The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)

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.”