The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(17)

I open the door.

He’s not wearing his motorcycle jacket tonight, just a graphic T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and tattoos. They’re plain, unremarkable clothes, and I like that he didn’t dress up. I don’t want him trying to impress me. Even so, I can’t help noticing how good he looks. I appreciate the way the fabric stretches over his chest and the swells of his biceps, the way his pants hang on his hips and fit his strong legs. There’s a physicality to him that I’d find fascinating if I weren’t panicked out of my wits.

Holding out a white cardboard box toward me, he starts to smile, but it fades into a frown as he gets a good look at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re … greenish.”

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of me, and I cover my cheeks with my hands. “Sexy green, or scary green?”

He laughs, though his eyes are concerned. “Is ‘sexy green’ a thing?”

“I won’t judge you if you think it is,” I say, trying to laugh and failing. A wave of nausea has me breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Still, I put on a bright smile and step aside, opening the door invitingly. “Please, come in.”

Once he comes inside, I accept the white box from him and, after hesitating a second, set it on the end table by the couch and welcome him with a hug. That seems like the right thing to do, given what we’re planning to do later tonight. But then I’m in his arms, and it’s not the casual greeting I meant it to be. I haven’t been hugged, really hugged, in forever, and I can’t help the broken sound that escapes my throat when he holds me.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t have the faintest clue how to answer him, so I bury my face against his chest. I expect him to let me go, but his arms tighten around me instead, hard but not hurting. The embrace reaches deep into my bones, pure heaven, and I lean into him. Gradually, my muscles relax and my stomach unknots. My head spins in relief.

For long minutes, we stand there in each other’s arms. He smells really good, like soap with the slightest hint of sandalwood. The steady beating of his heart comforts me.

“How are you doing?” he asks in a low voice.

“Better,” I say, but I don’t push away from him just yet. “This is nice.”

His chest rumbles on a chuckle. “I’m an expert hugger.”

I burrow closer, pressing my forehead to his neck. “You really are.”

“My brother has Asperger’s, and when we were little, he used to get overwhelmed from school and the bullies there. Hugging was the only thing that helped, so I got good at it,” he says.

I peer up at him. “Kids can be the worst.” I don’t have a good understanding of what Asperger’s is, but I do know what it’s like to be teased. It’s part of why I go to such great pains to fit in and earn people’s approval.

“Those kids were,” he agrees.

“Did you fight them?” I ask, though I suspect I already know.

His face darkens. “I did. It didn’t always end well for me because there were a lot of them, and some were older. But you do what you gotta.” He must see how sad that makes me because he smiles encouragingly and runs his hand up and down my back in a soothing motion. “Don’t feel bad. I got better eventually. By the time my brother started high school, I was kind of a badass, and kids mostly knew to leave my family alone.”

My mind opens as I put facts together and connect dots. Quan’s kindness and rough exterior make perfect sense to me now. They’re not contradictory.

I wish I’d had someone like him in my life when I was younger.

I’m about to say something to that effect when he presses his lips to my temple. It’s not sexy, not demanding in any way. I know it’s meant to be comforting.

But we’re both aware it’s a kiss.

He pulls back and shakes his head apologetically. “Sorry, you’re vulnerable right now, and I got carried away and—”

I press my fingers to his mouth, silencing him. “It’s okay. That’s why I asked you to come. I want you to kiss me.” It feels so brazen saying it that I avert my eyes and drop my hand away from him. I’m no longer touching his mouth, but my fingertips tingle from the memory of the softness of his lips.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks.

I honestly don’t know if I am, so I turn the question around and ask, “Are you?”

He huffs out an amused breath, and after searching my face for a moment, he suggests, “How about we play this by ear and see what happens?”

“That works,” I say.

A devastating smile breaks over his face, and my thoughts scatter. He separates from me, but he does it slowly, almost reluctantly, running his warm hand down my cold arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He squeezes my hand once before letting go.

Looking about curiously, he considers the books that overflow my bookshelves and spill onto the floor and tabletops, the mismatched throw blankets and decorative pillows on my old sofa, and the dozen or so candles placed in random locations. I’m struck by the odd realization that I have a man in my apartment, in my space. Julian preferred for me to go to his condo—his TV is a lot better than mine—so this is a rare occurrence, made even more extraordinary by the particular man involved. Quan seems to fill the space with his presence and vitality. The air around him is … charged.