The Bride Test (The Kiss Quotient 2)

Esme bunched the blankets in her hands as she fought against the need to touch Kh?i. His face was drawn like he was in pain. She wanted to soothe him, and then she wanted to stroke him all over. He was magnificent, all powerful muscle and hard lines.

It was good, so good, and even though he hadn’t once touched her where she needed, she was achingly close. She arched her back and writhed against him, trying to find the perfect angle, but her motions only enflamed him.

His thrusts picked up speed and grew shallower, and his mouth fell open as he pushed in sharply and locked their hips together for the span of several heartbeats. Lungs heaving, he kissed her on the temple. Then he pulled out, climbed off the bed, and disappeared into the bathroom.

She sagged against the bed in disbelief. That was it? Surely, he had to be coming back soon. Her sex ached for him to return and finish what he’d begun.

The shower started.

She sat upright and stared at the door to the bathroom as her skin went cold. He was really done. He’d enjoyed himself, and now he was showering her off. It hadn’t even been a minute since he’d finished. Her lips were still wet from his kisses.

Tears threatened, but she choked them back. She didn’t know how long she sat there staring at the bathroom door. It could have been hours or seconds, but she eventually jumped off his bed, gathered her things, and plopped them on the floor in her room. After she perched on the couch, she wrapped her arms around herself tight. She’d wanted to be with him, and now she had. Her curiosity was satisfied. She’d told him she didn’t expect anything, and that was what he’d given her. Nothing.

Hurt and anger spiraled through her. She focused on the anger.

When the shower turned off, she marched into the bathroom. He looked up in the middle of toweling himself. After an awkward second, he lifted the towel from his thigh and dried his hair, exposing his beautiful naked body. Defined muscle in his arms that bunched as he rubbed at his head, broad shoulders, firm belly, that part of him, strong legs. Everything perfect to her eyes, but not meant for her. He grinned at her, the kind with dimples, but the smile faded when she stared at him stonily.

She plodded into the shower stall and stabbed at the buttons. What was wrong with her that his smile still melted her? She had no self-respect at all. When she scrubbed between her legs, her sensitive flesh throbbed with need. He’d kissed and touched her until she was wild for him and then abandoned her. Again.

He would always be leaving her. Because she wasn’t what he wanted. She’d known this, but she’d thrown herself at him anyway.

Foolish, foolish girl.

As the water washed over her and heat sank into her skin, she swore everything stopped here. No more. No more secret hoping, no more seducing, no more caring about him. She was done. She wasn’t rich, classy, or smart, but she wasn’t something you could use once and toss away. She had value. You couldn’t see it in the clothes she wore or the abbreviations after her name or hear it in the way she spoke, but she felt it, even if she didn’t entirely understand where it came from. It pounded inside her chest, big and strong and bright. She deserved better than this.

Strengthened by the force of her conviction, she turned the water off, yanked a fresh towel to her chest, and stepped out of the shower.

Kh?i paused in the middle of brushing his teeth and turned around to look at her, letting his gaze sweep over her bare skin. It was impossible not to notice he was hard again, and her treacherous body warmed in response. Foolish, foolish body.

She stalked past him and shut herself in her room without a word. If she tried speaking, she’d either cry or yell at him. After stepping into another pair of white panties and putting on her sleeping clothes, she shook out her blankets and made her bed on the couch. No more bed sharing.

As she pushed her legs under the covers, a knock sounded on her door, and Kh?i stepped into the room, wearing a fresh pair of boxers.

He rubbed at his neck as he took in the blankets on the couch. “You’re not sleeping . . . in my room? Like usual?”

“The couch is fine.”

His brow wrinkled, but after a while, he nodded. “All right, then. Good night.” Flashing a shadow of a smile at her, he shut the door, and his footsteps receded as he returned to his room.

She punched her pillow before she pulled it out from under her cheek and hugged it next to her body like it was a person. She didn’t need to sleep with him. Her anger would keep her company.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The first thing Khai saw the next morning was the empty other half of his bed. No Esme, not even a wrinkle on the blankets. Was it normal to want space from someone after you had sex with them? He didn’t understand it, especially when she had nightmares when she slept alone, but he didn’t know what to do other than leave her be.

He sat up, put his feet to the floor, and speared his fingers through his short hair. He’d slept like the dead—great sex probably did that—but everything felt off today. The walls were too gray, the room too dingy, his bed too big. Even his carpet looked extra ugly around his bare feet, and its softness wasn’t enough to make up for its offensiveness.

Hoping routine would set things straight, he went about his regular Sunday morning tasks. He got ready, choked down a protein bar, and lifted weights, but Esme never left her room. He knew because he watched for her the entire time.

After he showered, he found her sitting on the couch reading a textbook as a cartoon movie played on the TV. He got his laptop and joined her on the couch, thinking to work while she studied, but as soon as he sat down, she got up and disappeared into her room.

What the hell was going on? Was she sick of him now that they’d had sex? He wasn’t sick of her. If anything, he wanted her more, not less. Frowning, he left his computer on the couch and went after her. Outside her door, he took a bracing breath, opened his hands wide to stretch them out, and knocked.

The door swung open shortly after that, and Esme faced him. She wore her yellow Em yêu anh yêu em shirt over knee-length shorts and had her hair in a sloppy ponytail with a pencil over her ear. She was so beautiful she made his chest hurt.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

Her lips thinned as she stared at him.