Once she did as he bid, he unpaused the movie. The opening credits rolled, and dramatic theme music played. She couldn’t focus even though it was Donnie Yen, and, in her mind, he was better than Jackie Chan, Chow Yun Fat, and Jet Li put together. She was on the verge of hyperventilating, and her muscles were so tense, she was one large impending charley horse.
Michael ran his hand up her sweat-misted arm and stared down at her with concerned eyes. “Are you too hot? Do you want me to turn the AC on?”
Her chest constricted. “I’m sorry. I can shower.”
She rocked forward to get up, but he stopped her, wrapping his arms tightly around her and settling her over his lap. Their skin was touching everywhere—her cheek on his chest, his arms around her shoulders, her side to his front—and she was achingly conscious of the dampness of her perspiration. He had to think she was disgusting. She squeezed her eyes shut as she tolerated the embrace. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take.
“Relax, Stella,” he whispered. “I don’t mind sweat, and I like holding you. Watch the movie. He’s about to have his first fight.”
He clasped one of her hands in his, interlaced their fingers, and held on with firm pressure.
As he pretended to watch the movie—she somehow sensed she had his full attention—she stared down at their hands, noting the contrast of his tanned olive skin against her own. Like the rest of him, his hands were beautiful works of art with long fingers and strong veins on their backs. She frowned as her palm registered the scrape of calluses.
She found his free hand and opened it up. One large callus covered the base of his palm while three smaller ones decorated the space beneath his middle, ring, and pinky fingers. She traced her fingertips over the hard patches of skin.
“What are these from?” She couldn’t imagine how escorting gave him calluses like this.
“They’re sword calluses.”
“You’re kidding.”
That lopsided grin stretched over his mouth. “Kendo. Actual sword fighting is nothing like in the movies, though. Don’t get too excited.”
“A-are you good at it?”
“I’m okay. It’s just for fun.”
She couldn’t quite see him kicking ass with a face so pretty, but she had to admit the idea thrilled her. “Can you do the splits?”
“It’s my secret talent.”
“I’d think sword fighting was your secret talent.”
“I have many,” he said, running a fingertip down the bridge of her nose before lightly pinching her chin.
“What are they?”
He merely smiled and fixed his gaze on the TV. “Watch. It’s getting to the part where he lays down the smack.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the question again, but she knew that was rude. He’d purposely refrained from answering. She realized then she knew almost nothing about him. Before, he’d said he only scheduled Friday nights. That left a whole lot of time for another life. What did he do when he wasn’t escorting? Aside from martial arts. Or did he train and work out all day, seven days a week?
Maybe he did precisely that. You didn’t get a body like his doing nothing. He could be one of those guys who woke up at dawn, swallowed five raw eggs, and ran stadiums. It was definitely worth it if he did—unless he got salmonella.
As pictures of him punching frozen slabs of meat flitted through her head, she forgot she was mostly naked. Her breathing evened out, and her body unwound. The pressure of his arms stayed firm, compressing and comforting, and the extraordinary events of the day caught up with her. His smell, the steady rhythm of his heart, and the low volume of Ip Man spanking his opponents lulled her to sleep.
Chapter 5
Stella’s eyes shot open, and she took in the bright interior of the hotel room. After groping at the surface of the nightstand, she found her glasses. The digital clock read 9:24 A.M. Her heart lurched.
She’d slept in. She never slept in.
When she sat up in bed, the blankets fell to her waist, and cool air touched her bare skin. She was wearing yesterday’s underclothes. Alarm sirens wailed in her head as she realized she’d completely skipped her night routine. She hadn’t flossed, brushed, showered, and put on pajamas. She had stuffed a dirty body into these clean sheets—well, they were definitely dirty sheets now. Good thing she didn’t have to sleep in them again.
Michael stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered with a white towel around his lean hips. His tattoo looked particularly sexy in the light of day. He grinned around his toothbrush. “Morning.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Her breath had to be rancorous.
He strode casually across the room and dug through a small overnight bag he must have retrieved from his car. It hadn’t been with him last night. As he extracted fresh clothes from the bag, Stella watched the fluid bunch and play of the intricate muscles on his back, admired the twin grooves at the base of his spine. She wanted to touch her fingertips to those dents. Then she wanted to take the towel off and—
“It stops on my right thigh,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder.
It? What was it?
Blinking furiously to clear her mind, she noticed that his tattoo wrapped around his hip, disappeared beneath the towel, and peeked out behind his knee. The dragon had wound itself around his torso and one of his legs. She imagined she’d be doing the same thing throughout the course of their arrangement—which they still needed to discuss.
She parted her lips to speak, but the chalkiness of her mouth overwhelmed her. She jumped out of bed, only then remembering she was all but naked, grabbed the first article of clothing she saw—his white T-shirt from yesterday—and sprinted to the bathroom as she yanked it over her head.
Once inside, she lunged for her floss and ran the thread between all of her teeth. Twice. When nothing heinous came free, she breathed a sigh of relief and went about brushing at a more sedate pace.
He entered the bathroom, and she stepped aside so he could spit into the sink, feeling horribly self-conscious with toothpaste foaming from her mouth. Why couldn’t she look sexy like him when she brushed her teeth? After rinsing out his mouth and patting it dry with a hand towel, he leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. He smelled of hotel soap, minty toothpaste, and . . . himself. That elusive scent still clung to him. She supposed it emanated from his pores. Lucky him. Lucky her.
As she continued brushing her teeth, keeping her eyes awkwardly glued to the bubbles in the sink, he left the bathroom. Pausing midbrush, she heard it: the rustle of fabric. He was getting dressed. That meant he was naked. Without a qualm, she rushed to the doorway and peered out.
Her lungs depressed when she saw him pulling clean jeans over his boxers. He yanked on a tight black T-shirt and sat down to pull on black socks. He had to be leaving soon.
She hurried to finish brushing her teeth and caught him just as he tied his last shoelace.
“We have to talk,” she said.
The look on his face as he straightened in the chair made her stomach bottom out. He was going to back out. Last night had been a fiasco filled with panic attacks and fear sweat, and he wanted nothing to do with her now. She tightened her lips when they threatened to tremble. It had been bad, but there had been good parts. Hadn’t there?
She’d thought she had a chance.
“I have something at ten I shouldn’t miss.” He stood, looped the strap of his bag over his shoulder, and walked to her with a loose stride. His eyes were heartbreakingly kind as he looked at her.
Or was it pity? She hated pity.
“I need you to tell me if we’re moving forward with the lessons or not.”
He shook his head with a sad smile. “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”
Her heart plummeted, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret last night. He’d gotten her to kiss him—really kiss him, not lie there and cringe as he stuck his tongue in her mouth. “I’ll leave you another five-star review.”
“I don’t deserve it. I never sealed the deal. The agency doesn’t issue refunds, but I’d be happy to return my share of the commission. Give me your account—”
“No, no refund,” she said firmly. “Thanks, but no. I’m sure you had to work harder with me than most of your other clients.”