The Bride Test (The Kiss Quotient 2)
He liked this, the snuggling, her smiles, the fact that she helped him be there for her. He hadn’t known she needed to be hugged, and it was immensely freeing that instead of getting angry with him or sad, she communicated and showed him what to do.
“That’s him,” she whispered. “Number eight.”
Khai considered the photograph skeptically. The man had green eyes, but everyone looked more or less the same to him. How had she settled on this one? “Judging by his 650 area code, he’s local.”
She covered her mouth. “Is it too early to call now?”
“It’s not early. It’s after ten.”
Her eyes widened, and she glanced out the window like she was just noticing the time of day. “We were up late, huh?”
“We were.” As memories of last night flitted through his head, he let his eyes trail over her profile, her fine jaw, and the graceful line of her neck. He cleared his throat and touched his fingertips to the little purple blemishes on her skin. “I, um, may have left marks on you.”
Shit, were they permanent? He hadn’t made them on purpose, though he had to admit he found the sight highly satisfying. Apparently, he was like a dog and felt the need to mark his territory—not with pee, though.
She pressed a hand to her neck and grinned as her cheeks bloomed with color. “They go away.”
He nodded, relieved and disappointed at the same time.
After scrutinizing the other photographs again, she returned to number eight. Her finger hovered over the phone number as she took a deep breath, and then she pressed it and hit the speaker button. She chewed on her bottom lip as the phone rang once, twice, three times.
Four times, five, six . . .
Seven, eight, nine . . .
“Hi, you’ve reached Phil Jackson. I’m probably busy in the operating room. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
When voice mail started recording, she hit the end button, and Khai looked at her in confusion.
“You don’t want to leave a message?” he asked.
She shook her head quickly. For a long while, she continued worrying her lip as she stared at the photograph on the screen. “Do you think . . . he is a doctor?”
“Maybe. We can check.” He got the phone from her and Googled “Phil Jackson MD.” Sure enough, there was a Phil Jackson in Palo Alto who specialized in cardiovascular and thoracic surgery.
Esme snatched the phone from him and zoomed in on the man’s picture. He looked nice enough with his distinguished white hair, glasses, and easy smile, kind of like if Santa Claus worked out and got a shave.
“He is a doctor,” Esme whispered, but she didn’t look happy about it. Her brow wrinkled, and she kept torturing her bottom lip.
“Is that a problem?”
She ran a hand through her headbanger hair and lifted a shoulder. “A man like that . . . for his daughter . . . I’m not . . .” She gave up and looked out the window.
“You don’t think he’ll like you?”
Her eyes searched his. “You think he will?”
“Of course he will.” How could someone not like her?
She surprised him by tackling him with a hug and burying her face against his neck. After a shocked moment, he tightened his arms around her and rested his cheek against hers. Was she sad? Was she happy? Was she crying? He had no clue whatsoever, so he held her and waited.
But as he waited, he couldn’t help noticing he had a very naked Esme straddling his
very naked hips. Her breasts were plumped against his chest, and her sex was right there. It took a tenth of a second for his body to respond in the expected manner, and he winced. This didn’t strike him as the right way to react when you had an emotional woman in your arms. He was wishing his erection away, when she brushed up against it, stiffened in realization, and deliberately rubbed herself over his length as she bit his ear.
“Again?” she whispered.
There was only one possible way to answer that question. It looked like they were having morning breath sex after all.