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“I’ll be good at it. Trust me.” He places a taut, muscular thigh against me.

“Damn it, Rhys, you’re not a chiropractor—!”

He twists his arms and torso in an arc.Ack,I’m going to die of a broken neck!

My spine contorts, letting out a series of pops that starts from the bottom and travels all the way to the top.

“One more time. Relax,” he says, a grin in his voice.

Before I can utter a single word, he switches the leg and does it again, but in the opposite direction. My spine sounds like someone opening a bag of potato chips.

“There. How do you feel?”

I open my mouth to tell him I’m permanently damaged, except… I blink. The pain’s gone. I try to swivel my head. My neck’s still a little stiff, but not too bad. I scramble to my feet, turn around and stare. “Whoareyou?”

Rising to his feet and rolling his shoulders, he snorts. “Your lord and savior, Ms. Little Faith. I told you I could do it.”

“You’ve done this before, right?”

“Nope,” he says, a little too smoothly. Then his eyes drop and instantly darken. The tip of his mouth quirks.

I look down. A silent scream of horror gathers in my throat as I cross my arms, tugging at the straps to rearrange my top.I just flashed my boss. Okay, just one boob, but still! My face flames so hard, my skin might melt off.

“I need to go!” I nearly shout as I snatch the thong off the bed, run to the bathroom, then slam the door shut. Ihaveto get my own room. I don’t care if Tokyo is hosting the Pope himself!

Chapter Eight

Rhys

By the time Max steps out of the bathroom, room service has delivered a breakfast for two. Some fresh berries, eggs Benedict and a few croissants with various jams and butter, plus a generous pot of freshly brewed coffee. I’ve noticed that Max likes these items every time we travel together.

I’m glad she took her time. Although jerking off in the shower helped, touching her and smelling her warm, sweet scent rekindled the heat. To say nothing of the inadvertent show she gave me. It took a little while to get back in control.

Max has changed into a fitted violet dress with sleeves that reach her forearms. The conservative neckline barely shows any cleavage, which is a shame. It’s too bad I wasn’t wearing glasses earlier. My vision isn’t terrible, but my eyes get dry and tired easily, and won’t focus properly at times. Unfortunately, they went slightly out of focus when she flashed me.

But I most definitely got a good look at the thong. And now I feel like Superman, my vision going almost X-ray, creating a good picture of the sexy underwear under the dress. I swallow, then reach for the ice water. Max is making me understand why some men obsess over underwear—I didn’t until this morning.

Her hair hangs loose. Probably too painful to put it up like usual. Although I cracked her back pretty thoroughly, this hard floor isn’t forgiving.

My fingertips tingle with the memory of her shoulders and spine under my palms. She was so warm and pliable, like a lazy kitten. The knots felt like golf balls, though.

Although she was skeptical, back cracking isn’t that difficult to do if you know what you’re doing. I learned the technique when I was in Thailand for several months after breaking up with Selena. Seemed like a perfect post-breakup thing to travel and be a bum. A bunch of local ladies came out every day to do massages on the beach. I got one without fail, and one day I got curious and asked them about back cracking. One of them showed me how to do it, probably feeling sorry for my being alone for weeks, unlike the other tourists.

Despite the pain in her shoulders and arms, Max has put on perfect makeup. The freckles are gone, unfortunately. She must not know how adorable they are.

I settle down at the table. “Have some breakfast.”

“The hotel offered to comp breakfast down at the buffet,” she says stiffly. She walks like she has a giant stick up her butt, and takes the seat opposite me with a wariness reserved for wild animals.

I stop in the middle of biting into an egg and shoot her a steady look. “Ugh. Abuffetbreakfast? Really?”

She studies me for a moment. “Guess not.” I can hear a rather cattyYour Majesty. She called me that once when she thought I wasn’t listening.

“Exactly.” I pour coffee for us and slide a cup toward her. “The hotel’s going to send someone to pick up our dirty laundry. I bagged mine, and I suggest you do the same. They should be done before we come back.”

She glances at me over the rim of her cup. “Thanks.” A flicker of surprise softens her tone.

Not sure why she doesn’t think more highly of me—I’m not a total bastard. This trip to Tokyo was abrupt, granted, butI didn’t want to return to the States and deal with less-than-pleased investors—or my grandmother, who’s determined to do something about my personal life—without having all the data. Asking them to wait is akin to expecting a hungry toddler to shut up and go to sleep.