That could just be the alcohol, though. Or his kisses.

I’ve never been kissed the way he kissed me. I’ve always loved kissing. It’s the only part of sex that I wholeheartedly enjoy, but Quan’s kisses swept me away. I can’t stop looking at his mouth, watching his jaw work as he chews, watching his throat bob as he swallows, fascinated by the way his tattoos shift. Is it normal to find a man’s Adam’s apple sexy?

This is physical attraction, I recognize. And I’ve never felt it before, not really. There are other things that I like about Julian—my parents hold his family in high esteem (his father is a urologist, and his mother is an obstetrician); he’s extremely smart and talented (he went to Harvard and then Stanford for business school); he’s hardworking (he’s an investment banker at a leading bank); he has an even temperament and never yells at me, never scares me; I understand him; I know how to be what he wants. At least, I thought I did.

He doesn’t know me, though. How can he, when even I don’t?

Intuitively, I sense that if I stray from the version of myself that he’s familiar with, he will no longer want me. That is, if he ever comes back to me.

Quan, on the other hand, has only known this chaotic, insecure, panic-attack-ridden side of me. He’s seen me at my worst.

And he’s still here.

For now. For tonight.

“You’re doing the same thing my mom does,” he observes.

I blink several times as I try to make sense of his words. “What does she do?”

“She watches people eat, like the food tastes better in someone else’s mouth,” he says with a grin.

I duck my head and tuck a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind. She’s a cook and loves feeding people, so I’m used to it. This pasta is good, too.” He points at his empty plate.

I hate the thought of him being hungry—and I’m ridiculously pleased that he likes my cooking—so I push my half-full plate toward him. “Help me finish?”

After giving me an assessing look, he spins his fork in the noodles and takes a big bite. It’s a bit unusual sharing a plate with him, but I like it. It feels intimate somehow. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my palm, watching him.

As he scoops up a second forkful, he asks, “Do you always keep it quiet like this? You don’t like to play background music?”

“Do you want me to turn something on?”

“Not unless you want to. I’m just curious.” He takes another big bite of pasta, and his gaze strays to my instrument case in the corner.

“I like having music on while I cook and things,” I say, but then I frown down at the dwindling noodles on my plate. “Well, I used to. Lately, I can’t listen to music without picking it apart and overanalyzing everything until my head hurts. I haven’t listened to music for my own enjoyment in … a long time. I think I’ve forgotten how. Ironic, I know.”

When his expression turns thoughtful and he looks like he wants to delve deeper into the topic, I quickly steer the conversation away from me by asking, “What kind of music do you like?”

After a short hesitation, he says, “Most kinds, I guess. I’m not picky. To be honest, I’m really tone-deaf.”

“Tone-deaf as in … you can’t differentiate notes?” As a professional musician, one with perfect pitch no less, I can’t fathom what that must be like.

“As in my brother and sister can’t sing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ correctly because I taught it to them when we were little.” His smile looks slightly embarrassed, and he concentrates on scooping up the last forkful of noodles and eating them.

I think some people would laugh upon hearing this confession, but I don’t. Imagining a small Quan singing out of tune to his siblings as he tucks them in at night spills warmth into my chest.

“Did you take care of them a lot?” I ask.

“My dad left when we were really small, and my mom told me it was my job to be man of the house,” he says in a matter-of-fact manner as he idly spins his wineglass. “But”—he glances at me, his eyes dancing and a mischievous smile hinting at the corners of his mouth—“I was no angel. I got into a lot of trouble.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” I say, and I can’t keep the amusement from my voice. “What kind of trouble was it?”

“The regular stuff, skipping class, practical jokes on the principal. The agriculture teacher was a racist, and we thought it would be a good idea to salt the fields. Looking back, I regret it. There was the fighting, too. There was always fighting. I almost got expelled for punching this kid in the face after he tripped my brother in the cafeteria. His dad was going to press charges but dropped it when my mom made me apologize.” He shrugs, and down on the table, I see him fist his right hand, making the letters inked onto his knuckles stand out in sharp relief. “I don’t regret punching him.”

Acting on a desire I’ve been fighting since we sat down, I settle my hand over his and bump my fingertips along his knuckles. His skin is warm, slightly rough. “What do these letters mean? MVKM?” He smiles slightly, though his gaze is intense—I can only take it in split-second doses. I look away, only to return, and then look away again.

“Are you sure you want to know? They don’t represent my fallen enemies or anything,” he says.

“Do they correspond with people?” I ask.

“Yeah. My family, minus my dad. M is for Mom, V is my sister, Kfor my brother, Khai, and the last M is for Michael, my cousin and best friend.” He opens his hand and turns it so he can interlace his fingers with mine, a movement that makes my heart knock around my chest like a Ping-Pong ball. “I wanted them on my right hand because they’re important to me.”

“I like that,” I say, and I feel a sharp stab of envy for these people whom I’ve never met. No one has ever wanted to carry a reminder of me on their skin.

His smile widens in response. His gaze drops to my mouth, intensifies, and I stop breathing. Moving slowly, like he’s giving me time to back away, he leans toward me and cups my jaw with his free hand. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, and the breath seeps from my lungs as I touch the tip of my tongue to his skin and scrape him with my teeth.

I’m worrying that was too weird, I’ve never done something like that before, when he closes the distance between us and crushes our lips together. His tongue strokes into my mouth, taking, claiming, like he wants to consume me whole, and weakness shoots through my body. I love the way he kisses me.

He pulls back, his lungs heaving, his lips red, one hand bracing the table. I guess I almost knocked it over. “We should take this somewhere else,” he says in a low rasp, urging me to my feet.

“Couch is right there. Bedroom around the corner,” I say, and my voice doesn’t sound like me. It’s husky, breathy, completely unfamiliar.

“Couch is closer.” He guides us a few steps in that direction but stops to kiss me again, like he can’t help himself, licking my bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth.

To keep from melting to the floor, I wrap my arms around his neck and press my body to his. He’s deliciously solid, thick and strong where I’m not.