Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) (26 page)

‘Is it so wrong to appreciate beauty?’

I shrug, plucking the toothbrush from his hand. Switching it on, I pop it in my mouth. He is beautiful. He surrounds himself with the same. Maybe I’m an anomaly.

‘
You
are beautiful,’ he asserts, moving to stand behind me. ‘Can I not appreciate you?’

I rinse the brush, gaze moving from his reflection to my own. Maybe he needs an eye exam. I’m okay looking, pretty even, though not so much this morning. Lacking that soft mussed-up just laid look, I lean more toward scruffy and sport a massive post-coitus pouf.

‘Stop.’ A soft finger presses the creased skin between my eyes. ‘You’re exquisite, you know.’

His hands snake around my waist, loosening the belt. He’s all minty and moist in the steam filled room, his reflection burning with challenge. Taking the brush from my passive hand, he slides the silk from my shoulders, dropping it to the ground. And I’m naked and looking at myself again.

‘
Inti amar
. See? Beautiful.’ He draws a finger down my torso, eyes following suit. ‘And it’s better to be beautiful than good.’

‘Did you get that out of a fortune cookie?’ I watch his expression. ‘And who says I’m not good?’

‘I don’t think you even know how good you are.’ With a sinful smile, he turns me in his arms. ‘And I’m sure Oscar Wilde never worked with the Chinese.’

I snort. I’m now naked and snorting.
Great
. ‘Words of wisdom from the man who also said,
I can resist anything but temptation
?’

‘A philosophy to appreciate, I’m sure. Not quite Aristotle’s aesthetics, but a man of high ideals, all the same.’ His hand is large and warm on my hip, his thumb drawing small circles against the bone.

‘It’s way too early for philosophy,’ I whisper, relaxing into his touch.

‘Too early for philosophy and too late for sex.’ His thumb continues to circle in a slow, methodical motion. ‘You’re quite sure about that?’

I don’t answer as my body jolts, the handle of his toothbrush pressed between my legs.
And it’s switched on
. With the brush balanced in the palm of his hand, he presses it against me, the bristled head nearer his wrist. I gasp, my hands grabbing the vanity at my back as I lean against it.

‘Oh!’ The sensation is unusual and, well, electric
 . . .
very
 . . .
pleasant.

‘Oh?’ he teases, his mouth a hairs-breadth above mine.

‘
Ohhh
,’ I breathe as he changes the angle of his hand, my own now grasping his shoulders, my mouth against his. I feel his lips curl against my own as I begin to whimper, trying to wriggle away or draw closer, I’m not really sure.

‘Pervertables,’ I think he murmurs, but that can’t be right.

‘Not a pervert,’ I mewl, ‘‘
mmm
not the one using the toothbrush wrong.’

‘Wrong?’ he questions, tilting the brush the opposite way.

‘No!
Nooo.
That’s better.’ He tilts it back. ‘
Yesss
 . . . that’s
right
.’

My fingers are like claws in his arms—if he moves, he’s going to pay. In moments, I’m panting and grinding as the handle slides wetly, tingling and vibrating, pushing me toward that unseen edge. Suddenly, it clatters to the floor, leaving me breathless but not quite done, my hands now fisted in his hair. I pull his head down and kiss him hungrily, a wet, tongue-sucking kiss. I pash him
—
kiss him passionately—not coming up for air.

‘Come back to bed,’ he whispers hoarsely, the words dripping with promise, an erotic fog enveloping us as real as the steam-filled room.

‘I need to go to work.’ My voice is a little breathless despite inhaling his words, not yet ready to relinquish his mouth.

‘All work and no play.’ He groans, his hands dropping to cup the swell of my arse.

‘Pays my bills,’ I gasp as he begins to lift me onto the vanity, my legs sliding wider. ‘I need to be responsible. My boss is a real hard-arse.’ He stills, peering at me through those liquor-lustre eyes. ‘I think he’d tie me to his desk, given half a chance.’

‘Are you enjoying getting to know him in a less than professional capacity?’ he purrs, his hips pulsing into mine.

‘
Oh, yesss!
Think I’m in for an amazing performance appraisal.’

‘
Ah.
’ He groans, hips retreating a touch. ‘You deserve a raise on the strength of your oral skills alone.’

At this I giggle, lowering my lashes in an exaggerated fashion, the lack of subtlety in the male form making a towel tent. ‘I think the performance indicator agrees.’

He joins my laughter, his rather smuttily, lowering his mouth to mine again.

I whisper his name as he presses into me, closing my eyes, without really considering closing my legs.

Restraint. I know I need some. Not to be in restraints, but a bit of self-control wouldn’t go amiss.

‘You’re sure you don’t want to be late?’ he whispers, taking the lobe of my ear between his teeth.

‘I can’t,’ I groan, without conviction, pushing back against him.

His fingers skim my wetness, breath leaving my body in a sigh. ‘Then this must be one of those things,’ he murmurs, kissing my cheek. ‘Things capable girls do for themselves.’ His hands fall away, his body following suit.

‘What?’ Dazed, I blink rapidly as he pauses, reaching the door.

‘I’ll leave you to finish that off,’ he says, ‘you being a capable girl and all that.’

And with that, he leaves me weak legged and willing, confused and clinging to the sink.

Entering the bedroom some time later, squeaky clean and as horny as all hell, Kai is seated in
the chair
—though sprawls might be a better description—looking both heart-stoppingly handsome and incredibly louche. How he manages to look disreputable, I don’t understand, dressed as he is in his usual Saville Row affair; charcoal pants and a pristine white button down.
I bet he rarely buys off the rack
. Mobile to his ear and speaking Arabic, he smirks as I enter, making a lazy gesture to a luggage cart at the end of the bed.

The cart hangs heavy with garment bags. A whole new wardrobe, judging by the boxes of high-end shoes stacked at the bottom. A designer wardrobe, and not for him. I stare uncomfortably at the bags that seem to hang heavy with reproach.

He buys fuck-me heels so he gets to fuck me . . . in heels; which friend has the benefit here?

I jump with a start as his hand runs down the curve of my robe covered butt. Switching to English, his voice is quiet but ice cold.

‘Not possible.’ Reaching over my shoulder, he plucks one of the bags from the rack, lying it against my chest and letting go. ‘I must speak with her today
 . . .
I don’t care.’ The bag slides down my chest a little before I wrap it in my arms, turning with a frustrated gesture.

Watching me, his conversation reverts to rapid-fire Arabic, guttural and hostile almost. With his eyebrows drawn together in censure, he indicates the bag in my arms. ‘
Maa-i-khussni
,’ he growls, ending the call, his eyes still on mine. ‘Not my problem at all.’ His eyes are wary as he places the phone down. ‘Well, do
we
have a problem?’

‘I can’t wear this.’ I hold the bag out by the hanger.

‘Then choose another.’

‘No, I mean I can’t keep taking stuff from you. Clothes, cars. Favours.’

‘Why?’ His tone is indifferent and at odds with the minute flexing of a muscle in his jaw.

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit suspect looking? I sleep with you and you give me
 . . .
stuff.’

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like
bourgeois
, then, ‘If you want to get to work sometime this morning, I suggest you take the dress. Any dress. I don’t understand why this is an issue. Call it expediency, call it coercion if it makes you feel any better.’

‘Doesn’t matter what you call it, it all screams slut.’ I glance around for last night’s dress to get me to my apartment, at least.

‘It’s a dress, not a fucking diamond tiara, there’s no payment in kind here!’ His snarl startles me and my head snaps up as he runs his hand through his hair. It’s not fair it results in ruffled and sexy rather than plain old irate. ‘Wear it or don’t, the choice is yours, but the alternative is leaving the hotel in that robe. Your dress has probably gone for cleaning. And you
will
be late to work.’

‘Have you got friggin’ elves?’

‘Efficient staff. People who fucking listen,’ he growls, stalking from the room, very effectively ending our conversation. I say conversation, but it was more of a rant.

Torn between the robe and a dress, I stand stock still and indecisive. I don’t want to keep taking, it just doesn’t sit well but what else can I do? This is obviously what happens when you get decked out in some guy’s fantasy undies and don’t bring an overnight bag.
I’ll add that to my learning curve.

Taking a deep breath to curb my own rising temper, I decide it’s probably more dignified to continue this clothed.
Now we’re friends who fuck
 . . .
and fall-out, it seems.
Good job I’m not in love. Last night’s emotions were probably more to do with endorphins. But, my god, the man is so hot when he’s pissed-off.

I slip into the contents of his selected bag; a beautifully cut black shirt dress, there are even matching designer pumps in black, red and nude. I choose nude, still feeling uneasy about the whole thing but I can’t wear the vamps for school. I’m not so anxious about the expensively labelled underwear, though maybe I should be.
This
is
the third time. Is that strange? I feel a bit like someone’s Barbie doll
.
I wonder who does this Barbie’s shopping, though.

Not payment in kind,
I intone, just some clothes. Beautiful and expensive, but clothes just the same. And at least I’m saved a near-naked walk of shame. Tying back my hair, I roll a little of last night’s lip gloss across my mouth. Taking a large, restorative gulp of air, I follow Kai’s path through the door.

‘Coffee,’ Kai announces, holding out a tiny cup and saucer. He stands in front of a previously concealed flat-screen TV on which an Arabic news channel plays; a heavily made-up female anchor, stocks and shares fluttering like streamers across the bottom of the screen.

‘Thanks,’ I murmur as I take the proffered cup.

‘I ordered a little breakfast.’ Still staring at the TV, his hand indicates the round dining table where one place is set.

‘Aren’t you eating?’ I ask, perching my bum on the edge of a chair.

‘Before the gym. When you’re ready, we’ll leave.’

He’s all business and still a bit brusque, but at least he’s no longer breathing fire. I, however, am still frowning and contemplating chucking a pastry at his head.
Far out, moody, much?
This mood I haven’t seen before and it’s one I won’t indulge him in.

I pick, without really eating, at my light breakfast, heavy in calories.

‘You aren’t hungry?’ he asks in a softer tone.

‘Lost my appetite.’ Funny that.

‘Do I need to feed you, little cat?’

Oh, we’re back now to the purring tone? Try in your dreams, mate.

‘Not necessary,’ I reply pointedly, tearing bits of croissant and dropping them to the plate, the plate I imagine cracking over his head.

‘Be sure to use the napkin.’

Get fu
. . .
obsessive-compulsive as well as in a strop! I reach for a rolled napkin contemplating my
own
bloody tantrum, especially as I haven’t even attempted to slather it—or the tablecloth—in honey or jam. Something obscene and heavenly flickers deeply as I find myself inhaling a sharp breath. Gilding the starched, white linen is the filigree silver butterfly. Loosening the creature, I clip it to my thumb.