The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)
Page 11
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?”