Kiss me. Kiss me.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and her lips tingled like he’d touched them. Yes, he was going to—
He took a step back, looked away from her, and said, “I’m going to get some stuff done at the office. I’ll see you later tonight.”
Her chest sank, and she watched him grab his computer bag and return to his car. He had wanted to kiss her. Before he knew. But not anymore.
He’d done all those things—showing up at the doctor’s office, carrying her, the haircut—with Esme in Accounting. He wasn’t interested in the real Esme.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The following week, Khai pretended the almost kiss never happened. Esme’s Russian friend had saved him from committing a grievous mistake in a moment of poor judgment.
Esme might be able to handle a physical relationship without any adverse effects, but he didn’t think he could. She was already a song that played on endless repeat in his head. If he started having sex with her, this thing would escalate into pure addiction, and what the fuck would happen when she left at the end of the summer? If he didn’t want to find out, he had to keep his distance.
He did a stellar job of it until Friday evening rolled around and it was time to attend the second wedding of the summer. He knocked on her door, and she opened it with a tentative smile.
For a long moment, he simply gazed at her. She didn’t look like herself. Her dress was black. Didn’t she think that was an unhappy color? It hung loosely over her body, hiding every area of interest, and holy shit, look at all that bling. Her ears, throat, and hands were blinding. There had to be a hundred dollars’ worth of cubic zirconia there, no way those were real diamonds.
Even so, she was beautiful. Her makeup was subtle but for black liner that brought attention to her green eyes and her bloodred lipstick.
God, those lips. Painted like that they were enough to make him light-headed. Ever since he’d almost kissed her, he’d been seeing her mouth every time he shut his eyes. His imagination had done unspeakable things to that mouth this past week.
He cleared his throat. “Ready to go?”
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’m ready.”
They left the house and piled into his car. As soon as he merged onto 101S toward San Jose, he broke the silence by saying, “I called the Berkeley Alumni Association. They gave me a list of all Phils who attended Berkeley during the ten years before you were born.”
She squealed and covered her mouth as she danced in her seat. Her movements made the loose hem of her skirt slide up, and holy shit. Rule Number Six might as well not exist anymore. There was no way he could follow it when it came to Esme. He wanted to touch her so bad his hands curled around the steering wheel in a death grip. He could almost see his fingers smoothing over those bare thighs and slipping under that sack of a dress.
The fly of his pants grew uncomfortably tight, distracting him from his X-rated thoughts. Fuck, he was sporting an erection in his damned car. If he hit a speed bump, he’d probably break his dick in half. He needed to think about the desert, the arctic, Statement Number 157 from the Financial Accounting Standards Board, anything else.
“How many names are on the list?” she asked.
Right. The list. “Nearly a thousand.”
“Oh.” She frowned in thought, unconsciously running her hands up and down her thighs in a manner that did nothing to help his current condition.
“One of Quan’s friends is helping me sort through the list. He says it’s easy to do with the proper software,” he said. “I’m going to need a copy of that picture you have.”
“Does it cost a lot?” she asked hesitantly.
“No. He’s doing Quan a favor.”