“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.