The Kiss Quotient

by Helen Hoang

  Their dinner arrived, saving him from having to respond to her compliment. She’d ordered the salmon, so he’d done the same. No way was he going to eat lamb. He snorted to himself. Woolly.

  His fish was good, so he ate all of it. He suspected everything was good here. The Clement was one of Palo Alto’s most exclusive hotels with rooms going for more than a thousand dollars a night. Apparently, econometricians made shitloads of money.

  As he watched Stella pick at her dinner, however, he noticed that everything about her was understated. Her face was devoid of makeup, her nails were short and unpainted, and her clothes were simple—though they fit her perfectly. They had to be custom made.

  When she set her fork down and wiped her mouth, her salmon was only half finished. If they’d known each other better, he would have eaten it for her. His grandma always made him finish his dinner down to the last grain of rice.

  “Is that all you’re going to eat?”

  “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

  “You don’t need to be.” He was a damned good escort, and he’d take care of her. Unlike most of his assignments, he even looked forward to it.

  “I know. I can’t help it. Could we just get this over with?”

  His eyebrows twitched. He’d never heard someone say something like that in reference to a night with him. Changing her mind-set was going to be fun.

  “All right.” He draped his napkin over his empty dinner plate and got to his feet. “Let’s go to your room.”

  { CHAP+ER }

  3

  After Stella unlocked the door, she stepped into her intimately lit suite, set her purse on the chair by the door, and arranged her high heels against the wall, almost sighing as her bare feet flattened on the carpet.

  Michael sent her an amused look, and she stared down at her toes. She’d taken her shoes off on autopilot. It was one of her routines. Was it rude to do that when you had company? Maybe she should put them back on. Her stomach knotted, and her heart raced at rabbit speed.

  He took the decision out of her hands by kicking off his own black leather shoes and positioning them next to hers. When he finished, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the chair next to her purse, revealing the simple white T-shirt underneath. It stretched over his chest and upper arms, and his jeans rode low on narrow hips. Stella couldn’t help but stare.

  His body was raw sculpted muscle and loose-limbed coordination. He was by far the finest male specimen she’d ever laid eyes on.

  And they were going to have sex tonight.

  She took a desperate breath and marched into the bathroom, where she braced her hands on the cool granite and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were open a fraction too wide, and her face was paper pale, her lips dry. She didn’t think she could go through with this. She shouldn’t have picked such a good-looking escort. What had she been thinking?

  Her lips twisted with a grimace. She hadn’t been thinking. After perusing the escort files for hours, sifting through countless faces and descriptions that had blurred together, she’d taken one look at Michael and known he was the one. It’d been his eyes. Dark brown with slashing eyebrows above, they looked intense . . . but kind. All of his five-star reviews had only cemented her decision. Looking like the hottest K-drama star ever didn’t hurt, either. Well, except for now, that was. There was a good chance she might throw up her dinner into the sink.

  Through the mirror, she saw him step into the doorway and lean against the jamb. That motion alone was so sexy, she felt her heart trip, stumble, and scramble to continue beating. He walked into the bathroom and stopped behind her, his eyes locked on hers in the mirror. When she wasn’t wearing her heels, he was more than half a foot taller than her. She wasn’t sure if she liked feeling this small.

  “Can I take your hair down?” he asked.

  She nodded once. Within seconds, the tension on her scalp released, and her hair tumbled free. Her black hairband landed on the countertop before he eased his fingers into her hair, separating the tendrils so they fell to her shoulders and down her back. She vibrated with tension as she waited for him to initiate intimacy and send her body into nervous lockdown. It was going to happen, and then he’d see what he was working with.

  A black imperfection on his bicep caught her eye, and she turned around to inspect it closer. She lifted a hand to touch it but stopped before making contact. She never touched people without permission. “What is this?”

  His lips curved with a slow, crooked grin, showing off perfect white teeth. “My tattoo.”

  Her throat worked on an involuntary swallow, and a wave of heat swept over her. She’d never seen the point of tattoos. Until now. Michael with a tattoo was just about the hottest thing she could imagine.

  Her fingers itched to pull his sleeve up farther, and she wavered over his arm until he caught her hand in his and pressed it to his skin. An electric jolt shot from her fingertips straight to her heart. He looked so perfect, like carved stone, but his skin was smooth and hot, firm but giving, alive.

  “You can touch me,” he said. “Anywhere.”

  Even as the invitation thrilled her, it gave her pause. Touching was such a private thing. She didn’t understand how he was able to do it so well with people he didn’t know.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she asked.

  That crooked grin returned in full force. “I like being touched.”

  When she continued to hesitate, he drew his sleeve up himself, exposing black ink marks that swept across his upper arm, over his shoulder, and disappeared beneath his T-shirt. The tattoo had to be quite large because the shape hadn’t even begun to materialize. Just how much of him did it cover?

  The swell of his muscles distracted her from further investigating. She’d never touched hard rounded flesh like this before. She wanted to touch him all over. And his scent. How was it she was just noticing it now?

  “Are you wearing cologne?” she asked as she filled her lungs.

  He stiffened. “No, why?”

  She leaned as close as she could without burying her face against his neck, seeking out more of that intoxicating scent. “You smell really, really good. What is it?”

  Where was that scent coming from? It seemed to be everywhere on him, but too light. She craved a more concentrated dose.

  “Michael?”

  A funny look crossed his face. “It’s just me, Stella.”

  “You smell this good?”

  “Apparently. You’re the first to comment on it.”

  “I want this smell all over me.” As the words left her mouth, she worried she’d said the wrong thing. That statement had sounded a little too personal, a little strange. Would he notice how strange she really was?

  He bent down so his lips hovered a hairsbreadth away from her ear and whispered, “Are you sure you’re bad at sex?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It means so far you’re very good at it.”

  Her fingers flexed on his arm, and she battled the urge to press herself against him like a stripper on a pole. It bewildered her. She was not at all stripperish, and unlike him, she actively disliked touching. But she craved connection so much she hurt with it. “So far we haven’t done anything yet.”

  “You’re very good at the talking part.”

  “I’ve had sex. There isn’t a talking part.”

  A spark danced in his eyes. “There’s definitely a talking part.”

  Please, don’t let there be a talking part. There was no hope for her if it involved talking. “So far—”

  He gathered her hair to one side and brushed a fleeting kiss behind her ear. It happened so quickly that by the time her body tensed up he’d already pulled away. When he didn’t move to repeat the caress, her muscles relaxed once again. The place where he’d kissed her burned with awarenes
s.

  Without touching her skin, he stroked his fingers over her hair. Slow, measured movements that swept from her crown, past her neck, and down her back. The motions calmed her even as they put her on edge.

  “I think you should kiss me,” he said in a husky voice.

  Her heart squeezed tight, and her skin pricked with panic. She was a horrible kisser. Her awkward attempts were sure to embarrass them both. “On the mouth?”

  The corner of said mouth kicked up. “Wherever you want to. The mouth is usually a good place to start.”

  “Maybe I should brush my teeth. I can do that right—”

  He pressed a thumb to her lips, silencing her, but his eyes were gentle. That touch, too, was gone before it fully registered in her brain. “Let’s try this another way. Do you want to see my tattoo?”

  Her mind eagerly switched gears, jumping from fear straight to excitement. “Yes.”

  With a small smile that was half amusement and half self-deprecating, he pulled his white T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the counter.

  Stella’s mouth went lax as she filled her eyes with him. A dragon’s head, its mouth open in midroar, covered the entire left half of his wide, sculpted chest. The ink on his shoulder and arm formed one of the creature’s claws. The intricate scales of its body worked diagonally across his abs and disappeared inside his jeans.

  “It’s all over you,” she commented.

  “It is. Here . . .” He captured her right hand and pressed it to the ink over his heart. “Feel it.”

  “You don’t mind?” When he shook his head, she bit her lip and tentatively settled her left hand on his chest as well.

  Her touch was timid at first, but when he didn’t object, she grew bolder. She pushed her hands across his firm chest, enjoying the ridges of defined muscle and the smoothness of his hairless skin. Tactilely, she couldn’t discern a difference between his inked skin and his unmarked skin. Fascinating.

  Her fingertips bumped down his abdomen, and she counted under her breath, “—Five. Six. Seven. Eight.” Her fingers met the waistband of his jeans, and his stomach muscles flexed and rippled as he took a breath.

  “You couldn’t have a regular six-pack? You had to make it eight?”

  He rolled his eyes as his lips curved. “Are you complaining, Stella?”

  “Nothing to complain about. I had no idea I liked tattoos until now.”

  “So you like it?”

  She thought that should be obvious, so she didn’t answer. Besides, it was getting difficult to concentrate. The sight of his perfect athlete’s body and his excessive tattoo, the feel of his hot skin, and his delicious scent overwhelmed her senses.

  “Can I take your glasses off? Will you still be able to see without them?”

  She swallowed and nodded. “I’m nearsighted, so I won’t be able to see things far away, but that’s all right because—”

  He slipped her glasses off. A soft clinking sounded as he set them on the counter behind her. The hotel suite and everything around her became a soft blur. Only he stood out in sharp focus. The solid feel of him against her palms grounded her.

  “It might be easier to kiss me if you wrap your arms around my neck,” he suggested.

  Her fingers twitched as she dragged them across the decadent expanse of his stomach and over his hard chest. After looping her arms stiffly around his neck, she said, “Done.”

  “Closer.”

  She inched forward.

  “More.”

  She inched forward again, stopping before their bodies could come flush together.

  “Stella, closer.”

  Understanding broke over her, and she settled herself against him. They were touching almost everywhere. Only the thin layers of her clothes separated them. Her nerves jangled, and panic threatened, but he didn’t rush her. He stood still, watching her with his patient, kind eyes. Against all odds, she relaxed.

  “Are you still with me?” he asked.

  Coming up onto her tiptoes, she aligned their bodies until they fit . . . just right. Her heart crashed in a crazy rhythm against her sternum, but she was still in control of herself—because, clever person that he was, he’d given her that control. “I’m okay.”

  When he closed his arms carefully around her, his heat sank through her shirt and warmed her skin. The pressure of his undemanding embrace reached deep inside her, calming her and loosening knots she hadn’t known were there. Maybe she was better than okay.

  She would gladly pay his escorting fee again just for him to hold her like this. This was heavenly. She burrowed her face into his neck and breathed him in. She skated her hands over his bare skin as she tried to nestle closer to him. If he could hold her a little tighter . . .

  Something hard prodded her belly, and she drew her head back.

  “You can ignore that,” he said.

  “We haven’t kissed or anything. How can you . . . ?”

  Hooded eyes searched hers as he lowered a hand from between her shoulder blades to the small of her back. The heat of his palm penetrated her clothes, and all the fine hairs on her body stood up. “This goes two ways, Stella. You like the feel of me. I like the feel of you.”

  That was a novel concept to her. Intimacy almost always was a one-way thing with her. The men enjoyed it—sort of. She did not.

  She was enjoying this, however. It made her feel brave and reckless.

  Her gaze locked on his lips again, and her blood raced with something new: anticipation. “Will you show me how to be a good kisser?”

  “I’m not certain you aren’t one already.”

  “I’m really not.”

  His mouth was inches away, but she couldn’t quite push herself to kiss it—even though she wanted to. She’d never initiated a kiss before. In the past, the men had just kind of . . . fallen on her.

  “Can I tell you where to kiss me?” she whispered.

  A smile slowly stretched his lips. “Yes.”

  “M-my temple.”

  His breath fanned over her ear, sending goose bumps down her neck, before he pressed a kiss to her left temple. “Now where?” The words were spoken softly against her skin, each one a caress.

  “My cheek.”

  The tip of his nose grazed her skin as he moved lower. He kissed the hollow beneath her cheekbone. “Now?” he asked without lifting his lips.

  So close. She could hardly breathe. “The corner of my m-mouth.”

  “Are you sure? That’s very close to being a real kiss.”

  Impulsive impatience seared through her, and she sank her fingers into his hair, held him in place, and pressed a closed-mouth kiss to his lips. Bolts of sensation zigzagged straight to her chest. After a surprised hesitation, she did it again, and he took the lead, showing her how it was done, drawing the kisses out.

  This was kissing. Kissing was glorious.

  When his tongue slipped between her lips, she went stock-still. Not glorious anymore. His tongue. Was in. Her mouth. She couldn’t stop herself from pulling away. “Is that absolutely necessary?”

  He exhaled sharply, and his brow creased in puzzlement. “You don’t like French kissing?”

  “It makes me feel like a shark getting its teeth cleaned by pilot fish.” It was weird and far too personal.

  His eyes danced, and though he bit his lip, she could see a grin peeking around the edges of his mouth.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Hot shame burned her face. She ducked her head and tried to back up, but the bathroom counter dug into her spine.

  The pressure of his fingertips on her chin made her face him again, leading her to believe he wanted eye contact. There were rules for that which she’d had to learn. Three seconds counted slowly in your head. Less and people thought you were hiding something. Longer and you made them uncomfortable. She’d gotten passably goo
d at it. Now, however, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to see what he thought of her. She shut her eyes.

  “I was laughing at your analogy. You’re very funny.”

  “Oh.” She hazarded a glance at his face and found sincerity there. People said that to her sometimes, and she never understood it. She didn’t know how to be funny. It only ever happened by accident.

  “Instead of thinking of sharks at the dentist, think of me caressing your mouth. Concentrate on how it feels. Will you let me show you?”

  She nodded once. That was why they were here, after all.

  He bent toward her mouth once again, and she fisted her hands against his chest and braced herself. Instead of pushing his tongue between her lips, he kissed her like he had before, more drugging closed-mouth kisses. These she could do. These she liked. They rained upon her mouth in an unhurried procession. Some of her stress drained away, and her fingers uncurled.

  Wet heat stroked over her bottom lip. His tongue. She knew it was his tongue, but closed-mouth kisses made her forget. Another stroke, and shivery sensations cascaded outward. More kisses. In between aching presses of his lips, his tongue caressed her, making her skin tingle.

  Soon he was seducing her mouth, stroking her bottom lip, the top lip, teasing the crease. Maybe she parted her lips. Maybe she wanted him to go further. But he didn’t. The closed-mouth kisses she’d liked so much in the beginning were no longer enough. She tried to capture his tongue, to take it into herself, but he evaded her. He brushed at her lips with maddening strokes, dipped inside for the merest second, withdrew, and she kneaded his shoulders in frustration.

  Over and over again, he gave her a brief taste of salt and heat, and then retreated. Without consciously deciding to do it, she sealed her mouth with his and touched her tongue to his. His taste flooded her senses. Butterflies exploded in her stomach and sped through her veins. Her legs went weak, but his arms tightened around her, keeping her from falling.