The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient #1)(62)

She sucked and laved him with clumsy strokes of her tongue. She had no idea what she was doing, but he didn’t seem to mind. He rocked his hips into her mouth with sinuous movements. She stroked his tattoo, caressed his strong thighs. By the tenseness of his body and the increasing speed of his motions, his hoarse sounds, she knew he was close. It fueled her own arousal, made her press her legs together as moisture coated her thighs.

“I want inside you,” he said, trying to tug her away from his erection.

But Stella didn’t want to stop. She needed to feel him filling her mouth, needed to taste his completion.

He groaned as she resisted his persistent attempts at freedom. When she finally relented, letting him slip from her mouth, he kissed her hungrily and rolled her into the couch. After sitting up, he dug into his pocket. His chest worked on deep gusting breaths as he tore the foil open and rolled the condom on.

He lowered himself over her and kissed her mouth, her jaw, her neck. Hard flesh prodded at her sex. As he slid into her, their eyes accidentally met and locked. Panic spiked. Too raw, too exposed. She tried to look away until she realized the vulnerability she saw was his. Dark eyes gazed deep, seeing her seeing him.

Their bodies picked up an elemental tempo. Hips surged and retreated, claimed, gave. He searched between their bodies until he could touch her right where she needed it. She burned and wound tighter and tighter. Moans tumbled from her lips as she arched into him. Through it all, their gazes held. He saw it all, heard it all. She would have been embarrassed if it weren’t for his smile, the tender way he brushed the hair from her face before his free hand tangled with hers. The most incredible feeling of being loved washed over Stella.

Release seized her. Hard wrenching spasms stole her ability to move, speak, and think. The hand interlaced with hers tightened. His motions sped up. With one last deep thrust, he joined her in falling apart.

The world stopped.

All was silence but for their hearts trying to synchronize their crashing.

Whispering her name and kissing her softly, Michael eased out of her body and carried her into his bedroom. He settled her on the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. He disappeared into the bathroom, and water ran. Before she could start to miss him too much, he returned and crawled into bed so they were facing each other.

He ran his fingers down her cheek and pinched her chin.

“Does my Stella want to stay or go home?”

She felt a grin forming on her mouth. When had he started calling her that? My Stella. Did he know there was nothing she wanted more than to be his? She wanted to ask what he meant by it but was afraid he’d stop saying it.

“I can stay the night here?” In his apartment, in his bed where clients weren’t allowed? Was she rubbing off on him, then? Maybe there was hope. Maybe he really could be hers.

“If you want to. None of your things are here, though. You’d have to use my toothbrush, and you don’t have any pajamas. You might have to sleep naked,” he said with a suggestive arch of an eyebrow.

Those things bothered her, true. She’d probably sleep terribly and feel off all day tomorrow. But it would be worth it to be with him. And to put her mark on his apartment like wild animals did—probably even the pugnacious honey badger.

“I want to stay.”

His smile alone made her decision worth it.





{ CHAP+ER }





20



Over the next week, Michael learned Stella’s rhythms.

In bed, she responded best when he went slowly and whispered dirty things in her ear, but if he wanted something more intense—anything—she was game and eager to please. He couldn’t have asked for a better lover. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

Out of bed, she thrived on routine. She got up at the same time every day, showered away evidence of their morning sex—he loved starting the day off right—had yogurt for breakfast, and stayed at the office until six o’clock. Her evenings belonged to Michael. When they weren’t messing around like hormonal teenagers, they filled the time with long dinners, meandering conversation, and companionable silences that Michael had never experienced with a real girlfriend.

Saturday night, after spending the day perusing one of the San Francisco museums and taking turns making outlandish comments about the art, they watched another episode of Laughing in the Wind in bed. Well, she was watching it. He was watching her as he combed his fingers through her long hair.

She rested her head against his shoulder, eyes on the large screen mounted on her bedroom wall. From time to time, she gasped or stiffened in reaction to the film, and her bare legs shifted beneath the hem of the oversized white T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt from the very first night they’d spent together.

He didn’t know how to describe the way he felt seeing her in his clothes, knowing she’d kept his shirt and had been wearing it to sleep all this time, but it was really good. He’d been feeling like this a lot lately—basically, anytime Stella smiled, demanded a kiss, or crossed the room to be near him, but also when they weren’t together. He’d spent the entire past week in a euphoric high, grinning for no other reason than he was thinking of her.

No doubt about it.

Michael was stupid in love.

He knew this was temporary, knew it wasn’t real, knew it couldn’t possibly end well, but he’d done what no escort should do anyway. He’d fallen for his client.