Serving Pleasure (20 page)

“Why did you almost sleep with your sister’s boyfriend?”

“There’s no good reason—”

“Certainly there could be. Why?”

Her cheeks puffed out, and she exhaled so hard her hair fluttered. “I knew the asshole was cheating on her, and I didn’t think she would listen to me. I set it up so she would walk in on us. I didn’t sleep with him.” Her lips compressed. “But I can’t promise I wouldn’t have. I was panicked. Not thinking straight.”

“That must have…strained things between you two.”

“Devi’s super forgiving, the jerk.” Rana forced a smile. “She said she understood why I did what I did. Now she’s in a great relationship with someone else and incredibly happy. But, yeah, it made things kinda awkward for a while.”

He considered what he knew of Rana. “You’re a fixer.”

“What?”

He took a sip of his bitter coffee. “You’re a fixer. You like fixing things for people. Keeping everyone happy.” Even as he said the words, he experienced a sinking sensation in his belly.

God, she wasn’t trying to fix him, was she? That was a lost cause. What if her emotions became engaged and…

Then you’ll end it.

She gave a short laugh. “Yeah, okay. That’s better than calling me an impulsive moron.”

“Maybe your actions were a bit impulsive,” he began.

“My life was a bit impulsive,” she interrupted, so much self-loathing in every word, he scowled. He didn’t like anyone hating her. Even her. “I’ve always looked before I leapt. And that time, I almost irreparably damaged my relationship with my family.” She shook her head. “Anyway. I learned my lesson. I’ve been working hard at changing myself. For the better, you know?” Her eyes glimmered. “I ask myself, what would Old Rana have done? And then New Rana does the opposite.”

I dress like this for me because I like it. If I didn’t like it so much, I would have been able to trash my wardrobe when I trashed everything else about myself.

One of the many puzzle pieces that made up this complicated woman slotted into place. “Is that why you haven’t slept with a man in a year? Because it’s what Old Rana would have done?”

Her flinch was slight. “Not exactly.” Her words were halting. “I always liked men, keeping it casual. And then I saw my sister fall in love and…I don’t know. Suddenly I wasn’t happy with what I had. I wanted permanency.”

“Marriage.”

“That’s what everyone else interpreted it as, especially my family. I wouldn’t be opposed to getting married. But really I want love.” Her tone grew defensive. “No one thinks it’s weird when a playboy wants to settle down. This isn’t so different.”

He’d been something of a playboy. Maybe he would have gotten to the point where he’d wanted to be reformed, if the attack hadn’t thrown a wrench in his whole life. “I don’t think it’s weird.”

She played with her fork. “Since Old Rana wasn’t so good at the whole dating-a-guy-more-than-twice thing, I figured I needed to change my methods to get the perfect man. No going out to clubs, no partying, exactly one date a week.”

Did she hear how wistful she sounded? He didn’t like clubs or parties, but Rana was a social butterfly.

He wanted to poke at all the things she’d said. What made up the perfect man? Who was defining that perfection, her or her family?

He couldn’t though. He didn’t have the right.

She shook her head ruefully. “I honestly think I would respond to my dating profile username as well as I would my real name right now.”

“What is it? Your username.”

“QueenofHearts,” she mumbled, and then shot him a mock glare. “It’s because of my name, okay?”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Does your name mean Queen of Hearts?”

She brightened, her mood changing quicksilver fast. As always, he found her unpredictability utterly fascinating. Strange, and fascinating. “Yesssss,” she hissed.

“What?”

“You walked right into that. You’ve asked this desi girl what her name means.” She pointed her fork at him. “Strap yourself in, sir. There’s a story. There’s always a story.”

His fingers itched to grab a napkin and pencil and sketch her expressive face. Every day he grew more frustrated with her dictate not to paint her above the neck. He was certain he could do a million portraits of her and never duplicate the same expression. “Strapped in.”

She cleared her throat dramatically. “Thirty-something years ago, a beautiful baby girl was born…”

“Thirty-two years ago?”

“Thirty-
something
years ago, a beautiful baby girl was born. She was gorgeous, and totally did not look like a scrunched-up turtle gnome, à la most newborns.”

He found himself leaning forward, hanging on to her words. “Of course.”

“Her mother wanted to name her Rani.
Rani
means queen. But some fool at the clerk’s office made a typo on the birth certificate, and changed that i to an a. Now, the baby’s father, he was tickled pink over the accident. Because you see, the stunning infant happened to have a nasty temper, and a forceful, demanding, aggressive personality. One meaning of
Rana
is…king.”

Micah laughed, a harsh bark. Smiling felt odd to him, laughing even more so. What spell had she cast over him? “Queens can be as aggressive as kings,” he felt compelled to point out. “Haven’t you played chess?”

“Stop interrupting.”

“Sorry.”

Rana’s eyes danced. “After much debate, the father persuaded the mother to leave the name, because then the child could claim all the titles of royalty. Rana it was, though they called her Rani when she was young. The end.”

He cocked his head at her choice of words. “Why only when you were young?”

“What?”

“Why was Rani only a pet name when you were small?” To his great chagrin, one of his aunts still called him by the childhood nickname she’d dubbed him with. “Mikey” wasn’t so precious on a grown man.

She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Well, my dad called me that, off and on, until he passed away. I guess, as I grew up, everyone else decided I wasn’t ladylike enough to be a Rani.”

I’m shallow and vain and blunt and flighty. I’ve slept with more than my share of men…

He sat back against the cracked red vinyl, attempting to control his abrupt flash of anger. Not at her. With everyone who had ever made her feel like she was anything less than the generous, warm, sweet woman she was.

She called herself QueenofHearts, but he doubted she considered herself—or at least not Old Rana—worthy of the title. Which was ridiculous. She shouldn’t have to become someone else to live up to some idealized feminine alter ego. Hell, if she wished it, he would call her queen right now, as she was.

His queen.

Idiot. You’re not in a position to be anyone’s idea of a prince consort.

Unable to keep completely silent, he spoke up. “Old or new or king or queen, I think you’re exceptional the way you are.” He wished his voice could be less gruff. She deserved tenderness, not his clumsy, borderline-growled compliments.

You’re so much more than a bunch of scars.

Micah didn’t entirely believe those words, but to hear someone say them was a gift. He wanted her to know she was more than whatever she called herself.

Rana stilled, her eyes deep, dark pools. “Thanks, Micah.” She cleared her throat, glancing away. “Anyway, that’s the origin of QueenofHearts.” Her smile was small, but genuine. “Shorter answer to your question: no, it’s not technically my name, but it’s undoubtedly easier than KingofHeartsHeyFunnyStoryBro, which would have required I transcribe this whole explanation into a profile. I couldn’t bank on the perfect man caring enough to read it.”

Then he’s not the perfect man for you.
The perfect man for her would be captivated by her explanation.

Again, he bit back the words he truly wanted to say
.
It wasn’t his place to tell her how to run her personal life. It especially wasn’t his place to tell her how to find a mate. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “It’s excessively clever, your choice of a handle.”

“It’s been a long year. I had to amuse myself somehow.”

“Searching for the right man is hard work,” he said, ignoring the pang in his chest. And because he knew he needed the brutal reminder, he added, “I must be quite the detour.”

Her eyes were suddenly unreadable. “You’re my—”

“What?” he asked, when she cut herself off.

“Nothing.”

“No. Say it.”

“You’re my muffin.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m your… I beg your pardon?”

She exhaled. “When you’re on a diet and all you want is a muffin? Like, you would destroy a muffin, you need it so bad. So you have one. And promise to get back on the wagon as soon as you finish.” Her jaw hardened. “I shouldn’t have you. New-and-improved me shouldn’t want you in my bed, and I shouldn’t want you to paint me. But I do. So you’re my muffin.”

She fell silent and sawed a piece of her waffle, sticking it in her mouth. Not ten minutes ago he’d been worrying over the possibility they could be falling for each other. What a difference a few heartbeats could make. Because now he despised the way she was speaking about their relationship like it had an expiration date.

Not a relationship.

That’s right. He was the terrible-for-her treat she was indulging in before she went back to a life of turnips and peas. How charming. Micah’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. What could he say?

She poked at her waffle. “This tastes like shit.”

His lip twitched. How was she able to make him smile even when he was feeling melancholy? “Does it?”

“You’re not going to eat?”

He looked down at his soggy waffle. “I don’t really enjoy eating.” The words were calm. He wasn’t sure why he said them. Because he wanted her to know how imperfect he was? Because she’d made herself vulnerable to him, and he wanted to put them on equal footing?

She wasn’t staring at him with pity, so he continued in that same detached voice. “It’s common amongst trauma victims. It’s not that I’m trying not to eat. I just don’t have much of a desire for food. That’s why I have the protein shakes.” He hesitated. “Your cinnamon rolls were an anomaly. They were delicious.”

She sampled her whipped cream and nodded decisively. “I’ll make you some more tomorrow, then.”

He ought to refuse. She wouldn’t be around long enough for him to get used to someone making him sweets. Yet he found himself taking a sip of his coffee, hoping she took his silence as encouragement. He might be nothing more than her
muffin,
but he would take whatever she gave him, for as long as he could have it.

N
early nodding
off in the shower was probably a good sign Rana needed to get more sleep.

She yawned as she turned off the water and got out. Micah’s fault. She laid the blame for her current exhaustion solely at his big feet, and not because his insomnia kept her awake. Really, what red-blooded girl would want to sleep when the alternative was tussling in the sheets with a sexy, passionate lover? Not a one.

Rana swiped her hand over the steamed-up mirror, though she didn’t need her reflection to tell her she had a silly smile on her face. It had become a permanent fixture since the night she and Micah had spent at the diner a couple of weeks ago.

Her days had settled into a rhythm: wake up, creep across their lawns to her house, get ready, go to work, come home, go to Micah’s, fall asleep on his naked chest. In his bed. On his couch. A couple times on the floor. On her days off, she ran her errands or dealt with her other obligations and then came back early so she could stretch out for him in the sunlight pouring into his studio.

“Routine” and “predictable” weren’t words Rana had ever been comfortable with. Boredom had always been her archenemy, something to act out against, but she couldn’t so much as work up a whiff of worry. In lots of ways, Micah kept her on her toes.

Like the way he’d surprised her last night, when he’d proposed they go out for a late dinner. She’d expected the diner. Instead, he’d driven her to a pretty new Italian restaurant on the other side of town. Rana blotted her face, her smile taking on a dreamy bent.

“The online reviews all said it’s quiet on weekdays,” he explained gruffly, once they were seated in the near-empty restaurant, and she expressed some surprise at the venue. “And I never was a fan of Italian food, before.”

Before his attack, that meant. So the site held no particular memories for him that might intrude on their time together. Her heart had clenched painfully at his quiet admission, but she buried her head in the menu, refusing to let him see it, lest he mistake compassion for pity.

A date. It had totally been a date. Neither of them had labeled it, but she didn’t think either of them would have been able to claim that it hadn’t been a date. After all, it couldn’t get any more date-y than an Italian restaurant. All they’d needed was a chubby man with a mustache serenading them while they shared a plate of pasta
Lady and the Tramp
style.

Dates. Sleepovers. Hell, what was next, him clearing out a drawer for her? Maybe letting her store some tampons under his bathroom sink?

A relationship. This was morphing so fast. Unfortunately, somewhere between him showing her his scars and taking her to a tiny Italian restaurant, Rana had lost the ability to give a fuck about protecting her heart.

This will end poorly.

I don’t care.

You’re being wholly irresponsible.

I don’t care.

He was supposed to be a temporary treat—

I don’t care I don’t care I don’t caaaaaaaaaare.

She dried off her body, the terrycloth feeling too rough against skin that had grown used to Micah’s hands. It was like she couldn’t leave him without immediately missing him.

Soon. As soon as she got dressed, she would head over there, a promise that had her picking up her pace as she left the bathroom and grabbed underwear from her dresser. A hopeful glance out the window was met with disappointment—the studio was empty except for the huge canvas he was working on.
Her
canvas. Micah was careful to face it against the wall when he wasn’t working, aware of her propensity to peek.

He didn’t want her to see it, he said, until it was done, which she respected. She didn’t like it, because, holy crapballs, she was curious as fuck, but she respected it.

She didn’t have to be in to work until the late afternoon today, which meant they would probably spend at least a couple hours in the studio. He would paint, and they would talk. The focus that had so entranced her when she’d first caught sight of him all those months ago was magnified tenfold now that he was working on her painting. Sometimes he would stop and frown, but not once did she catch even a hint of the frustrated anger that used to grip him.

If a little voice inside her head whispered he didn’t seem to exactly need her there for modeling purposes as much as he had in the beginning, she ignored it. She reveled in being naked in front of him. There was something dreamy and otherworldly about those few hours, and she wasn’t in a hurry to lose them.

After their session was done, maybe he would want to hang out. There was a park not far from their homes. They could take a nice walk. There were usually lots of puppies gamboling about. Was Micah a dog person? She imagined he would be.

Date. Totally a date. Puppy watching is
such
a date.

She drew on her jeans. So it was a date. So the line between boyfriend and employer/lover/bad-for-her treat had faded long ago. So. What.

A tiny part of her stood back, aghast, as Old Rana rode the surge of passion with reckless disregard. The rest of her was buckled in for the ride.

Her doorbell sounded, and she pulled her head free of the T-shirt. Who was that? She’d told Micah when they’d parted ways around dawn she would come right over after napping and showering, and she wasn’t expecting anyone else.

By the time Rana emerged from her bedroom, the person at the door had graduated to pounding. Slightly alarmed, she jogged downstairs and peeked through the peephole, her frown transforming into a surprised smile at the sight of Micah. She opened the door. “Hey, what are y—mmmph.”

His mouth covered hers, cutting off her speech.

He walked her backwards, kicking the door closed behind him. His hand sank into her wet hair, and he tugged at the strands, tilting her head so he could get better access.

Her heart went pitter pat. His kisses were pure romance.

The wall pressed against her back, his hard body holding her there. He broke off the kiss long enough to run his lips down her neck, planting tiny love bites exactly in the spots he knew made her crazy with lust.

“I’m not complaining, but what are you doing here?” she asked, breathless.

His teeth scraped over the sensitive flesh below her ear. “If it’s not obvious, we are definitely in trouble.”

“I was coming over, Micah.”

He nipped her again, sharper, like a reprimand. “You were taking too long.”

That pitter pat sped into a full gallop. She couldn’t halt her pleased smile. He missed her! Too. Cute. “I said I would be over by noon.”

“That’s too long. Come now.”

Though she thrilled at his words, she reluctantly levered him away. “I haven’t even put my makeup on. Let me go do that.”

He captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger and studied her, his dark eyes missing nothing. “I want to fuck you and paint you no matter what you put on your face.”

She bit back a laugh at his blunt honesty. “Luckily I don’t put on makeup so men will want to fuck or paint me. I feel naked if I don’t have at least my eyeliner on.”

She waited for him to give her some bullshit about how he was painting her naked and honesty and vulnerability, blah blah, but as always, Micah didn’t react like so many other men she’d been with. He looked displeased, but she knew it was over the delay and not over her love of makeup. He gave a short nod and stepped away. “Fine. Go do whatever you have to do. But hurry up.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to the stairs. “It’ll take as long as it takes, Micah Hale. I don’t rush you when you’re painting. My face is the finest canvas of all.”

“That it is,” he surprised her by agreeing. “However, I have lunch spread out on my kitchen table, and it’ll get cold.”

“You made us lunch?” It was like the guy was trying to figure out ways to claw into her mushy insides.

“I bought lunch,” he corrected. “Mostly ready-mades from the grocery. But I did warm them before I came over.”

Why that should touch her, she wasn’t sure. He had so little interest in food, and between the restaurant and her own love of puttering around the kitchen, her life had always revolved around it.

It was like a vampire forcing down a sandwich so his mortal bride wouldn’t feel out of place.

Stop. Just…stop.

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“We can heat them up again.” Micah’s attention turned to the wall. Absently, he righted a framed picture of her family. They spent far more time at his place than hers, but when he was here, he seemed vaguely fascinated with her décor, her clutter, her colorful cushions and throws. “I would never advocate rushing a work of art.”

Yup. That goofy smile was here to stay. She had to consciously banish it so she could apply her lipstick. A light rose today. He liked her various shades of lipsticks as much as she did, though she had a feeling he was always more interested in her lips than the color.

Despite her words, she could do her makeup in under three minutes flat, the result of a lifelong love affair with cosmetics and a chronically late personality, so it didn’t take her long to put her face on. She brushed her hair, examined herself quickly, and then thundered back down the stairs. Micah wasn’t in the foyer.

“Micah?”

“In here.”

She cocked her head, trying to decipher the strange note in his voice, and walked to her living room. She stopped when she realized what he was crouched in front of.

The large painting had been delivered a couple days ago, carefully wrapped. He’d stripped the brown paper off a corner.

Oh dear.

Embarrassment shot through her. “Excuse you, what are you doing?” she asked, mortification making her voice high-pitched. “Get away from that.”

“I was curious. And perhaps annoyed at you,” he said absentmindedly, his gaze locked on the corner he had unveiled. “It’s silly, isn’t it? For me to feel like I should have some say on the artwork you purchase for your home?”

She bit her lip, though she knew it would smudge her newly applied lipstick. “It was delivered last week, but I wasn’t sure where to hang it.” It couldn’t go in her living room. That would prompt questions from her family when they came to visit. Her bedroom, maybe…but then she feared it would cause too much heartache if the two of them went their separate ways.

“You didn’t say you bought anything that night.” All that was visible was a brown elbow and a swatch of yellow from the background, but she supposed he didn’t need anything else to identify something he had painted.

“I…didn’t want you to know. You would have told me it sucked,” she grumbled.

“I wouldn’t have.”

“I’ve created better,” she intoned in a deep voice, in a fairly decent imitation of him.

A faint smile crossed his face, though he continued to fixate on the painting. With a flick of his wrist, he stripped away more of the paper, so the entire scene was revealed.

She moved behind him so she could look at the couple entwined together, feeling that same gut punch she’d experienced the first time she’d looked at it in the gallery. Lord, had that been almost a month ago?

Need. Desire. Fear.

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure why. They weren’t in a gallery.

“You didn’t have to buy it. I would have given it to you.” His voice was curiously flat.

“I didn’t want to deal with your whining over how you’re no good anymore.”

His head bowed. “My whining.”

“Yeah. Besides, I don’t mind splurging for quality, you know?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “This was worth every penny.”

“More than one review of this past show said the paintings were overpriced in terms of quality.”

“You shouldn’t be reading reviews of your work,” she chided. “That’s going to get in your head.”

“I never did before.” He shrugged. “But then, I—”

“I was better before,” she finished for him, also in a deep, clipped voice. “Well, I don’t believe that.” She gestured to the canvas, though he wasn’t looking at her. “This is goddamn brilliant, Micah.”

He tilted the painting toward him. “You don’t have to placate me.”

“I’m not.” She searched for words. It was heartbreaking that any person as talented as he was could think they were subpar.

Heartbreaking and maddening. She wished she could have a tenth of the brains and talent it took to make something like this. “Maybe you aren’t doing the same thing that you did before, but just because it’s different doesn’t mean it isn’t good. I don’t know much about art. But this makes me…” she clenched a fist and brought it up to her heart, though it seemed like a foolish gesture, “…feel.”

Gently, he leaned the painting against the wall. Slowly, he came to his feet. Which made his sudden, explosive turn all the more startling. He grasped her around the waist.

The room spun. A second later, the soft cushion of the couch cradled her, absorbing her weight and his. He pressed himself against her. “
You
make me feel,” he rasped, and covered her mouth with his.

She gave him easy access, her heart pounding even as she thrilled and feared his words. Common emotions now around him.

Had she ever desired someone like this? She ran her hand over his head, removing the tie that held his hair back. She smoothed her fingers through the rough silk. This was quickly becoming one of her favorite sensations, his hair dragging over her skin.

She pulled away. “Micah, hang on…”

His teeth bit at her neck, his tongue soothing the nip. “Why?”

Yeah, why? Rana couldn’t remember what she’d been about to say, not with his hand under her shirt and sliding up her side. He strummed his finger along her spine, making her arch her back. Unhooking her bra took a second.

The man was damn good with his fingers. They coasted under her loosened bra, over her breast, and tugged at her nipple. “You’re always like this for me,” he grunted. “Hot as fuck.”

She couldn’t deny the accusation. All he had to do was look at her in a certain way, and she’d give him whatever he wanted.

His mouth on her neck moved south, toward her cleavage. Rana tipped her head back, ready to forget lunch, the entire afternoon, maybe everything she had to do that week. Hell, was there anything she had to do that could take priority over this?