“No, you look better.”

He settled his hands on the edge of the table as his face heated. Fuck, he was blushing. What the hell kind of escort blushed? His sisters had posters of Henney plastered all over their bedroom walls, had even established a man-beauty scale of one to Henney. They’d agreed among themselves that Michael was a solid eight. He didn’t give a damn where he ranked, but it meant something that this genius girl gave him an eleven.

Their dinner arrived, saving him from having to respond to her compliment. She’d ordered the salmon, so he’d done the same. No way was he going to eat lamb. He snorted to himself. Woolly.

His fish was good, so he ate all of it. He suspected everything was good here. The Clement was one of Palo Alto’s most exclusive hotels with rooms going for more than a thousand dollars a night. Apparently, econometricians made shitloads of money.

As he watched Stella pick at her dinner, however, he noticed that everything about her was understated. Her face was devoid of makeup, her nails were short and unpainted, and her clothes were simple—though they fit her perfectly. They had to be custom made.

When she set her fork down and wiped her mouth, her salmon was only half finished. If they’d known each other better, he would have eaten it for her. His grandma always made him finish his dinner down to the last grain of rice.

“Is that all you’re going to eat?”

“I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“You don’t need to be.” He was a damned good escort, and he’d take care of her. Unlike most of his assignments, he even looked forward to it.

“I know. I can’t help it. Could we just get this over with?”

His eyebrows twitched. He’d never heard someone say something like that in reference to a night with him. Changing her mind-set was going to be fun.

“All right.” He draped his napkin over his empty dinner plate and got to his feet. “Let’s go to your room.”

3

After Stella unlocked the door, she stepped into her intimately lit suite, set her purse on the chair by the door, and arranged her high heels against the wall, almost sighing as her bare feet flattened on the carpet.

Michael sent her an amused look, and she stared down at her toes. She’d taken her shoes off on autopilot. It was one of her routines. Was it rude to do that when you had company? Maybe she should put them back on. Her stomach knotted, and her heart raced at rabbit speed.

He took the decision out of her hands by kicking off his own black leather shoes and positioning them next to hers. When he finished, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the chair next to her purse, revealing the simple white T-shirt underneath. It stretched over his chest and upper arms, and his jeans rode low on narrow hips. Stella couldn’t help but stare.

His body was raw sculpted muscle and loose-limbed coordination. He was by far the finest male specimen she’d ever laid eyes on.

And they were going to have sex tonight.

She took a desperate breath and marched into the bathroom, where she braced her hands on the cool granite and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were open a fraction too wide, and her face was paper pale, her lips dry. She didn’t think she could go through with this. She shouldn’t have picked such a good-looking escort. What had she been thinking?

Her lips twisted with a grimace. She hadn’t been thinking. After perusing the escort files for hours, sifting through countless faces and descriptions that had blurred together, she’d taken one look at Michael and known he was the one. It’d been his eyes. Dark brown with slashing eyebrows above, they looked intense . . . but kind. All of his five-star reviews had only cemented her decision. Looking like the hottest K-drama star ever didn’t hurt, either. Well, except for now, that was. There was a good chance she might throw up her dinner into the sink.

Through the mirror, she saw him step into the doorway and lean against the jamb. That motion alone was so sexy, she felt her heart trip, stumble, and scramble to continue beating. He walked into the bathroom and stopped behind her, his eyes locked on hers in the mirror. When she wasn’t wearing her heels, he was more than half a foot taller than her. She wasn’t sure if she liked feeling this small.

“Can I take your hair down?” he asked.

She nodded once. Within seconds, the tension on her scalp released, and her hair tumbled free. Her black hairband landed on the countertop before he eased his fingers into her hair, separating the tendrils so they fell to her shoulders and down her back. She vibrated with tension as she waited for him to initiate intimacy and send her body into nervous lockdown. It was going to happen, and then he’d see what he was working with.

A black imperfection on his bicep caught her eye, and she turned around to inspect it closer. She lifted a hand to touch it but stopped before making contact. She never touched people without permission. “What is this?”

His lips curved with a slow, crooked grin, showing off perfect white teeth. “My tattoo.”

Her throat worked on an involuntary swallow, and a wave of heat swept over her. She’d never seen the point of tattoos. Until now. Michael with a tattoo was just about the hottest thing she could imagine.

Her fingers itched to pull his sleeve up farther, and she wavered over his arm until he caught her hand in his and pressed it to his skin. An electric jolt shot from her fingertips straight to her heart. He looked so perfect, like carved stone, but his skin was smooth and hot, firm but giving, alive.

“You can touch me,” he said. “Anywhere.”

Even as the invitation thrilled her, it gave her pause. Touching was such a private thing. She didn’t understand how he was able to do it so well with people he didn’t know.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she asked.

That crooked grin returned in full force. “I like being touched.”

When she continued to hesitate, he drew his sleeve up himself, exposing black ink marks that swept across his upper arm, over his shoulder, and disappeared beneath his T-shirt. The tattoo had to be quite large because the shape hadn’t even begun to materialize. Just how much of him did it cover?

The swell of his muscles distracted her from further investigating. She’d never touched hard rounded flesh like this before. She wanted to touch him all over. And his scent. How was it she was just noticing it now?

“Are you wearing cologne?” she asked as she filled her lungs.

He stiffened. “No, why?”

She leaned as close as she could without burying her face against his neck, seeking out more of that intoxicating scent. “You smell really, really good. What is it?”

Where was that scent coming from? It seemed to be everywhere on him, but too light. She craved a more concentrated dose.

“Michael?”

A funny look crossed his face. “It’s just me, Stella.”

“You smell this good?”

“Apparently. You’re the first to comment on it.”

“I want this smell all over me.” As the words left her mouth, she worried she’d said the wrong thing. That statement had sounded a little too personal, a little strange. Would he notice how strange she really was?

He bent down so his lips hovered a hairsbreadth away from her ear and whispered, “Are you sure you’re bad at sex?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It means so far you’re very good at it.”

Her fingers flexed on his arm, and she battled the urge to press herself against him like a stripper on a pole. It bewildered her. She was not at all stripperish, and unlike him, she actively disliked touching. But she craved connection so much she hurt with it. “So far we haven’t done anything yet.”

“You’re very good at the talking part.”

“I’ve had sex. There isn’t a talking part.”

A spark danced in his eyes. “There’s definitely a talking part.”

Please, don’t let there be a talking part. There was no hope for her if it involved talking. “So far—”

He gathered her hair to one side and brushed a fleeting kiss behind her ear. It happened so quickly that by the time her body tensed up he’d already pulled away. When he didn’t move to repeat the caress, her muscles relaxed once again. The place where he’d kissed her burned with awareness.

Without touching her skin, he stroked his fingers over her hair. Slow, measured movements that swept from her crown, past her neck, and down her back. The motions calmed her even as they put her on edge.

“I think you should kiss me,” he said in a husky voice.

Her heart squeezed tight, and her skin pricked with panic. She was a horrible kisser. Her awkward attempts were sure to embarrass them both. “On the mouth?”

The corner of said mouth kicked up. “Wherever you want to. The mouth is usually a good place to start.”

“Maybe I should brush my teeth. I can do that right—”

He pressed a thumb to her lips, silencing her, but his eyes were gentle. That touch, too, was gone before it fully registered in her brain. “Let’s try this another way. Do you want to see my tattoo?”

Her mind eagerly switched gears, jumping from fear straight to excitement. “Yes.”

With a small smile that was half amusement and half self-deprecating, he pulled his white T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the counter.

Stella’s mouth went lax as she filled her eyes with him. A dragon’s head, its mouth open in midroar, covered the entire left half of his wide, sculpted chest. The ink on his shoulder and arm formed one of the creature’s claws. The intricate scales of its body worked diagonally across his abs and disappeared inside his jeans.