Stella

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Sometimes I wonder if there are people who truly enjoy parties. I know there must be; people wouldn’t throw them otherwise. But at some point in every party I’ve been to, a sense of misery always seems to settle over it. As if everyone is trying desperately to convince everyone else that they’re having fun, while on the inside, they’re counting down the minutes until they can leave.

Maybe it’s the parties I go to in New York. Often, it’s for work, and they are an exercise in active voyeurism. I swear, people are more interested in watching than conversing. Which is why I prefer dinner parties where I can eat good food and talk.

Unfortunately, I’m stuck in a penthouse forty floors up and surrounded by people who look as though the lights are on but nobody’s home. And I’m struck by the feeling that we’re all actors on a stage.

“No wonder you asked me to be your date,” I murmur to Richard as we stop by a bar set up before a picture window. “I think you’d be half out of your mind if you had to circulate alone in this crowd.”

He chuckles and tucks me closer to his side. “You know me well, little rose.”

The Frenchman looks like an older, grayer version of Idris Elba and is one of the hottest chefs in Manhattan. He could get any woman he wants to accompany him, but soon after meeting him, I discovered that, outside of the kitchen, he is intensely shy and hates dating. But, like most people, that doesn’t mean he isn’t lonely. That’s where I come in. I can offer Richard companionship without the strings he finds stifling.

Sometimes Richard asks me to meet him at his place to watch TV or a movie. A simple thing that he doesn’t get to do very often but acutely needs in his life. Sometimes, I accompany him to functions he must attend to keep up appearances but doesn’t want to actually talk to many people. At this point, I consider him an actual friend, but Richard insists on paying me for my time regardless.

Even though he tells me it’s because it wouldn’t feel right to take advantage of my time, it chafes a little. I have numerous “friends” I’ve met through my job. But not a single one who is real.

Almost every damn day of my life I’m interacting with people, making them feel a little more loved, giving them a little happiness, and yet I suddenly feel like the loneliest person in New York.

Shaking myself out of it, I offer Richard a bright smile and accept the glass of champagne he offers. I ask, “Whose party is this?”

Richard sips his champagne, makes a face at the glass for some unknowable reason, then glances my way. “A music producer named Pete.” His French accent makes the name sound like “beet.” Richard gives me a lazy shrug. “No last name that I know of.”

I take a closer look around the room. The more I study the guests, the clearer it becomes—most of these people are famous. Models, actors, musicians. I’m pretty sure the guy in the corner is a rapper. And the woman with pale blue hair is definitely a pop star.

Fame. There’s a look to it. It isn’t always beautiful, but we’re attracted to it regardless, little moths to the flame.

I don’t want to be impressed. Fawning over the famous feels diminishing, as if I’m somehow saying that I’m less than they are. Except I am impressed. I admire talent and tenacity. But the idea of being at a party filled with famous people makes my indigo-blue consignment store sheath dress seem a little too shabby. It irritates me.

Without my permission, my mind drifts to John. I should really call him Jax. He’s the only truly famous person I’ve had any prolonged interaction with. And yes, I’m often irritated around him. But it’s different. He’s like a burr under my skin, making me feel too much. I think about him too much—when I wake, at odd moments throughout the day, when I go to sleep, right now.

Is it because of his fame? Maybe. Except, I usually forget he is the famous Jax Blackwood. He’s just … John. Annoying, funny, way too hot for his own good John.

John, who asked me if I was a whore. Bastard asshole dickbag. I don’t want to think about him anymore.

I accept a tart from a passing waitress. Richard inspects his own with another frown.

“Why are you glaring at all the food and drinks?” I ask him before popping the pastry into my mouth. An explosion of flavors assails my tongue. Tart, sweet, peppery, creamy, buttery. I’m hard pressed not to moan.

A gleam enters his eyes. “Good, no?”

“Oh, yes,” I tell him.

“Now the champagne,” he orders.

I comply and the flavors intensify, the champagne crisp and bubbly and refreshing.

“My staff is catering as a favor to Pete,” Richard says, almost smug. “Strawberry tart with pink peppercorn crème anglaise. It is best with champagne.”

“And you knew they’d be circulating these tarts now, didn’t you?” I wave down another waitress without shame. I’m never going to be model skinny and I’m not even going to try. “Freaking delicious.”

Richard chuckles at my enthusiasm. “Of course it is. This is my food.”

“When are you going to give me a cooking lesson?” I ask him, my mouth half full of strawberry goodness.

Ever the gentleman, Richard tucks my arm in his as we circulate. “Now, my dear Stella, I must warn you, I am an exceedingly difficult taskmaster.” He gives me a sly wink. “Are you certain you are ready for my lessons?”

I laugh lightly. “You honestly think I’d turn down lessons from the great Richard Dubious?”

In exchange for putting up with his insane work hours—not that I mind since I’m paid handsomely—he offered to teach me to cook. Something I really want to learn. I can do the basics, but cooking well is beyond my skill set.

His eyes gleam. “You’d be a fool if you did.”

“Don’t worry, I expect you to comply within two weeks’ time or face my wrath.”

Richard laughs, but whatever he says is lost on me because I’ve spotted the one man who manages to haunt me wherever I go.

Jax Blackwood stands in the center of a large group of people, all of whom are laughing and hanging on his every word. He looks every inch the rocker now. His clothes aren’t fancy—a black button-down and black jeans, but they fit his hard body to perfection and are clearly high end. A thick black leather cuff wraps around his left wrist and chunky silver rings adorn some of his long fingers.

Those rings glint in the light as he runs a hand through his hair, sending it spiking in wild angles. That gesture I’m familiar with. I almost smile when I see it.

Almost. Because there is a stunning redhead clutching his arm. Her hair is a dark honey auburn that contrasts sharply with her pale skin and is pulled back in a severe ponytail that highlights the symmetry of her features. She’s tall and thin and wearing impossibly high Jimmy Choo heels. Those heels, with rainbow sequins and fluffy little feathers on the toes, should look ridiculous but instead make her look like some sort of Park Avenue fairy princess.

Unwelcome jealousy coats my insides like hot tar.

What’s worse is that even though he’s with a beautiful woman who could very well be a model, his eye is roving. Several other equally stunning women swarm around him and he doesn’t even bother to hide the way he checks out their assets. He holds court over these women, giving them his sly smile, the one that promises you’ll have a good time even if you’ll regret it later.

That smile, the easy way he fits in with these people, depresses me. For all his confidence, there’s a dullness in his eyes, as though he’s playing a part. Had he done it with me as well and I’d been too blinded by him to see it until now? Does he truly care about anything?

The fairy heel–wearing redhead laughs with John and then swats his arm, and I have my answer. He cares about her. It’s in the way his expression softens and his body leans into hers. They are comfortable with each other in a way that none of the hangers-on around them are. These two are a couple.

The knowledge sits like a block of ice in my chest. All the times I’ve butted heads with John, I never considered he had someone. He’d flirted with me as if maybe he’d been attracted to me the way I am to him, unwillingly but completely. Which makes me a fool; he was just having fun pushing my buttons.

I want to look away. I intend to look away. But, as if he feels my gaze, John lifts his head. Those famous green eyes that make fans weak in the knees lock on to me. And I’m just as susceptible as I’d been before. I feel it in my toes, between my legs, everywhere.

I’m not certain what I expected of him. A frown. A smirk.

He breaks into a wide grin, and my heart flips, my breath catching. Jesus, he should not be allowed to do that. It scrambles my brain and makes me want things that are impossible. I’m not supposed to like him anymore. I made a vow, damn it. But when he looks at me as though I’m the best thing he’s seen all day, it’s hard not to smile back.

Anticipation bubbles in my veins like the champagne I’ve been drinking, and it’s a struggle to stand still.

“Do you know Jax Blackwood?” Richard says at my ear.

I jolt, having forgotten he was there. With shocking difficulty, I tear my gaze away from John.

Richard’s eyes fill with fond warmth. “Or has he just noticed you and realized you’re the most beautiful woman he’ll ever have the pleasure to meet?”

“Old flatterer,” I say, laughing.

“I’m French,” he says with a shrug.

“Which means you grossly exaggerate a woman’s assets to appease her?” I’m only half teasing. I am well aware of my best features, and I’m happy enough with my body. But I also know that I am in no way the most beautiful woman in the room.

He makes a noise as if to say I’m being ridiculous. “I might have to pay for the pleasure of your company, but that does not mean I am blind. In fact, it makes me something of a connoisseur of your charms. You are utterly lovely, my dear.”

It’s my turn to make a noise. I’m not interested in Richard romantically, and I know him enough to realize he’s being kind. Yet again, he’s just driven home that we will never be anything more than a business arrangement.

Oblivious, he laughs at my sour face. “Tell me, then? How do you know Jax?”

“I’m her neighbor,” John says, just behind me.

My stomach plummets to my toes. Fuck. What had he heard? By the calculating look in his eyes, I’m guessing too much. There are only so many ways he can take what Richard said. My spine stiffens. Fuck it. I’m not explaining anything.

He holds my gaze. “Hey, Stella.”

The soft way he says my name catches me off guard. In contrast, my response is stilted and awkward. “Jax.”

He frowns at the use of his stage name, but then his brow smooths. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” He laughs. “Though I probably should have.”

He’s not far off. We keep colliding like we live in a small town instead of one of the biggest cities in the world.

I give him a thin smile, unable to think of a damn thing to say. He stares at me for a second, then turns his attention to Richard, giving him a stiff smile. “Hey, man. How’s the new restaurant coming along?”

They know each other? Of course they do.

Richard shakes John’s hand. “I am pleased. You haven’t yet come in for dinner.”

“A mistake I must rectify. I miss your food.”

Richard nods. “Perhaps you’ll bring Stella with you.”

It’s a struggle not to stomp on Richard’s foot.

John glances at me. Whatever he sees—perhaps, my oh hell no, don’t even think about it expression—has him smiling with fake enthusiasm and slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Can’t think of anyone I’d rather take with me.”

I grunt and dislodge the warm weight of his arm. Damn thing feels like silk and steel along the back of my neck. The second it’s gone, I miss his touch, which really annoys me.

“How do you two know each other?” I ask Richard, because I don’t want to pay attention to the smug rocker at my side.

“I was going to ask the same of you two,” John cuts in. His arm brushes against mine and the little hairs on my skin lift with a shiver. I want to press closer, ease that strange, unfulfilled awareness that he’s created by touching me. I remain steady, pretending I’m unmoved.

Richard’s lips quirk as he takes it all in, but when he speaks, his voice is as light and pleasant as always. “I am a great fan of Kill John.”

“And I am a great fan of anything Richard chooses to put on my plate,” John adds happily. “He also gave Rye and me cooking lessons a while back. And I can say with all honesty, I was the better student.”

“Humble too,” I mutter. Of course John had coveted lessons from Richard. I’m suddenly feeling a lot less unique.

Richard chuckles. “No, it is true. Rye was completely hopeless.”

John’s expression is bright with laughter. “He was afraid of the raw chicken. Had a total fit about it and kept trying to carve it without actually having to touch it.”

Both men dissolve into laughter.

“Richard Dubious,” exclaims a crisp feminine voice, cutting through their deep chuckles. “I thought that was you.”

John’s redhead has found us. She practically flings herself into Richard’s arms and gives him a hug. Richard kisses her cheeks. “Brenna, darling. You are a vision.”

I glance toward the front door with longing.

“Old flatterer,” she says with a swat to his shoulder.

Surprised that she used the same words as I had, I can only stare. She has the same innate confidence that Jax has and a sense of style I envy. She catches my eye and gives me a friendly smile. “I’m sorry. I completely interrupted.” Her catlike eyes narrow. “Have we met? You look familiar to me.”

John’s arm touches mine again. “Brenn, this is Stella Grey.”

As if she should know me.

Weirdly, she looks at me as though she does. “No shit? What a small world.”

I glance at John, confused as hell, but Brenna sticks out her hand. “I’m Brenna James. I work with Scottie and the boys.”

John snorts at the term “boys.”

I ignore that and shake Brenna’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

It’s almost true. Petty me still remembers the way she and John hung on each other. Are they a couple? If that’s the case, I feel sorry for her because John is definitely an indiscriminate flirt.

“Scottie had me send you the info packet,” she tells me.

“Are you responsible for the gift basket?” I ask her, warming.

She grins. “A girl’s gotta feel welcome, doesn’t she?”

Okay, I can’t hate her. She’s awesome, and I’m a bitter pill for being jealous over a guy I have vowed not to even like. I grin back at her. “Thank you so much. It was the nicest gift I’ve ever received.”

Which is the truth. Unexpected gifts are always the best ones.

John frowns, and I can’t tell if he thinks I’m being fractious or is just annoyed by me chatting with Brenna. Either way, I return his look. I’m not the ass-nugget in this relationship—or whatever this thing is between us.

It’s nothing. Nothing.

He catches my eyes again, and his expression clears into something oddly satisfied. I don’t get him at all. My confusion turns to alarm when he grabs my hand and clasps it with a firm grip.

“Excuse us for a second,” he tells Richard and Brenna, already pulling me away.

“What the hell?” I hiss, stumbling along behind him. I don’t tug free because, while my brain and mouth protest, my body has clearly not gotten the memo. Oh no, the foul betrayer is humming with a heady anticipation. My senses narrow down to the rough feel of his hand, how it’s also warm and strong and so large that it dwarfs my own. I catch a faint whiff of cologne or maybe body wash. I can’t tell—all I know is that it’s smoky and delicious, and I want to bury my nose into the crook of his neck to pull in more of that scent.

Madness.

He leads me to a back hall where the lights have been left low, and I tense. “Where the hell are we going?”

He glances over his shoulder, his lips tilting in a half smile. “Where snoops can’t overhear us.”

At the end of the hall, he tucks us in a corner, hemming me in between him and a table displaying an art piece that probably cost more than my annual salary but looks like a melting glass head.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here,” I say, eyeing the way we came.

He huffs out a laugh. “God, you’re adorable.” When I glare, he grins back. “Babe, I could make use of Pete’s bedroom all night and he wouldn’t bat an eye. He’s my producer.”

“You make him sound like a pimp,” I mutter, then tense. Shit. I do not want to venture into the subject of pimps and prostitutes.

Oddly, John doesn’t say a word but simply shrugs.

“This is rude to Brenna,” I go on when he stays quiet.

“Brenna?” A wrinkle forms between his brows.

“Yes, Brenna. You just left her there and ran off with me.”

The wrinkle gets deeper. “Brenna can take care of herself.”

Unbelievable. “She’s your date. You don’t run off with another woman when you’re on a date!”

For a long, too silent moment, he stares at me. Then a smile spreads over his face. “Brenna is most definitely not my date. She’s like a sister to me. An annoying, bossy little sister.”

“Oh.” Shit.

“Yeah, ‘oh.’” His grin is downright smug now. “But let’s go back to why you thought she was my date.”

I shrug as though I’m not completely embarrassed. “You looked … familiar with each other.”

“Well, we are … familiar with each other.” He’s not even trying to hide his amusement. “She’s Killian’s cousin. She knows all my shit and will hold it over my head without flinching. She’s evil like that.” He tilts his head, catching my gaze when I try to look away. “So that’s why you made that face, like you’d sucked a rotten lemon.”

“A rotten lemon?”

“Yeah, all green and puckered.”

“Wouldn’t that be a lime?”

“No. Limes do not carry the sour taste of jealousy.” He wags his brows in goofy triumph.

“I am not jealous.”

John shrugs, still way too pleased. “It’s okay if you are. I found myself hit with an unexpected wave of it when I saw you with Richard.”

Wait. What?

An inarticulate sound leaves me.

He looks down at our hands, still somehow linked, and rubs his thumb in a slow circle around my palm. The edge of his thumb is rough and hard with calluses, almost scratching my skin. My thighs clench.

He makes another slow exploration, his attention wholly on my hand. “You’re so soft.”

“Aren’t most women’s hands soft?” I quip, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest as he continues to stroke my palm, the backs of my fingers.

“I don’t really hold hands.” He glances up, and I’m hit with the full force of his green gaze. “Been thinking about you, Stells.”

My insides swoop. Stupid insides. I don’t say a word but stared back with a hard look.

His wide lips quirk. “I’m sorry I was a dick. I didn’t mean to offend you. I have a bad habit of speaking without thinking.”

He still has hold of my hand. As if it’s his. I can’t have him thinking that. But he’s warm and the little touches he gives send pulses of pleasure to different spots on my body. Until this moment, I had no idea how sensitive my hands were. How is it that a gentle stroke along the side of my index finger feels like a stroke up the inside of my thigh? A press of his thumb to the meat of my palm makes my breasts swell as if cupped.

With a sigh, I lift my hand and deliberately extract it from his. He lets me go but watches me, all but waiting for an argument.

“Thank you,” I say, somewhat stiffly because I miss his warmth. “I understand. I say stupid things all the time.” A flush hits my face when he grins. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.” The smile fades. “Thing is, Button, I know I’m going to screw up again. I tend to do that.”

“Well, knowing is half the battle.”

He laughs, a soft, almost distracted sound. It fades to heavy silence as he worries the corner of his bottom lip with this teeth. Tension hums along his lean frame, and when he speaks, his words are tight and fast like he’s forcing them free. “I can’t get you off my mind. I’ve tried. But nothing works.”

My heartbeat kicks up. “You can’t?”

John leans a shoulder against the wall. “I can’t let my curiosity go. I’m trying. Then I see you here with Richard, who obviously wants to fuck you—”

A shocked laugh bursts from me. “Oh, please. He does not.”

John’s dark brows wing up. “You’re joking, right?”

“Richard is a friend.” Who won’t stop talking about paying me, but still. “That’s all he’s ever been.”

“Stells, you must be blind or in some serious denial. He looks at you like he’s mentally taste-testing his sauces off your tits.”

Instantly, my nipples go stiff, but it isn’t from picturing Richard doing that. No, my mind sticks on a certain rocker who glances down at my chest like he wants to do the same thing to me.

A flush washes over his cheeks, and his jaw tightens when he meets my eyes. “You have to know this. You’re too sharp to miss something like that.”

I refrain from scoffing, but barely. “If he was so into me, why did he practically push you into taking me to his restaurant?”

“To see if I want to fuck you too.”

A strangled sound sticks in my throat. I swallow hard and glance toward the party. If I run for it, will he chase me? Probably.

Silence stretches between us, and John clearly bites back a smile. “You’re not going to ask the obvious question?”

Heat spreads over my skin. “No.”

I sound like the utter chicken I am. I can’t help it. In my head, I like to think I’m badass but reality has me thinking Abort! Abort! Hot rock star will set fire to your panties and you will burn.

My lips pinch at my own absurdity.

John ducks his head to meet my eyes. His are bright with amusement. “Hmmm,” he angles his body into mine, “here’s the thing. I hear Richard saying he pays for your company and—”

“You’re unbelievable.” I snort and take a step back. “I knew that’s what this was about.”

“No. You don’t understand. I’m worried for you, okay?” He grabs my hand again and gives my arm a little shake. “It isn’t safe. I don’t care what anyone says, or how well you vet your clients. I’ve seen escorts at parties. Places like this.” His free arm swings out toward the hall. “There are fucked-up, bad dudes who will do shit to women without flinching. And believe me, they don’t look like villains. You won’t always see them coming. It just takes one bad egg, Stells.”

He appears so genuinely upset that my irritation thaws. But he’s on a roll and doesn’t notice.

“I’m not trying to shame you or police you or whatever it is you thinking I’m doing here. Yeah, okay, I fucking hate the idea of those guys paying for the ‘pleasure of your company,’ as Richard put it—which, can I just say this now? What the fuck was that sleazy shit? He should be better than that. You realize this, right? I mean, fuck.”

John pushes a hand through his hair and the thick strands stick up every which way. “Your body should be a privilege, not a product.”

I fight a smile because he is adorable up there on his soapbox, swinging his sword for me. I see the second it registers that I’m not fighting him. He blinks a few times, his pugnacious expression turning wry. “You were just going to let me go on and on, weren’t you?”

“It was a lovely speech.” I lose hold of my smile. “How could I halt it?”

His eyes narrow, and it’s clear he’s trying not to laugh.

My smile grows, but I keep my voice low. “I’m not an escort, John.”

The hard set of his shoulders eases and somehow he’s closer. “Okay. Good. I’m glad.”

His stilted delivery is awkward, totally unlike his natural ease, and I have to fight a laugh. He obviously sees my struggle and grins wide. The air between us shifts. I’m filled with a strange giddiness, wanting to laugh for the fun of it, but I’m also too warm, my limbs oddly heavy as if simple movements might be too much for me.

His tone turns soft and cajoling, teasing the truth out of me. “Are you going to tell me what you do?” When I say nothing, the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I see. You’re going to torture me a bit.”

The warm, fuzzy feeling grows as I shrug. “Torture feels apropos in this scenario.”

He hums again, taking another step toward me. “What makes you think I won’t like being tortured by you?”

The heat of his body and the scent of his skin makes my head light and my pulse pound. How did it get to this point where the highlight of my day is flirting with Jax Blackwood? Despite the thrill, I know I’m in over my head. I haven’t gone out on a date in months because I form attachments, I get emotional, and then I hurt when they inevitably leave. And this man will leave. He is as bright and fleeting as a camera flash. I’ll be left with the image of him seared into my memory and nothing more.

I tell myself all of this, the voice in my head as stern as possible. But it doesn’t make me back away. It doesn’t stop my body from somehow straining toward his without even moving. Because it might be stupid of me, but I want to feel something that isn’t planned. Something, for however briefly, that’s real.

He’s too attuned to me not to notice. John’s lids lower as his attention slides down my body before easing back up to my face. Slowly, he rests his forearm on the wall beside my head. “Tell me, Stella,” he murmurs.

“No,” I whisper back, flirting, even though I shouldn’t.

His biceps bunch as he leans in, a smile dancing on his lips. “Tell.”

My breasts graze his chest, and I feel it in my toes.

“You’re crowding me.” I hate how breathy I sound.

“Can’t help it.” His voice is a rumble, the heat of his breath playing over my skin. He ducks his head, drawing close until our lips nearly brush, and when he speaks again, his tone is almost conversational, except for the husky quality that touches deep within my core. “You smell like strawberries. Fucking delicious.”

My lids flutter, and I swallow hard. “Ordinarily, I’d call you out on that cliché but since I’ve been eating strawberries, you aren’t exactly wrong.”

His chuckle is slow and easy, as he eases back and his gaze slowly travels over my face. “Were they sweet, Stella Button?”

He’s looking at my mouth like he might try to find out. My lips tremble in response, and John tracks the movement, his breathing getting deeper, faster. “You have two freckles on your lips. One on the top lip and one on the bottom corner.”

Those damn freckles. They were the bane of my adolescence. I hid them with lipstick and silently cursed whenever someone mentioned them.

Freckles don’t have any feelings, but I swear it’s as if he’s touching them.

“You’re just noticing this?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but it comes out weak and thready.

His own lips quirk. “Oh, I noticed. It’s distracting as hell. They’re like two little dots of butter toffee. Makes me want to lick them, get a taste.”

Oh, God. Lick them, please. I can almost feel it. I want to feel it.

No. Bad Stella. Behave.

John’s lips part a fraction like he just might take that taste.

“Back off,” I whisper. And yet somehow my traitorous hands find their way to his sides, running over the waistband of his jeans, holding him there.

John makes a sound deep in his throat and tilts his hips, pressing them against mine. A distinctly thick bulge nudges my belly. Both of us lose a breath, and then he’s closer, his cheek touching my temple. “You’ll have to let me go first.”

My thumbs slide under the edge of his shirt and find smooth, taut skin. A tremor goes through his body. I try to think, search for what the hell we’ve been talking about.

His lips brush the crest of my cheek as he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me what you do, Stella. You know you want to.”

My smile feels illicit. Somehow the action is directly tied to all my happy parts, making them draw hot and tight. “I don’t think I do.”

Another hum. “Liar. You’re dying to.”

A soft laugh leaves me. It feels good doing this with him, teasing and buffing up against each other—two objects unable to keep apart. My fingertip skims along his skin, tracing the edge of his jeans, and he shivers.

“Button …” It’s a warning.

I should heed it. I know I should. But he’s warm and solid and smells like my best dream. “Yes?”

He lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I forgot what we were saying.”

We both laugh, low and easy.

“You want to know what I do?” I say, a bit hazy, rubbing my cheek against his.

“Yeah.” It’s a whisper of sound at my ear. “Yeah.”

Languid heat melts over me. I sink against the wall, that thick, hard cock of his pressing into the mound of my sex the only thing keeping me standing. A low-lying pulse of pleasure centers there. I push against it to alleviate the pressure, and we both make a sound—pained, helpless, needy.

John rocks against me, barely a movement, but enough to make my lids flutter.

My head is swimming. “I …” I lick my lips, trying to focus.

“You …?” His lips tickle the edge of my jaw.

“I’m …” God, he presses a kiss at the corner of my eye. “I’m …” I’m sinking into him. His lips part and brush like wings along my skin. My fingertips slide over his waist, catching goosebumps. Far away from us, someone laughs.

The honey thickness of John’s voice is at my ear. “You’re …?”

My heavy lids open. The world is a blur. John’s so close, the silk of his burnished brown hair tickling my temple, the scent of warm skin and soap teasing my nostrils. “A friend,” I say.

He stills, not tense but really listening now. “A friend?”

I’m clearer too, but not by much. My fingers still gently trace the edge of his jeans. “Yes. A professional friend. If someone needs a friend, they can hire me.”

I feel the jolt of surprise that moves through him. I hear the little gurgle in his throat. Our bodies brush as he lifts his head enough to meet my eyes. His green gaze is a bit hazy and moving over my face as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re a professional friend?” His voice is husky, cracking at the end.

The sound of his shock has the heat draining from me, leaving my muscles cold and tight. I frown, peering at him. “Yes.”

He stares back, his lips parted but no words coming out. For a moment, it seems he sways. Then he blinks rapidly, high color flooding those perfectly sculpted cheeks. “I …” He takes a step back, his movements stiff and awkward. “I …”

“You sound like me,” I tease, weakly, because my heart is pounding. He’s looking at me like I just landed with the Mother Ship.

John attempts to smile but fails utterly. The best he can do is a wobbly tilt of his lips. He runs a hand through his hair and squeezes the back of his neck, his gaze darting around as if he doesn’t know where he is. And then his eyes meet mine again. Or they try to—he quickly focuses on my face instead.

“I have to go,” he blurts out.

Before I can blink, he’s turning around and striding away as if the place is set to blow.