The Kiss Quotient(71)

She wrung her hands as she searched for words. “I’m okay. As you can see.”

“If you weren’t okay, he’d be a dead man,” he growled.

“Can you drop this? Please?”

He shook his head in disbelief. Someone had touched her, kissed her, stuck his fucking tongue in her mouth. “How can you be so calm about this? Did you want him to kiss you?”

“No, but . . .” She looked away from him. “Maybe there was a time when I did.”

A horrible thought entered his head. “Is he the reason you hired me? You wanted to practice for this guy?”

Her cheeks flushed with color. “M-maybe? He seemed like a good candidate at the time. But I don’t want him anymore, which is ironic because—” She stopped talking with a grimace.

“Because what?”

“He told me today he’s liked me for a long time, that—surprise—I’m a ten for him.” She sent him a searching gaze as she said, “He told me he doesn’t care about how different I am.”

He couldn’t stop himself from dragging her against his chest then. He hadn’t said those things, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel them. “That’s because you are a ten. All the things that make you different make you perfect.”

“I’m not perfect, Michael. I’m really not,” she said in a pained voice.

“Did you kiss him back?” At this point, that was the only thing that could make her imperfect for him. Maybe not even that.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Did you like it? When he kissed you?” Because he had to know.

“Not at all,” she whispered.

“Why? Did he do it wrong? Was he a bad kisser?”

“It felt wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn’t you.” The soft look in her eyes killed him. He would do anything for that look. Anything.

He angled her head back with a hand against her jaw, trying to be gentle despite the violence raging in his veins. “Going to kiss you.” He had to. If he didn’t, he would go crazy.

“Don’t. He’s in my mouth. I can still taste him. I can’t get him out.”

He released a fierce growl. “I need this, Stella.”

At her small nod, he crushed their mouths together and kissed her deeply. He needed to erase every last trace of that piece of shit, needed to mark her as his. She went weak and sank into him, and he closed his arms around her, stroking her roughly.

“Can you still taste him?” he rasped against her lips.

“No,” she said on a gasp.

He worked her skirt open and slipped his hand into her panties, almost groaning from the liquid heat that met his fingers. Who was that for? Him or her coworker?

“Michael.”

His name on her lips soothed a place deep inside him, and the urgent need to hear it again and again claimed him. He pushed her skirt until it pooled around her ankles and ripped the fly of his jeans open, freeing his cock. Then, he dug a foil from his pocket, tore it open, and rolled the condom on.

When she began to lower her panties, he shook his head. He looped one of her legs around his hip as he lifted and pressed her against the tile wall.

She made an impatient sound. “Don’t tease me, Michael. I need you.”

He pulled the crotch of her panties to the side and thrust hard and fast, burying himself inside her. Her breath broke, and she moaned his name. So fucking hot. He stroked his tongue over every inch of her mouth, claiming it as he angled his hips to hit her clit.

The tight grip of her body, her sweet mouth, her legs around him, her breaths on his neck—perfection. He reveled in every part of Stella. His heart thundered, and his blood rushed. His need grew desperate, but he held back, determined to wait for her. When she shattered and convulsed around him uncontrollably, he pumped into her harder.

He grasped at her hips, her thighs, pressed their foreheads together so he could see into her beautiful, dazed eyes and drove into her one last time, letting everything that he was pour into her, losing himself. As the breaths sawed in and out of his chest, he held her tight. He never wanted to let her go.

When he finally found the strength to pull away, he settled her on her feet and went to toss the condom in the toilet. He wiped himself off, aware of the appreciative way she watched him and loving it. She didn’t look at anyone else like this. Just him.

After living with her for the better part of a month, he could say that with certainty. There were parts of her—many parts, the best parts—she only shared with Michael, and it had helped him forget their relationship wasn’t real.

But he needed to remember. She hadn’t wanted her coworker’s kiss, but if she had, there was no reason why she shouldn’t have done it. They weren’t monogamous. He wasn’t her boyfriend or her fiancé or her husband. She was his client, and he was her . . . vendor. That sounded awful as fuck, but it was true. He had no right to defend her and no right to be possessive. She was paying him to help her—at least she thought she was—and he needed to stay detached and professional.

Too bad he’d gone and fallen for her, instead. When they eventually separated, it would break him. But she’d be better off. She’d know how to be herself with another person and what to expect out of a relationship, what it felt like to be loved. He hoped she never settled for less.