The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)

“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.

Once inside, she lunged for her floss and ran the thread between all of her teeth. Twice. When nothing heinous came free, she breathed a sigh of relief and went about brushing at a more sedate pace.

He entered the bathroom, and she stepped aside so he could spit into the sink, feeling horribly self-conscious with toothpaste foaming from her mouth. Why couldn’t she look sexy like him when she brushed her teeth? After rinsing out his mouth and patting it dry with a hand towel, he leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. He smelled of hotel soap, minty toothpaste, and . . . himself. That elusive scent still clung to him. She supposed it emanated from his pores. Lucky him. Lucky her.

As she continued brushing her teeth, keeping her eyes awkwardly glued to the bubbles in the sink, he left the bathroom. Pausing midbrush, she heard it: the rustle of fabric. He was getting dressed. That meant he was naked. Without a qualm, she rushed to the doorway and peered out.

Her lungs depressed when she saw him pulling clean jeans over his boxers. He yanked on a tight black T-shirt and sat down to pull on black socks. He had to be leaving soon.

She hurried to finish brushing her teeth and caught him just as he tied his last shoelace.

“We have to talk,” she said.

The look on his face as he straightened in the chair made her stomach bottom out. He was going to back out. Last night had been a fiasco filled with panic attacks and fear sweat, and he wanted nothing to do with her now. She tightened her lips when they threatened to tremble. It had been bad, but there had been good parts. Hadn’t there?

She’d thought she had a chance.

“I have something at ten I shouldn’t miss.” He stood, looped the strap of his bag over his shoulder, and walked to her with a loose stride. His eyes were heartbreakingly kind as he looked at her.

Or was it pity? She hated pity.