“I’m fine.”
I’m clutching my camera so hard it’s going to crack. I let it drop around my neck, telling myself to cool down. So what if he can tell what he said turned me on? Turning on people is as unremarkable to Christopher as the sun lighting up the sky.
Which is just one of the many ways we are so deeply different. Sex is effortless and central in his life, his expertise and enjoyment of it a given. Sex is anything but effortless for me, my attempts to enjoy it fraught with misunderstanding and disappointment.
Christopher leans in, elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together, bringing him closer to me, a shock jolting me back to the present. Our eyes meet.
A flush sweeps through me as his gaze holds mine. Maybe it’s because it’s so rare for me, but the intensity of this sexual pull I feel toward him nearly knocks the air out of me. I stare back at him, struggling to make sense of the weighty warmth settling in my breasts, deep in my belly, and between my thighs.
I haven’t liked Christopher in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t known him. It doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed him. Yes, he’s familiar, his scent, his voice, his presence—something I’ve known my whole life—but shouldn’t it take more? A lifetime of existing in my sphere, a few days being nice to me, and my body’s throwing itself at him. It’s unacceptable. And frankly, it’s unsettling.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he finally says.
Squaring my shoulders, I try to rein my body in. “Revolutionary as this idea might be for you, Petruchio, some things cannot be bought.”
He tips his head, grinning. He’s such a flirt. “No? How are they . . . acquired, then?”
I stare at him, despising and also despicably enjoying how warm I am, the sweet-sharp ache ebbing through me. “They must be earned.”
“Earned,” he says softly, an appreciative grin warming his face. “Hmm.”
Leaning so close I can feel the heat of his body, he peers up at me, brow furrowed, jaw tight. His throat works with a swallow. Mine does, too. Every inch of me is aware of him, goose bumps dancing across my skin. I feel my fierce blush creeping up my throat.
What is this? Does he feel what I feel? He’s so experienced in a woman’s pleasure that he has to recognize the signs—the way I’ve subtly pinned my thighs together to relieve the ache between them, how I’ve rolled back my shoulders, hoping I can shake off the hot, heavy waves of desire coursing through my body.
Does he stare at me like this, watching what he does to me, because it interests him? Does he want me?
As if anyone could not want you.
I haven’t let myself dwell on what he said the other night. Because I’m scared I might latch on to those words. Count on them. Hope in them.
That sobering thought finally makes me step back. I scoop up my camera and put it between us, focusing on Christopher through the lens, adjusting and angling myself to capture the best light.
I grunt in frustration as I bring him into focus.
His cheeks are swept with a hint of pink, like he’s hot, too, but otherwise, his expression is smooth, unreadable. “That bad, huh?”
The camera drops around my neck. “Some people look fresh as a daisy seven hours into their workday. You are not one of them.”
He laughs tightly, raking a hand through his hair again. “Thank you, Katerina.”
Closing the distance between us, I stop just outside the narrow V of his legs. They’re so long, his feet are planted on the ground rather than the bottom rung of the stool he’s sitting on.
His jaw tightens. His guard’s up. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“I’ll help myself, thanks.” I kick his feet wide and step in between them, making Christopher mutter a curse as he sets his hands on my hips to steady himself.
“Jesus, Kate.”
“I’d like to fix your disheveled appearance for this photo so you look like a business owner worthy of people’s millions instead of somebody’s stunt double after a rough day on set. May I?” I ask, gesturing to his hair.
He blinks up at me. “I . . .”
I shift my weight to one hip. Which is when I process that Christopher’s hands are still on my hips, his grip tight.
And I like it.
And I shouldn’t.
“You what?” I ask, forcing myself to breathe steadily, to keep my voice even.
A rough swallow works down his throat. I stare at his Adam’s apple as it bobs, his jaw as it clenches. “I’m still hung up on the past ten seconds.”
I ignore that because I have to, because if what he said the other night knocked me sideways, what’s happening now, the way he’s touching me, is about to send me spinning clean off the earth’s surface. “Is that a yes?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine. His fingers flex on my hips, holding tight. “Yes.”
I slide my hands into his hair, thick and cool, silky locks that slip through my fingers as I tidy the disheveled waves. As I comb my fingers through his hair again, his eyes fall shut. A low, satisfied sound rumbles in the back of his throat.
My fingers trace down the ends of his hair, over neck muscles that are so tight, they make me wince in sympathy. “Lord, Christopher, you ever heard of a stress ball? A day off? Your muscles are like steel cables.”
He grunts pleasurably as my fingers rub down his neck, and his head thunks forward onto my chest. It feels simultaneously like the most natural and shocking thing we’ve ever done. His hands tighten their grip on my hips, and he breathes roughly when I sink my fingers into the base of his neck, then across his shoulders. “Fuuuuck,” he groans.
“All this money you bathe in, and you can’t spring for the occasional massage?”
“That’s the bad part,” he mumbles against my chest. “I do get massages. I’m worse than this without them.”
I tsk, working my fingers beneath the collar of his dress shirt, kneading those tight ropes of muscles banding his neck to his shoulders. Air rushes out of Christopher, and he turns his head sideways, resting it against my chest, his grip its tightest yet on my waist.
“Kate,” he says roughly.
I answer, redirecting my touch to the safer territory of his hair. “What.”
“E-enough.” His voice breaks on the word.
“I’m not done,” I tell him, smoothing back the pieces curling around his ears and jaw.
“I am,” he grunts. Easing away, he sits straight again and sighs heavily, eyes scrunched shut.
“Did I hurt you?”
He tips his head back and blinks up at the ceiling. Another heavy sigh leaves him. “In a manner of speaking.”
He’s clearly not in actual pain, so I go back to sorting out the last few straggling pieces that need to be smoothed back. “What is with your hair these days? It’s so long.”
He shuts his eyes again and lets out another long-suffering sigh. “I’ve had to cancel my last few haircuts, then it just got to the point that I said, ‘Fuck it, I’m wearing it this way.’?”
“Why’d you have to cancel so many haircuts?” I ask, leaning back, examining how I’ve arranged his hair, deciding one last comb through with my fingers will do the trick—
His hands come up to mine and clasp them, stopping me. Gently, his thumbs circle the sensitive skin of my wrists. I’m not sure if he draws me nearer or if I take a step, but somehow I’m now closer between his legs, staring down at him.
Christopher swallows roughly, his eyes searching mine. “Migraines. The last three appointments I had migraines, so I had to cancel.”
I blink at him, stunned by this admission. The last time Christopher admitted to or, hell, even spoke about his migraines was before his parents died.
Gently, I tug my hands from his grip. Like an unspoken choreography, my hands land on his shoulders as his wrap around my hips again. We both jump a little, then settle like a circuit complete, energy humming between us.