His lips brush the crest of my cheek as he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me what you do, Stella. You know you want to.”

My smile feels illicit. Somehow the action is directly tied to all my happy parts, making them draw hot and tight. “I don’t think I do.”

Another hum. “Liar. You’re dying to.”

A soft laugh leaves me. It feels good doing this with him, teasing and buffing up against each other—two objects unable to keep apart. My fingertip skims along his skin, tracing the edge of his jeans, and he shivers.

“Button …” It’s a warning.

I should heed it. I know I should. But he’s warm and solid and smells like my best dream. “Yes?”

He lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I forgot what we were saying.”

We both laugh, low and easy.

“You want to know what I do?” I say, a bit hazy, rubbing my cheek against his.

“Yeah.” It’s a whisper of sound at my ear. “Yeah.”

Languid heat melts over me. I sink against the wall, that thick, hard cock of his pressing into the mound of my sex the only thing keeping me standing. A low-lying pulse of pleasure centers there. I push against it to alleviate the pressure, and we both make a sound—pained, helpless, needy.

John rocks against me, barely a movement, but enough to make my lids flutter.

My head is swimming. “I …” I lick my lips, trying to focus.

“You …?” His lips tickle the edge of my jaw.

“I’m …” God, he presses a kiss at the corner of my eye. “I’m …” I’m sinking into him. His lips part and brush like wings along my skin. My fingertips slide over his waist, catching goosebumps. Far away from us, someone laughs.

The honey thickness of John’s voice is at my ear. “You’re …?”

My heavy lids open. The world is a blur. John’s so close, the silk of his burnished brown hair tickling my temple, the scent of warm skin and soap teasing my nostrils. “A friend,” I say.

He stills, not tense but really listening now. “A friend?”

I’m clearer too, but not by much. My fingers still gently trace the edge of his jeans. “Yes. A professional friend. If someone needs a friend, they can hire me.”

I feel the jolt of surprise that moves through him. I hear the little gurgle in his throat. Our bodies brush as he lifts his head enough to meet my eyes. His green gaze is a bit hazy and moving over my face as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re a professional friend?” His voice is husky, cracking at the end.

The sound of his shock has the heat draining from me, leaving my muscles cold and tight. I frown, peering at him. “Yes.”

He stares back, his lips parted but no words coming out. For a moment, it seems he sways. Then he blinks rapidly, high color flooding those perfectly sculpted cheeks. “I …” He takes a step back, his movements stiff and awkward. “I …”

“You sound like me,” I tease, weakly, because my heart is pounding. He’s looking at me like I just landed with the Mother Ship.

John attempts to smile but fails utterly. The best he can do is a wobbly tilt of his lips. He runs a hand through his hair and squeezes the back of his neck, his gaze darting around as if he doesn’t know where he is. And then his eyes meet mine again. Or they try to—he quickly focuses on my face instead.

“I have to go,” he blurts out.

Before I can blink, he’s turning around and striding away as if the place is set to blow.

Chapter Ten

Stella

* * *

“Miss, could you hold the door?” The husky request comes from an older woman at the base of the stairs leading up to my building. She gives me a smile, her lips that perfect shade of crimson the film stars of old Hollywood used to wear. Honestly, the woman could have been a classic film star. Her iron-gray hair is styled in a sleek long bob, her cream and black-trimmed Chanel suit perfectly tailored to her slight frame.

It hits me that I’m simply staring at the woman, obviously struggling to pull her rolling cart of groceries up the stairs. But the oddness of seeing a woman wearing couture, and carrying an honest-to-God Birkin bag worth more than I make in three months, handling her own groceries, has me dumbfounded. Only in New York.

Fashionable she may be, but she’s looks as though a strong wind could blow her away. I’d been headed out, but I set my purse on the door’s threshold to keep it open and then jog down the stairs and pick up her cart. “Let me.”

“You’re very kind,” she says with a small smile. “And new here.”

“I’m Stella Grey.”

“Madeline Goldman.”

“I’ve been here a few weeks,” I tell her as we climb the stairs. “I’m pet-sitting.”

“Killian’s place?” she says with a nod. “I’d heard he was away for a few months.”

“You know him?”

She takes the cart handle as soon as I set it down, and the enormous canary diamond ring she wears winks in the weak sunlight. It’s part of a set, flanking a thin gold wedding ring. Everything about her exudes established New York money. Except for the fact that she’s living in a building without a doorman and doesn’t have a driver. That part is a little odd. But it seems this building attracts eccentric people.

“My dear,” she says, “I make it my business to know my neighbors. It’s safer and friendlier that way.”

“This is true.” We make our way into the building, and I grab my purse, ready to leave.

Mrs. Goldman takes out a set of keys and opens her mailbox while sliding me a look. “I suppose you know Jax as well.”

My heart gives a little leap, trying to escape my ribs. Pathetic. I have to stop reacting to all things John, or Jax, or whatever he wants to call himself. My life was perfectly good before I met him. A little lonely, sure. Not as exciting, okay. But fine. Then I meet the mercurial rock star and he dominates my thoughts. Totally unacceptable. Especially since he ran out on me as though he’d seen a ghost.

I swallow past the bitter lump in my throat. “We’ve met.”

She must hear something in my tone because she does a double take and then laughs. “Yes, I can see you have. That boy has a way of making a lasting impression.”

I snort. “He drives me nuts.”

“Then you must like him quite a bit.” She appears pleased.

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, Mrs. Goldman, but not every annoying person is secretly likable.”

“No, they certainly aren’t.” Her smile grows. “But Jax is. Remember, I know the young man. Not only is he charming as a prince, he has a good heart.”

I make a noncommittal sound in my throat.

“He also tends to blunder from time to time,” Mrs. Goldman says with a knowing look.

“You could say that.”

“Messed up quite a bit, has he?” Her eyes glint with amusement now.

“Well, let’s see. He accused me of stalking him. Though I guess that’s fair since I accused him of the same. But he also speculated that I was a professional escort when I wouldn’t tell him what I did for a living.”

That at least gets her. Mrs. Goldman pales, her red lips parting. “Oh. My.”

“He apologized,” I feel compelled to add since it looks as though she might take John by the ear and lay into him the next time she sees him. “Then he left me high and dry at a party, and we haven’t spoken since.”