Burn for You

by Jillian Leeson

  I’ve been moaning and groaning all morning, but Ryder is relentless. He picks out clothes, shoes, bags, jewelry, and lingerie, insisting to buy them for me. I think he is trying to make me feel better after what happened at the Hainan show. It did freak me out, but somehow I had this weird feeling that I’d be okay; that he’d come for me.

  I’ve come to realize that this shopping spree is as much for him as for me—to assuage his guilt for losing me at the show. He keeps on shaking his head, saying, “What would have happened to you if it weren’t for that Cecil guy?” Even when I tell him to stop blaming himself, he doesn’t want to listen. So that is why I put up with him hauling me from store to store.

  Now we find ourselves in the Prada boutique. I only know because the Chinese customers that crowd the store can’t stop cackling about their latest tassel bags. We can’t seem to escape from them in luxury boutiques like these: wealthy women from Mainland China, branded from head to toe, lining up for the cash registers to add to their extensive designer wardrobes. Prada even imposes a buying restriction: two items per customer.

  I sink down on the velvet couch, plonking handfuls of shopping bags on the floor beside me. Tipping my head back, I close my eyes. If only we had stayed in bed this morning. A shiver runs through me when I think of how I woke—by the barest of touches trailing down my spine. It slowed when it reached my lower back, and settled for an instant before it veered off to trace the curve of my buttock. Even though my stomach was pressed into the mattress, it did nothing to fend off the swirls within, reaching down to produce a wave of heat between my legs.

  I rolled to my side, and my back collided with the hardness of a sculpted chest. The hand that felt so tantalizing on my spine, started its teasing path around my hip toward my stomach, down… down…

  Something hard lands in my lap.

  “What do you think of this one?”

  I groan loudly, ticked off for the disruption to my sensual daydream. My eyes flick open to settle on a red leather tote bag embellished with silver grommets, crystals, and of course, Prada’s trademark inverted triangle.

  “Ryder, no. This is the third bag you want to buy me. I’ve had enough. I don’t want any more.”

  “This bag is great for shopping. It will look good on you. Just try it on.”

  Sighing, I sling it around my shoulder.

  “It’s just like any other bag. And I don’t need another one.”

  I yank it off and shove it back in his hands, rolling my eyes when I spot the price tag: six thousand US dollars. For a shopping tote.

  “Let’s just go.”

  “I’m going to buy it for you anyway.”

  “Please don’t. I don’t want you to waste so much money on me.”

  “Beautiful, you deserve only the best.”

  I snatch the bag away from him and force it into the hands of one of the perpetually smiling sales girls.

  “I know you mean well, but no more of this. Let’s go.”

  I take his hand and pull him out of the store, out of the Landmark shopping center—supposedly an exclusive shopping haven, but sheer hell for me. When we exit the center, the hot, humid air envelops us as if we are stepping into a sauna.

  The noise of the traffic assaulting my ears, I look up at the modern skyscrapers. We could have been in New York if not for the lofty mountains rising behind the high-rises. Ryder yanks me to his side—I’ve almost crashed into a fast-walking man in a suit, a phone pressed to his ear. Dozens of other well-dressed business people push past us from all sides, when I spot a red sign: Central MTR.

  I pull Ryder towards it. “Let’s try the subway. I want to check out a few places I found online.”

  He shakes his head. “We can drive. The car is right here. It will be a lot safer and more comfortable.”

  “Come on. We’ve got to try out the local mode of transport.” I let go of his hand and run towards the sign, weaving through the mass of people. The staircase leading down to the station is just in front of me when I feel an iron grip around my waist.

  “Don’t ever do that to me again.” Ryder’s hold on me tightens, and when I look up at him, his eyes are dark and stormy.

  “What?”

  “Don’t run away from me. It’s so damn crowded here. I could lose you again.”

  A hot flame is welling up inside me. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m a big girl, I can look after myself.”

  He raises his dark eyebrow. “Can you now?”

  “What are the chances of it happening another time? We’re in the middle of a big city, there are so many people around. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “Just stay close to me. Don’t you dare let me go.”

  His eyes soften, and with them, my heart. It should annoy me, his overprotective behavior, but no one has ever cared as much for me as he has, so I utter a soft, “Okay.”

  Hand in hand, we walk down the stairs of the subway station to get tickets, and we follow the hordes of people down and down the numerous escalators until we reach the platform. Ryder holds onto me when we get into the packed train, one hand on the overhead handle, one arm so tightly around my waist, it is almost painful. His eyes are scanning around the cabin, no doubt for potential threats. Smiling, I squeeze his arm. I’ll play along if it makes him feel better.

  When we emerge from deep underground, the streets in this part of Hong Kong look completely different from where we got on the train. It’s just as crowded, but the high-rises here are gray and grimy, and are covered with screaming ads and store signs. I breathe in the smell of fried garlic and ginger mixed with exhaust fumes, which reminds me of New York’s Chinatown. Even the people milling the streets look similar—ordinary. I almost feel at home here.

  A beggar sits just outside the station, holding a cardboard sign with Chinese characters. When we walk past, I notice he is sitting on a wooden board with wheels on it—he doesn’t have legs.

  “Do you have any change?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  Ryder scrambles in his pocket, pulling out a stack of local bills and hand them to the beggar, who thanks him profusely.

  I smile up at Ryder. “Now that’s worth spending your money on.”

  “I know, and you’re right. But I also like spoiling you. You deserve it after putting up with me. I know I haven’t given you as much attention as I should, and I’m sorry. But I’m trying to make it up to you.”

  I trace my fingers along the angle of his scruffy jaw.

  “I don’t care about stuff in those stores. I don’t care where we are.” I wave around the busy street, strewn with litter. “I like it here just as much as any upmarket mall. As long as you’re with me. Just being with you makes me happy.”

  He pulls me against his hard chest, and I close my eyes. I could stay in his arms like this all day, if he didn’t whisper in my ear: “Time to get me some food to eat, woman. I’m starving.”

  Grinning, I unfold my tourist map and lead him to a restaurant I’ve been dying to visit: One Dim Sum. When we get there, it turns out to be not much more than a hole-in-the-wall. After getting a ticket stub and joining a short line on the sidewalk, we are ushered in and sit down at one of the dozen or so tables for two. The waiter plonks down a pot of tea and two cups on the table as we peruse the menu: a simple printed sheet that serves double duty as a placemat.

  Ryder cocks a brow. “Dim sum, huh? What’s so special about this place?”

  “It has a Michelin star. And look at the prices, it’s so cheap.”

  He bursts out laughing. “Look at you. Who would have thought you’d be talking Michelin stars? Snobbish much?”

  “Hey, us poor people take what we can get. Especially when we can eat a plate of dumplings for two bucks.”

  “You, poor? Not any longer, beautiful.” He winks at me. “It’s funny how you look down on designer clothes, but take me here to eat branded food.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Just wait till you try this. We’re lucky to get seat
ed so quickly. Most people have to wait more than two hours. There’s a reason for the star.” I point at the window, where a long line is forming.

  “Go ahead, surprise me. I can’t wait.”

  I pick up the order sheet, which is full of numbers and Chinese characters, and carefully pencil in my choices, matching them against the menu. After I hand it to the harried waiter, it isn’t long before our table is filled to the brim with plates of mouthwatering dim sum items: steamed pork and shrimp dumplings, rolled rice noodle sheets filled with beef and chicken, turnip cake, fried dumplings with salted meat, fried spring rolls with leek, baked barbecue pork buns, steamed egg cake, and glutinous rice wrapped in lotus leaf.

  I tuck right in, and so does Ryder. The steamed dumplings are juicy, tender and succulent, the fried dumplings perfectly crisp on the outside and gooey in the middle, and the rice noodles soft, thin and slippery—melt-in-the-mouth.

  I’m in food heaven. Nothing like scrumptious food to forget all your problems.

  Popping another fried dumpling in my mouth, I raise my eyebrows at Ryder. “So?”

  He nods slowly. “Yeah. It’s good.”

  I slap my hands on the table. “Oh, come on. It’s awesome!”

  “I agree, it’s really good, but is this the Prada of dim sum? Hmm, I’m not sure.”

  We both burst out laughing, and my heart soars. I love hearing his deep, throaty laugh. I haven’t heard enough of it in the past weeks.

  After we’ve polished off every single morsel and paid the measly twenty-five US dollars for the meal, we start exploring the area of Mongkok, famous for its street markets. Little stalls taking up whole streets offer the most curious knick-knacks at bargain prices—key rings, watches, hats, souvenirs, paintings, knock-off handbags. Judging from the interactions of the vendors with their customers, bargaining is the norm. We roam around the markets, picking up souvenirs.

  I notice a sign for a tattoo parlor, and I point it out to Ryder. “Maybe I should get a new tattoo, as a memory of our trip.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Hey, why don’t you get one, too? We could get matching ones.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t want anything burned into my skin. I’m cool enough as it is.” He winks, and I can’t help brushing my fingers over his bulging biceps. Secretly, I’m glad he doesn’t want one. I love his perfect, unblemished skin.

  But I still scowl at him, one hand on my hip. “Is that what you think about my tattoos? That I got them to be cool?”

  He shakes his head. “No, yours are different. They’re meaningful to you. They symbolize how you’ve overcome adversity. And I think they’re beautiful. Just like you.”

  God, at times like this I realize how lucky I am to have him—the sexiest, sweetest, most caring man alive. I grasp a handful of his shirt and pull him toward me to crush my mouth against his. His lips are warm, firm, and I stroke his parted lips with my tongue, eliciting a groan from deep inside his throat. That’s all it takes for him to take charge, to invade my mouth with his hot, wet tongue.

  The collision of our tongues makes a lightning bolt zip all the way down to that most sensitive spot between my thighs. It seems this affects him just as much, judging from the hardness pressing against my stomach. But when I try to deepen the kiss, sidling up closer against him, he breaks away from me, resting his forehead against mine. The noise of the busy streets around us returning, we stare at each other, breathing hard.

  “Later, beautiful. I promise.”

  He grasps my hand, and we continue exploring the hustle and bustle of the street markets. At a stall that offers hundreds of watches, in all sizes, colors, and styles, he buys me a cute silver watch, its face shaped like a heart, with interlinked little hearts for its band. In return, I buy him a red Ferrari cap. He puts it on at once, sporting a boyish grin.

  “Thanks so much for this. I love it. It’s one of the best presents I’ve ever had.”

  He plants a kiss on my forehead. “But it does remind me. I better give that guy Cecil a call, to confirm tonight.”

  He gets on the phone while I hunt for more bargains in the street stalls. I just add my latest purchase to one of the many plastic bags I’m carrying when Ryder puts his cell back in his pocket and gazes up at the smog-filled sky.

  “What is it? What did he say?” I ask.

  He drops his gaze, fixing it on me. “Cecil told me to make sure we’re early. Some nutcase is coming in his two-million dollar Aston Martin One-77. And tonight he’s going to put it up as stakes for a single race.”

  Ryder

  Cecil was right—this meeting is going to blow my mind.

  I am looking at the most fantastic collection of sports cars I have ever laid my eyes on in my life. The most exclusive brands are represented—Ferrari, Lamborghini, Porsche, Maserati, Bugatti, Aston Martin, Lotus—, their combined value running into the tens of millions of dollars. What astonishes me most is not that some of them are limited editions, but a lot of them are the latest models, a few only released a couple of months ago at the International Geneva Motor Show.

  We arrived at this abandoned stretch of road after following the directions Cecil gave me over the phone. Crossing the border was tricky. In Hong Kong, which follows the British road system, we drove on the left side of the road with the driver’s seat on the right. But when we crossed to the mainland of China, I had to shift to the right side of the road, as in the US, but steer from the right-hand seat. It was awkward, to say the least, but I soon got used to it in the hour it took to arrive here, just outside the city of Shenzhen.

  I look over at Elle. Judging from her gaping mouth, she is just as blown away as I am by the impressive display of cars, their shiny, bright colors—mostly red and yellow— sparkling in the moonlight. Surrounding them are their drivers: young Chinese guys, some of them looking like teenagers, not older than sixteen, seventeen. I wonder if they even have driving licenses. Glossy-haired, designer-clad girls hang on their arms as pretty accessories.

  “Is this for real?” Elle points at the cars. “What show-offs. Unbelievable.”

  “Hey, this is pretty amazing. Some of those limited editions are almost impossible to get hold of. And to see them all in one spot, it’s like a guy’s wettest dream come true.”

  She rolls her eyes, and I can’t suppress a grin. From her furtive glances at the cars, I can tell she’s impressed, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. I know she appreciates state-of-the-art technology as much as I do.

  “No doubt it is. And I admit some of these look pretty cool. It’s the attitude I have a problem with,” she says.

  “Who cares about them? Let’s just check out their wheels.”

  I park our rented Ferrari, an older model Berlinetta, alongside a brand-new 458 Spider. Feeling a little self-conscious, I step out among the line-up of exclusive sports vehicles. But the geek in me soon takes over, and I start salivating when I roam around and inspect the cars, some of which are so new I haven’t even seen them yet. I feel like I’m let loose in the world’s biggest toy store.

  Elle is right by my side, occasionally offering translations in my ear. It seems the owners are mostly bragging about the superiority of their wheels and how much they paid for them.

  “Happy?” she says.

  I nod, unable to hide the grin that is plastered on my face. “Yeah. But what really makes me happy is that you’re here to share this with me.”

  Smiling, she links her arm with mine. “I’ve got to say, it’s not as bad as I thought. Those kids may be a bunch of arrogant jerks, but they sure love their wheels. I can’t knock them for that.”

  “I knew you’d understand. Even though it’s hard for you to admit it.”

  She nudges me in the ribs. “Hey, you can’t blame me. It’s hard for a lefty like me. I’m doing my best here to fit into your corrupt billionaire lifestyle.”

  I draw her toward me, her back against my chest. Brushing away her hair to one side, I trail kisses down her soft, warm neck, her intoxic
ating scent filling my senses and wrapping itself around my heart.

  “I know. And that’s why I love you.”

  She lets out a giggle, something I rarely hear her do. It’s cute.

  “Hey, I think there’s someone you’d want to meet,” Elle says, pointing at a blue sports car to our far right. I follow her finger and notice a familiar figure leaning against a Maserati Grancabrio: Cecil.

  When he spots me, he waves and makes his way towards us.

  “Ryder, good to see you again. And your pretty girlfriend, too. I’m glad you could make it.”

  He nods to Elle, and I shake his outstretched hand. “I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. I feel somewhat underdressed coming in my rented wheels.” I gesture to the Berlinetta.

  “Don’t be—you’re our special guest. As you can see, we accept only the most exclusive sports cars, and all our members are hand-picked. Do you know you’re the first foreigner we’ve ever admitted to one of our meetings?”

  “Really? I’m certainly flattered, but why?”

  “Unlike some of your compatriots, you seem to know what you’re talking about. That’s what we need—real enthusiasts. And who knows, we may be looking to expand overseas. Tonight, however, is all about getting to know our members. And having a spin, of course. Let me introduce you to some people.”

  He walks ahead of us, and as the car owners greet him left and right, I discover Cecil is the chairman of the club. In no time he introduces me to most of the club members.

  “Ryder, meet my friend Blake. He’s the owner of the Sesto Elemento I was telling you about.”

  I shake hands with the spiked-haired owner, whose black, futuristic-looking Lamborghini glimmers behind him.

  “You’ve got good taste,” I say.

  Cecil puts his arm around the Sesto owner’s shoulders. “Blake here is a celebrity. A two-time MotoGP world champion.”