body to take him into her mouth.
She sucked and laved him with clumsy strokes of her tongue. She had no idea what she was doing, but he didn’t seem to mind. He rocked his hips into her mouth with sinuous movements. She stroked his tattoo, caressed his strong thighs. By the tenseness of his body and the increasing speed of his motions, his hoarse sounds, she knew he was close. It fueled her own arousal, made her press her legs together as moisture coated her thighs.
“I want inside you,” he said, trying to tug her away from his erection.
But Stella didn’t want to stop. She needed to feel him filling he
r mouth, needed to taste his completion.
He groaned as she resisted his persistent attempts at freedom. When she finally relented, letting him slip from her mouth, he kissed her hungrily and rolled her into the couch. After sitting up, he dug into his pocket. His chest worked on deep gusting breaths as he tore the foil open and rolled the condom on.
He lowered himself over her and kissed her mouth, her jaw, her neck. Hard flesh prodded at her sex. As he slid into her, their eyes accidentally met and locked. Panic spiked. Too raw, too exposed. She tried to look away until she realized the vulnerability she saw was his. Dark eyes gazed deep, seeing her seeing him.
Their bodies picked up an elemental tempo. Hips surged and retreated, claimed, gave. He searched between their bodies until he could touch her right where she needed it. She burned and wound tighter and tighter. Moans tumbled from her lips as she arched into him. Through it all, their gazes held. He saw it all, heard it all. She would have been embarrassed if it weren’t for his smile, the tender way he brushed the hair from her face before his free hand tangled with hers. The most incredible feeling of being loved washed over Stella.
Release seized her. Hard wrenching spasms stole her ability to move, speak, and think. The hand interlaced with hers tightened. His motions sped up. With one last deep thrust, he joined her in falling apart.
The world stopped.
All was silence but for their hearts trying to synchronize their crashing.
Whispering her name and kissing her softly, Michael eased out of her body and carried her into his bedroom. He settled her on the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. He disappeared into the bathroom, and water ran. Before she could start to miss him too much, he returned and crawled into bed so they were facing each other.
He ran his fingers down her cheek and pinched her chin.
“Does my Stella want to stay or go home?”
She felt a grin forming on her mouth. When had he started calling her that? My Stella. Did he know there was nothing she wanted more than to be his? She wanted to ask what he meant by it but was afraid he’d stop saying it.