16
As Michael embraced a boneless, contented Stella, his heart stumbled around his chest like a drunken man.
That hadn’t been practice fucking for a practice relationship or pro bono fucking to prove he was better than his dad.
He’d fucked hundreds of women, but he’d never been so in tune with one woman’s body. He’d never been so desperate to please or so elated when she cried his name and came for him again and again and again.
He didn’t know what that had been, but it sure as hell hadn’t been fucking.
She hugged him tighter, pressed sloppy kisses to his shoulder and neck, and grinned up at him. She arabesqued her fingers on his chest—apparently this was not always a bad sign—and it tickled like hell.
He flattened her fingers against his heart to still their tapping and tried to put himself in a professional state of mind. “Look at you. I’m expecting another five-star review.”
“Six stars.” Her grin widened, and chocolate eyes shone at him and forgot to dart away, letting him really look at her for the first time that morning. It made him feel like he’d won something priceless, kicked the breath straight out of his lungs.
“You’re bad for my ego. It’s big enough as it is,” he made himself say in a light tone.
“You don’t act egotistical. You’re very modest but confident. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”
Love?
Sharpness panged inside his chest.
She could never love him. He felt the certainty with every fiber of himself. Love required trust, and only a fool would trust him. He was his father’s son.
But he could prove he was more if he did this right. That was all he could ask for. He glanced at the clock and was amazed to see it wasn’t even ten yet. The events of the morning had felt life-changing, but they’d only been awake for two hours.
“I’m starving, and I need coffee,” he said. “I also need to get my car. All of my clean clothes are in there.”
Mostly, he needed some space. She was getting too close, and he needed to put distance between them. He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans, fully aware of his audience’s appreciative gaze. He felt a little ridiculous about it, but maybe he did it slowly. Maybe he flexed his abs and biceps as he zipped his fly and buttoned his pants. Because really, putting on pants required a lot of muscle.
“Hurry up and get ready, Stella.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
“We’re going shopping. Couples do that on Sundays.”
Stella pursed her lips as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Michael had just opened up an entire new branch of apparel to her.
Yoga clothes.
In particular, yoga pants.
She was very possibly in heaven. The pants didn’t itch at all, and they were tight. She loved clothes that hugged her. Even better, they made her legs and butt look outstanding. She looked like a dancer. Or a yogi. Or some hybridized version of the two.
“Come out so I can see,” Michael said from outside the changing room.
Biting her lip to hide her smile, she opened the door and stepped out.
His crooked grin came out in full force, and his rare dimple winked. “Knew it.”
“Do you like it?” She smoothed a hand over her tummy and turned in a slow circle.
He stood up from the waiting chair and approached her, running appraising eyes over her curves. He slid a hand down the length of her neck to her shoulder and across the tight-fitting long sleeve so he could interlace their fingers. “I love it.”
“I’m sexy in this.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her near. “Very sexy.” He brushed his lips over hers and tickled his way to her ear and neck, making her squirm and bite back giggles that would have been decidedly unsexy.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a shopgirl watching her with open envy. The girl mouthed the words So lucky, and Stella grinned even though she had mixed feelings. None of this was real. She was paying for it. Not that she minded the expense. Michael was worth every penny.
“I assume you’re going to buy them?”
“One of every color.”
“I have to put my foot down. Not the fluorescent orange with yellow spots. It hurts me,” he said with a wince.
“No fluorescent orange and yellow, got it. Oh, they have dresses.” Her eyes rounded at the possibilities.
When they stopped for lunch at a small French bakery in the Stanford Mall, three enormous bags of apparel took up the space on the pavement by their feet. He insisted they had the best non-Asian sandwiches in California, which Stella found interesting because she hadn’t even known Asian sandwiches were a thing.
She expected the sandwiches to be stacked high with deli goodness, but when he brought lunch to their outdoor table, it was plain baguettes with turkey, Swiss, and butter. At least he’d bought an almond croissant, too. To her surprise, her first bite of the baguette was delicious.
“The secret is really good bread and butter. All you need is strong basics,” he said with a wink, and she got the feeling he was talking about more than food.
As light afternoon shopper traffic passed by and the sun shone down through the trees, Stella decided she might want to do this again. Her regular Sunday schedule was shot, but she was open to developing a new weekend routine. She was adaptable, especially when things involved Michael.
Dressed in casual khakis and a white button-down open at the collar and rolled up to his elbows, he looked magazine delicious—as usual. It occurred to her they’d spent the entire morning shopping for her. How selfish and self-absorbed of her.
“Do you want to look at men’s attire?” She considered the shops around them, wondering if any of them appealed to him.
He shook his head with a funny smile. “No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? Would you let me get you something?” When his expression went uncomfortable, her heartbeat picked up, and she tried to make light of the situation by adding, “Since you won’t let me get you a Lamborghini.”
He sent her a searching look. “Would you really get me a Lamborghini if I wanted it?”
She stared down at the crumbs on her sandwich wrapper and nodded. “I can afford it, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t really know how to talk about money matters, but I make a lot, and there aren’t many things I want to spend it on. I would love to get you a car. Especially if—” She cut herself off before she could say something that would make him angry.
“If what?”
“I’d rather not say. I’m pretty sure it’s not appropriate.”
He tilted his head to the side, and his expression grew shuttered. “I’d like to hear it.”
“I was going to say . . .” She took an uncomfortable breath. “Especially if another woman got you the one you have.”
He focused on folding his sandwich wrapper into a neat square. “Are you asking if the car was a gift?”
She was pretty sure it was, and it infuriated her. “Yes.”
“It was, actually.”
“From the blonde at the club.”
His brow wrinkled. “How do you know that?”
“She’s the client who won’t leave you alone.” The memory of the woman kissing him flashed in her mind, and Stella’s hackles rose. Not only that, but he’d had sex with her—probably multiple times. She dug her nails into the glass surface of the table as her breathing went fast and bitter.
He settled a hand on top of hers, and her heart rate eased. “I don’t like getting those kinds of gifts. Please don’t, okay?”
“Okay.” But she couldn’t help feeling he kept the gift because he liked the woman who’d given it to him. Wasn’t that what you did when someone meant something to you? You kept the things they gave you?
She wanted him to keep something from her. The fact that he wasn’t allowing her to give him anything made her feel almost desperate.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you if you’re going to start getting jealous of my past clients, Stella,” he said, his eyes level and his voice somber, like his escorting was a sad reality they had to accept.
Question after question piled on her tongue. If he didn’t like it, why did he do it? He was so talented with clothes. Why didn’t he make more of it instead of dry cleaning and altering it? What did he use his escorting money on? Did he have some secret addiction? Was he in danger?
Why couldn’t he be hers for real?
He was hers for now, though. He didn’t want the blonde. He hadn’t been with the blonde this morning.
As they finished up with lunch, the question from before persisted in the back of her mind.
Why couldn’t he be hers for real?
There was only one plausible reason she could think of: He didn’t want her back.
Things like that weren’t written in stone, though. At the beginning of all of this, she’d been prepared to learn skills that would aid her in seducing a man—possibly Philip James. But why should she settle for Philip when maybe she could have Michael? Could she use what he taught her . . . on him? Could she seduce her escort?