Boyfriend for Hire: A Stand-Alone Contemporary Romance (Escort Files Book 1) (11 page)

“Are we good?” he asked.

“How far are you? Our reservations are in about ninety minutes.”

“Almost there. I’m just unwrapping the clip now.” He put his fingers to her temples again and steadied her head. “But this will hurt if you don’t stay still.”

“Right, gotcha,” she said. She was quiet for a moment then she said, “I feel like my head is covered in grease.”

Mike’s fingers slipped along the over-conditioned strands and he said, “Well, you’ll have very soft hair when it’s done.”

As the last bit came free from the clip, he checked his work then lifted the mask up and away from her head. A few long hairs stayed well glued to it, but the rest of her hair was still firmly attached to her head. “Voila!”

“Ahh,” she said, putting down the glass to run her fingers through her hair. “I felt like I was never going to be free! Yuck, my hair feels disgusting.”

Nudging her forward so he could stand, he walked to her bathroom area with his hands out like a surgeon. His fingertips were wrinkled and he was coated in conditioner. Leaning out so he could see her, he said, “It’s a lovely combination of salt, conditioner, and a little sand for texture.”

She turned on her ottoman, her hands in her hair and her face adorably wrinkled in an expression of disgust. “Eww.”

He nodded, his voice full of mock-seriousness when he said, “Indeed. Very eww.”

She hopped up and tugged the towel around her more tightly closed, tucking the end in so it wouldn’t fall. “Well, it’s shower time and you should go too. Tonight it’s fancy dinner night, so nice clothes, but no suits. They don’t do suits here.”

He dried his hands and looked at the way the towel skimmed the tops of her thighs. Suddenly, he could absolutely understand the allure of a micro-mini skirt. That curve was ridiculously sexy. He wanted to hop in the shower with her, maybe help her with that hair.

“Skidaddle!” she said, her face flushing and her hand tugging the towel down an extra inch.

He held up his hands in surrender, but he made sure she could see the direction of his thoughts in his smile. As she placed a hand firmly on his back and pushed him to the door, she said, “Forty five minutes! Be ready.”

Eighteen

Amy looked in the mirror in horror. Half her hair was plastered with conditioner and the other half had morphed into a straw-like bird’s nest of salt- and sand-encrusted hair. It just proved that men had nothing on their minds except what was down below or in Mike’s case, her bank account. No one in their right mind would look at her the way he just had if this hair had been remotely visible.

“Whatever,” she said to the mirror and turned on the shower.

As she showered, washing all the salt and sand away, the kiss in the water kept forcing itself back into her thoughts. The feel of him and the way his arm had tightened around her, as if he didn’t want so much as a molecule of water between them. And when he’d cupped her butt and pulled her in, there had been no question that he’d wanted to go further. The hard evidence of that against her belly made what he wanted from her at that moment very clear.

And she’d responded. There had been no thoughts of what she might look like, no awareness of the bright daylight and how that might shadow this or that part of her. Everything had disappeared and it was only them and that need.

That wasn’t faked. It couldn’t have been. Or could it?

The truth was, she wasn’t entirely sure how this thing worked. Men had sex with women they didn’t care about all the time. Hadn’t she heard her share of beer-goggle jokes going all the way back to college? Men didn’t just have sex with strangers, they had sex with strangers they didn’t even find attractive.

Maybe that’s what this was. Who could know? But what she absolutely knew was that for the first time she’d experienced that melting away of the world, that full engagement in the simple—or not at all simple—act of kissing a man. Overwhelming, all-consuming, and very charged.

Even just thinking of it made the water feel like it had changed in substance as it fell on her from the shower head. Each drop hit her skin individually and with impact. And that was just the memory of a kiss.

Holy moly,
she thought.
This could be exactly what Marion had been telling her all along. She had needed to get away.

Then again, she didn’t feel this almost chemical need to be close to any other man in the place, only Mike. And being near him was coming perilously close to torture.

There was no more time to dally about, so she hopped out of the shower and slapped on some lavender lotion to cool her nerves and calm her down. This was the night for the black dress and she wanted to wear it well. She hesitated over the mixed up pile of cotton versus lace in her drawer. What to do?

If she wore the cotton, particularly something ridiculous like the dogs with umbrellas or those emblazoned with the days of the week, she’d be less likely to want him to see it. It might be safer. On the other hand, if she did lose her self-control around him, the lace would look better. Of course, it would also itch. Lace and Amy did not have a great relationship.

Umbrella dogs it was.

She giggled as she slipped the black dress on and zipped up the side. It fit wonderfully and it was one of the few pieces she felt genuinely sexy wearing. It was designed for a women shaped like a woman, not a stick with skin. She turned in front of the mirror and tilted her head. Yes, this was just right.

Then she saw her feet. The bruises along the sides had gone dark and the only heels she’d brought had straps that crossed that portion of her foot without mercy. “Dang it,” she muttered and tossed the small pile of shoes jumbled at the bottom of the closet.

“This is going to be embarrassing,” she said to herself, selecting the only possible alternative for tonight.

She blow-dried her hair quickly and then slapped on some mascara. Before she could debate adding more makeup to her face, Mike knocked on the door. She knew it was him and had to smile at her reflection that she already recognized his two short raps.

“Ready?” he said as she opened the door, then he whistled when he caught sight of her. “Woah, I thought this wasn’t a suit and tie sort of place. You look amazing.”

He was dressed in a dressier version of an aloha shirt and dove gray pants that set off the color of his shirt perfectly. It also just happened to make his tan look deep and warm. It didn’t hurt his biceps either, making his strength and form a part of the outfit. It was perfection.

“You look just right,” she said and waved him in. “We’re going to need to hustle. Let me grab my shoes.”

He stood near the doorway, looking out at the water while she stuffed the necessities into her small bag and then shoved her feet into her shoes. She sighed and then hurried back into the living area. “All ready.”

Mike turned and took her in, a one-sided smile creating that devastating dimple when he saw her shoes. “I love it,” he said.

She looked down at the hot pink flip-flops, the large flower attached to the top so big it couldn’t be missed. She grimaced at the ridiculous shoes and said, “I can’t wear my heels.”

He shook his head and stepped toward her, one hand reaching out to twine a loose curl that fell in front of her shoulder. His voice was soft and he said, “I mean it. It’s perfect.”

Stepping back from the electric touch, Amy blew out a breath to steady herself and said, “Then let’s do this.”

Nineteen

The prices! Mike couldn’t help but scan the menu, seeking the least ridiculous costing items. Amy didn’t seem concerned at all, but this restaurant was entirely out of his league and he felt conspicuous and out of place.

It was beautiful, everything gleaming under subdued light, the tablecloths almost glowing they were so white. Even the dark wooden chairs were meant to embrace a customer and make them feel special. Frankly, Mike was better at diners where they asked how he liked his eggs.

Amy sighed and then looked at him over her menu, the stiff paper touching her chin. She leaned forward and whispered, “Is it bad that I want all of it? I’m starving and it all sounds delicious.”

Glancing back down at the menu, Mike’s stomach made a discreet rumble of agreement and he made a face when she grinned. She heard that.

“I can’t decide,” he said.

Looking around at the other diners, Amy leaned forward more and said, “Let’s just get something different from each other, so we can do another deal. A bite for a bite.”

Her eyebrows rose like she was suggesting they feel each other up under the table or something equally scandalous. The thought of that made his groin tighten sharply and he coughed, covering the rise in his blood pressure by taking a sip of water.

“Sounds good,” he squeaked out and she tilted her head at him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He swallowed hard and thought about baseball for a moment. “Right. All good now. What strikes your fancy?”

She peered at the menu again, the end of her tongue running along the inside of her lips as if already tasting something delectable. Mike had to look away from that. He knew exactly what that mouth tasted like and he wanted a lot more of it.

“I’m torn between the pork tenderloin and the lemongrass shrimp.”

He looked at the prices for each and then had to suppress a wince. “Well, I’ll get one and you get the other. How about that?”

She wiggled a little in her seat, though discreetly, and then wagged her eyebrows at him. “And a tuna tartare starter?”

“Be still my heart,” he said, smiling at her delight.

She picked up the wine list and then made a face. “Okay, I only know two things about wine and one of those is that you pick different colors for different meats. We’re all over the map here. What do we choose?”

“Let them suggest a few, but don’t decide on the most expensive one. Or we can skip wine altogether.”

She snorted and said, “No way. I already talked to the concierge. If we get hammered they’ll come get us.”

Mike shook his head and put his menu down. It was best not to look at it anymore. The waiter caught the motion and made his way over.

Just as Mike thought, the waiter had three suggestions for wine, each one more costly than the last. It was the sign of a true professional. Give the client three price ranges without ever talking about money. Amy chose the middle one and when they each raised their glasses for that first sip, Mike realized the waiter was far better at choosing wine than he’d thought.

Amy sighed and licked her lips. “Oh my god, this is good. I’m going to have to be careful.”

Mike placed his glass down carefully and nodded. “Too good. I could drink a bucket of this.”

“And then we’d really need to be picked up!”

They were seated next to each other rather than across from each other, the waiter clearly knowing his business when it came to couples. Their tartare came and they did their best not to gobble, but it was so good he really wanted to lick the plate.

By the time the food arrived, he was ready to jump up and raid the kitchen. Amy’s nose lifted as others were served, so he figured she felt the same. When their plates came, Amy bumped his leg with her knee and whispered, “We should try to remember to use utensils. If I grab it with my hands, stop me.”

He laughed quietly and then nodded for the waiter to fill their glasses. That was it for the wine and that was probably a good thing. It was already going to his head with his stomach so empty.

The food was delicious, unbelievable even, and when he’d lifted his fork to Amy’s mouth, he had to restrain himself from covering those lips in a kiss when she took her bite. She did it sensuously, the way someone who loved food should do it. He wanted to see that mouth in his bed, under him, swollen from kisses and passion.

Under the table and the white cloth that was long enough to hide his actions, he reached over and slid his hand over her thigh. The soft fabric of her dress slipped over her skin like water. She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth and sat up a little straighter, her eyes widening and then darting around the room as if checking to see if anyone could see what he was doing.

He smiled and took up his wine glass, like he was pausing his meal like anyone else would. Under the table, he halted his advance for a few seconds, giving her the opportunity to stop him if she chose. She didn’t. Her fork was still raised and she wasn’t moving an inch.

The curve of her inner thigh beckoned and pointed the way, and the heat rose. Slipping his hand under the dress, he smoothed the soft skin and traveled up toward the secret places of her that he most wanted to explore. Her secrets, her private world always hidden under clothes. The back of his fingers brushed the fabric of her panties. Cotton. He almost moaned at the warmth that came through, the soft pressure of her against the cloth.

She was frozen, so he set down his glass, using that free hand to lower her fork and hand to the table. He slid her wine glass toward her fingers and murmured, “You look thirsty.”

She gulped loudly and then took a swallow of her wine, the politeness of sips forgotten. She licked the liquid from her lips and then glanced down at her plate. Mike felt his pants tightening and hoped there wouldn’t be a need to suddenly get up. If so, he would be giving some folks a show for sure.

Wondering how far she might let him go, he gently pressed against her thigh to widen her legs and give him access. She let him do it and he rotated his hand to cup her sex. She sucked in a sharp breath and he watched as her eyes softened, the blue of her irises turning a darker shade. Her lips parted a little and her face suffused with color as he gently pressed the tender flesh underneath. Would she stop him now?

He could feel the dividing line between the lips of her outer labia, full and soft and inviting him to part them to find the treasures beneath. With this as his guide, he used the pad of his thumb to travel along that line until he knew he’d found the spot underneath, the hard nubbin of flesh pressing forward and eager for him.