The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)

“You have the next few months open, then?” she asked.

“It depends on what you’re proposing.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose and drew her shoulders back. “I’m awful at . . . what you do. But I want to get better. I think I can get better if someone would teach me. I’d like that person to be you.”

Understanding splashed over Michael in surreal waves. She thought she was bad. At sex. And wanted lessons to improve. She wanted him to tutor her.

How the hell did you teach sex?

“I think we should do a trial run before we set anything up,” Michael hedged. She couldn’t actually be bad at sex, and she’d already paid. At the very least, he had to give her tonight.

Frowning, she nodded. “You’re absolutely right. We should establish a baseline.”

A grin tugged at his lips again. “Are you a scientist, Stella?”

“Oh, no. I’m an economist. More precisely, I’m an econometrician.”

In Michael’s book, that put her solidly in the brainiac category, and an odd feeling ghosted up the back of his neck. Damned if he didn’t have a thing for smart girls. There was a reason why his favorite fantasy was Hot for Teacher. “I don’t know what that is.”

“I use statistics and calculus to model economic systems. Do you know how when you buy something online they usually email you with future recommendations? I help them formulate those recommendations. It’s a very fluid and fascinating field right now.” As she spoke, she leaned toward him, and her eyes lit with excitement. Her lips curved like she was telling him a secret. About math things. “Today’s material is completely different from what I used to teach when I was in graduate school.”

That odd feeling simmering up Michael’s spine increased in intensity. She’d somehow gotten prettier during the course of their discussion. Brown eyes and thick lashes, pouty lips, delicate jaw, vulnerable neck. Vivid images of him unfastening the buttons of her shirt flashed in his mind.

But unlike the usual, he didn’t want to do it quickly. He didn’t want to skip straight to the fucking, get out, and go home. This girl was different. It was that spark

in her eyes. He wanted to take his time and see if he could make her shine with a different kind of excitement. His cock dug at the fly of his jeans, dragging Michael back to the here and now.

His skin had gone hot and sensitive, and his pulse thrummed with eagerness. He hadn’t been this turned on in forever. And he hadn’t been fantasizing she was someone else. He reminded himself this was business. His personal wants and needs didn’t play into this at all. This assignment was just like any other, and when it was done, he’d move on to the next.

He took a deep breath and said the first thing he could think of. “Were you on the math team in high school?”

She laughed down at her water. “No.”

“Science club? Maybe it was chess club.”

“No, and no.” Her smile was a sad, barely there thing that made him wonder what high school had been like for her. Looking back up at him, she said, “Let me guess, football quarterback.”

“Nope. My dad was a firm believer that sports are stupid.”

Her brow wrinkled with a little frown. “I find that difficult to believe. You’re very . . . athletic-looking.”

“He only encouraged practical things. Like self-defense.” He hated to agree with his dad on anything, but with the family business being what it was, and his helping out with it, the techniques had come in handy when shit kids teased him.

A discovering kind of smile lit her face. “What do you do? MMA? Kung fu? Jeet Kune Do?”

“I’ve done a little of everything. Why do you sound like you actually know what you’re talking about?”

Her gaze dropped back down to her water. “I like martial arts movies and things like that.”

He groaned as suspicion dawned. “Don’t tell me . . . you’re a Korean drama fan?”

She tilted her head as a smile peeked over her lips. “Yes.”

“I do not look like Daniel Henney.”

“No, you look better.”

He settled his hands on the edge of the table as his face heated. Fuck, he was blushing. What the hell kind of escort blushed? His sisters had posters of Henney plastered all over their bedroom walls, had even established a man-beauty scale of one to Henney. They’d agreed among themselves that Michael was a solid eight. He didn’t give a damn where he ranked, but it meant something that this genius girl gave him an eleven.