The Kiss Quotient(61)

Her body throbbed from the force of her craving, aching to be filled, and held, and . . . spoken to.

She grinned as she recalled what he’d said. Did other people laugh during sex?

She tapped her fingers on the bed as she waited, but patience had never been one of her strong suits. She was a person of action. She hated wasting time. And she hadn’t finished investigating Michael’s apartment.

She lowered her feet to the floor, grabbed her glasses, and pulled his shirt on, smiling to herself when the tails fell to her knees. The non-French seams bothered her skin, but his smell made up for the irritation. Besides, she wouldn’t be wearing this for long.

A peek inside his closet filled her with vast contentment. Yes, it rocked her world. All of his beautiful suits and shirts were perfectly lined up, organized by color, fabric sheen, and stripe width. She trailed her fingers over the sleeves of his suit jackets before she turned and considered his dresser. She wanted to open the drawers and see how he kept his socks, but that seemed intrusive. What if he caught her snooping? Would he think she was searching for something? Was she searching for something? Maybe she was, but not for anything in particular. She just wanted to understand him better.

She padded out of his bedroom, walked past his TV—she’d already seen most of the titles there and had stuffed Laughing in the Wind in her purse—tracked her fingertips over the cold surfaces of all the ordered dumbbells on the rack by his workout bench, slammed her fist into his punching bag, and then rubbed at her knuckles because that had hurt.

A look in his fridge told her he cooked regularly. It was filled with Asian cooking sauces with mysterious labels, fresh produce, and all sorts of healthy things Stella had no idea what to do with. There were a few containers of the yogurt she liked, though.

As she ambled over to admire the plant on his dining table, the papers on top of his metal filing cabinet caught her eye. Bills, from the look of them.

And Michael had money problems.

She snuck a glance at the front door, but it remained shut. She perked her ears, listening for the sound of his footsteps. Nothing.

Her heart pounded. She knew this was a violation of privacy. She shouldn’t.

She unfolded the top bill and read it as fast as she was capable. Just an electric bill. Less than a hundred dollars a month. She was about to fold it back up when she noticed the name on the bill. Michael Larsen.

A strange pain pierced her chest. He hadn’t trusted her with his real name.

She grimaced. If she didn’t know who he was, she couldn’t stalk him after things ended. She put the bill back the way she’d found it, but even with how bitter she felt, she couldn’t help scanning the other one on the file cabinet. A medical bill from the Palo Alto Medical Foundation. It wasn’t addressed to him, however. The name on it was Mrs. Anh Larsen.

Stella snatched it up and read the itemized list of procedures: CAT scan, MRI, X-rays, blood draws, blood tests, et cetera. The total came to a staggering $12,556.89.

Wasn’t insurance supposed to cover these things?

She pressed an unsteady hand to her forehead. Had his mom gotten sick without health insurance? Was Michael paying her medical bills? How was he paying . . .

Her breathing went erratic, and her stomach twisted and sank. Michael didn’t have a drug addiction or a gambling problem.

He just really loved his mom.

The room went blurry as her eyes watered. She straightened the bills back to the way she’d found them and swallowed around the knot in her throat. He’d slept with all those people, with her, because his mom was sick.

She pressed a fist to her lips as she curled up on his couch. The door swung open.

Michael took one look at her and rushed to her side.

“What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

He scooted onto the couch and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her temple, wiping the tears from her cheeks, running his hands down her back. “What is it?”

What did she do now? How did she solve this? She didn’t know how to cure cancer. Maybe she should have gone to medical school after all.

She locked her arms around his neck and kissed him.

He tried to back away. “You need to tell me—”

She kissed him harder. He softened slightly and kissed her back for one drugging second before he pulled away again.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he said firmly. “Why are you crying? Did I go too fast again? Did I do something you’re not ready for?”

She didn’t know how to communicate what she was feeling. Her chest was bursting with emotion. It was too much, too intense . . . Terrifying.

“I’m obsessed with you, Michael,” she confessed. “I don’t want just a night or a week or a month with you. I want you all the time. I like you better than calculus, and math is the only thing that unites the universe. When you’re done with me, I’m going to be that crazy client who stalks you just so I can see you from a distance. I’m going to call you until you’re forced to change your number. I’ll buy you an extravagant car, anything and everything I can think of, so I can feel connected to you. I lied when I promised I wouldn’t get obsessed with you. That’s my nature. I have—”

He sealed his lips over hers, and his urgency seared through her. He grasped her with rough hands, but she didn’t care. She clawed at his pants until she could free his length. Then she tore away and worked her way down his body to take him into her mouth.