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  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 do
n’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 hi
m. 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.

  Chapter Ten

  Stella

  “Miss, could you hold the door?” The husky request comes from an older woman at the base of the stairs leading up to my building. She gives me a smile, her lips that perfect shade of crimson the film stars of old Hollywood used to wear. Honestly, the woman could have been a classic film star. Her iron-gray hair is styled in a sleek long bob, her cream and black-trimmed Chanel suit perfectly tailored to her slight frame.

  It hits me that I’m simply staring at the woman, obviously struggling to pull her rolling cart of groceries up the stairs. But the oddness of seeing a woman wearing couture, and carrying an honest-to-God Birkin bag worth more than I make in three months, handling her own groceries, has me dumbfounded. Only in New York.

  Fashionable she may be, but she’s looks as though a strong wind could blow her away. I’d been headed out, but I set my purse on the door’s threshold to keep it open and then jog down the stairs and pick up her cart. “Let me.”