Sinful Nights: Sinful Love Part 15

She shook her head. "No. I don't think about it. I don't have to wonder," she said, her tone steady and certain as she looked straight at him, the rest of the restaurant fading into a blur. "Because I know what would have happened."

His hands shook and his heart stuttered as he rasped out, "What would have happened?"

She leaned in closer, placing a hand on his cheek. "I'd have stolen you. Taken you away from the army. Brought you home with me to Paris. Kept you all for myself for all the years and made up for lost time," she said, and his heart beat furiously, slamming against his chest, loving those words.

"Stop saying those things," he whispered, shaking his head.

"What things?"

"Things that make this harder for me."

"Why is it hard for you?"

He drew a breath. "Because you say things like that and it makes me want to steal you away. Maybe this is my only chance."

"What if it is?"

That was the question, wasn't it? What if this night, this trip, these hours were all they'd have? He didn't know if he could risk putting any more of his heart on the line for her. One thing was certain-his original notion that one touch and she'd be out of his system was well and truly gone. "Then we make the most of it."

She nodded. "We are making the most of it. Right now."

Before he tumbled into the land of no return with her, before he gave her every part of his heart and soul, he cleared his throat, returning to simpler matters. "Are you ever going to tell me about the yogurt?"

She laughed, her head leaning back, her long elegant neck exposed. "She couldn't p.r.o.nounce yaourt, so it came out like tarte, and we gave her an apricot tarte. She seemed quite happy about that." She picked up her chopsticks and grabbed a piece of sushi as the patrons at a nearby table raised their sake gla.s.ses in a toast to a new deal. So odd that a business dinner was transpiring at the same time that they were discussing love, fidelity, and possibilities.

And yogurt.

He laughed softly. "A tarte sounds better than yogurt."

"My sister's bakery makes the best apricot tartes. Come to Paris sometime and find out."

He arched an eyebrow. "Come to Paris for a tarte?"

She jutted up a shoulder. "Or more."

"Like what? What else should I have with the tarte?"

She set down her chopsticks, the sushi untouched, then tilted her head and murmured, "Me. You should have me."

His blood heated, and his head swam with dirty thoughts. This meal seemed wholly unnecessary. He had no more interest in fish and rice. He could subsist on her, on this talking, these confessions, and these touches that promised what was to come.

He was ready to call for the check, but the waitress was nowhere to be seen. He glanced around, then tossed his napkin, stood up, and reached for her hand.

She rose, not even asking a single question. He led her past a table, around the corner, down the hallway. He knocked on the door of one of the restrooms. No one answered, so he turned the k.n.o.b, pulled her inside, and locked the door.

"Michael," she said, all s.e.xy and low.

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do?"

He lifted her up and set her on the sink cabinet. "Have my dessert first. I want you so much. I've wanted you for so d.a.m.n long, and now you're here with me, and everything that comes out of your mouth makes me crave you even more." His voice was rough and hungry as he ran his fingertip across her bottom lip.

Her breath rushed over him. "It does?"

"So much. So unbelievably much." He dragged his finger down her neck. In its wake, goose b.u.mps rose on her skin as he traveled along her throat, down her chest, between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He reached her waist, and squeezed her hip. Touching her was such a privilege, such a complete and utter gift. "Lift your dress. Let me see you."

Trembling, she reached for the hem and lifted it, and all the air rushed from his lungs as he stared, just f.u.c.king stared like a starving man at her beautiful, pink, wet p.u.s.s.y.

"So f.u.c.king pretty." He ran a finger through that slippery wetness. "I've wanted to taste you forever. I've wanted to have your sweetness on my mouth. Will you give it to me?"

"Please take it," she said on a pant, arching her back, raising her hips.

He kneeled, pressed his hands on her thighs, and took his first taste. He groaned the second he touched her. She was heaven on his tongue.

She gasped and clutched his head, her fingers threading through his hair. He was intoxicated-utterly f.u.c.king buzzed on her. His mind turned hazy with pleasure and possibility, with the sheer magnitude of this sensual dream becoming his visceral reality at last. She was better than all his fantasies. She was real, and wet, and hot, and she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

His bones hummed, and his mind ignited as he flicked his tongue against the soft rise of her c.l.i.t. She moaned, a long, delicious sound that seemed to vibrate through her whole body. He kissed her p.u.s.s.y deeply and then drew her swollen c.l.i.t into his mouth, sucking it between his lips. She bucked against him, seeking more, and he gave it to her.

He gave her everything, and he was sure he'd never want this from anyone but her.

Ever.

His lips. His tongue. His hands gripping her thighs, holding her tight.

At once it was all too much and not enough. She felt like she was ready to fly to the moon, to launch into orbit, and she still wanted to ride higher, go farther. Everything was silvery as her body dissolved into his touch. He caressed her with his masterful tongue then sucked hard on her c.l.i.t. In some kind of delicious harmony, she moved with him, rocking into him, hips shifting, keeping a sensual pace with him as he ate her out on the edge of the sink in the restroom.

The lights were low, a soft, blue glimmer against the black tiles on the wall, and somehow the glow fit. This was a decadently lit s.p.a.ce for a deliciously dirty deed-s.e.x in a restaurant bathroom. She didn't care where they were. She hadn't thought she would survive a minute longer without some kind of contact, and bless this man, he knew. He knew precisely how to meet her needs, and exactly how to lick, kiss, suck, and drive her wild. She felt untamed with him, on the edge of control, ready to let it all go. Her hands curled tighter around his head, her fingers laced through his hair. She looked down, and the sight of his face between her legs, devouring her, made her wetter, hotter.

She moaned his name, loved the way it felt on her tongue, the shape it took on her lips. Loved how he licked faster and hungrier each time she said it. They were like a feedback loop. His name fell from her mouth, and he consumed her. Like he was drinking her up. Like she was the only one he'd ever wanted.

Oh G.o.d, she felt that way right now. Nothing could even compare.

Pleasure climbed through her legs like vines, spreading across her whole body, filling her with a desire so deep and so far, she felt like it would never end. This feeling-this mad, crazy bliss-was everything. Gripping his head, she moved with him, moaning and sighing with every stroke of his tongue, every kiss of his soft, f.u.c.kable lips, and soon she melted into him, boneless and mindless with pleasure. She was losing touch with the world around her as her pulse beat rapidly across every inch of her skin, as heat flared in her chest, and her face flushed as she chased her climax. There it was, rising up, swelling, and her nerves blazed. Her hold on reality shattered as she thrust into his face, coming, and coming, and coming.

She squeezed her eyes and sealed her lips, trying desperately to quiet the little noises that escaped. And she shook. Her body just f.u.c.king shook from the o.r.g.a.s.m that thundered through her, blowing her mind, blasting her once-cold world into nothing but scorching heat and l.u.s.t.

All she wanted was more of him. All of him. She wanted to feel everything with him. Everything she'd denied herself, and everything good in the world.

As her release ebbed, Michael rose, cupped her cheeks, and whispered, "You taste divine. Ma pet.i.te fraise."

"Take me back to your room," she whispered, revealing the depth of her desire for him. "Spend the night making love to me. I need you so much."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

The door fell closed with a loud creak. In seconds, his hands were on her face, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her waist. Everywhere.

He pressed her to the wall of the foyer, trapping her with his body, touching her all over, as if he could memorize the feel of her curves with his palms. She writhed against him, and he groaned, low and deep in his throat.

As he lifted her arms over her head, pinning her wrists with his hands, he couldn't help but wonder if this was an all too vivid dream. Everything with her felt so insanely good it bordered on unreal.

How many times had he fantasized about this? How many nights had he taken her to bed in his mind, his own fist a pale subst.i.tute for this woman? She was a jewel, as brilliant and beautiful, her eyes sparkling. Her body was lush and warm, and her hungry lips hunted for his mouth. Her breath, her pants, her noises played in his ears like a sultry song.

His lips were fused to hers, her body was sealed tight to him, and he didn't intend to let her go.

He kissed her like the world was ending, but it was only the beginning of something entirely new between them. He couldn't get close enough to her, and he could barely accept that she-his what if girl, though she was all woman-was moaning softly in his mouth, pressing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to his chest.

With his hand caging hers above her head, he pushed against her, craving this frenzied foreplay of clothed bodies, of clawing at each other to get close. G.o.d, he wanted her with a desire that couldn't even be measured. It felt like the kind of want that could scale mountains, invade countries, and send men and women to the moon. He broke the kiss, breathless, and held her face in his hand, getting lost in her emerald eyes.

"I've dreamed about this so much for so long. I can't believe it's real," he said, fighting so hard to hold in all the other feelings. If she knew how much and how deeply the need to be with her had defined him, had driven him to learn new ways of living, he might scare her away.

His muscles tensed from the restraint inside him as he reined in all the words he wanted to say. It was too soon, too much to share.

"But I'm real, Michael," she said, breaking free of his grip to place her hands on his face. "Feel me. Touch me. I'm here."

He closed his eyes, and his skin turned electric from the tender possession in her touch. No one had ever made him feel this way. All the other women were right. They had been completely right in their a.s.sessment when they'd said to him: You're in love with someone else.

He was.

Irrevocably.

This was his fate in life, to fall in love with the same woman over and over.

A rush of air escaped his lungs with the sharp, clear realization. He was in love with Annalise once more. He'd been madly in love with her before, and now it was happening all over again as he fell for the woman she had become-for her fragile but strong heart, her open mind, her willingness to try, her compa.s.sion, and her understanding of him.

He was dying to tell her, to imprint on her flesh: I'm in love with you.

Instead, when he opened his eyes, he chose his words carefully. "All I want is to touch you. To feel how real you are." He tugged off her dress, drinking in the sight of her in a black bra and nothing else.

A groan rumbled up his chest, then he dropped his face to her collarbone and slid his hand between her legs, the temperature in him soaring as he touched her silky heat. Lightly he stroked, teasing her, drawing out gasps and moans, s.e.xy little sighs and sweet, heady murmurs. He pushed the cup of her bra over one breast, freeing a nipple and sucking it deep, then nipping her.

With each bite across her flesh, he imagined tattooing her with words. The words he wouldn't give voice to, he left as marks. A kiss on her throat. A long suck on the swell of her breast. A pinch of his teeth on her neck. Each one said, I'm so in love with you.

"Michael?"

His name was a question. He looked up, dazed from touching her. She spread her hands across his chest, her fingers toying with the b.u.t.tons on his shirt. "I don't want to use a condom. I want to feel you completely. I'm on the pill, and I'm safe," she said, meeting his eyes. Hers shone with desire.

His mind and body latched onto the image of sliding into her, no barriers. His d.i.c.k grew impossibly harder, straining against the zipper, fighting its way to get to the Promised Land.

That land just got even s.e.xier.

He swallowed thickly, nodding. "I'm safe. I haven't been with anyone in a year."

Her eyes went wide. "You haven't?"

"That surprises you?"

As she worked open the b.u.t.tons on his shirt, she said, "You're so handsome, I can't imagine you would be alone."

"I'm not a player, Annalise," he said roughly, as her long fingers undressed him.

"No, you're not a player. You've never been one. You always had your eyes on the woman you were with, and only her." She said it generally, as if the statement applied to his approach to relationships, and it did. But G.o.d, if she only knew it fit her precisely.

"Look at you," she murmured as she opened his shirt. Dipping her face to his chest, she planted kisses on his pecs, biting a nipple. He hissed in a breath. "You are so strong," she said, dragging her fingernails across his muscles as she pushed off his shirt.

"You're going to ruin me with all your compliments."

"Your body," she continued, as her eyes roamed over his chest and arms. "I love it. I love looking at you. I love touching you."

And he loved being touched by her. More than anything in the world. Especially when her hands went there, to his belt, unbuckling it then unzipping his jeans. He helped push them down then off his feet, along with his shoes.

He glanced at her, then back at himself. "Feels like we've been here before. I'm kind of thinking we want to get to the next level of naked."

She laughed. "You mean the completely naked level?"

"Yes, that one," he said, and led her to the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and looped his hands behind her back, unhooking her bra, letting it fall to the floor. His hands shot out and cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, pinching the nipples as she arched into him. He raised his face and stared up at her, still in awe that she wasn't a mirage.

"You're here," he said in disbelief.

"I'm here," she echoed.

Naked before him, totally revealed, and the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He wanted to kiss every inch of her body, to catalogue each feature, from the tiny little appendix scar on her belly, to the small spray of freckles on her chest, to the strength in her legs.

"Michael, this isn't fair. Please take your clothes off."

He stood and shoved down his boxers. Her eyes blazed darkly as she stared at his c.o.c.k, licking her lips. f.u.c.k. He wanted to live in this moment, to return to it again and again-her unabashed l.u.s.t. Her deep desire. Her stare made him hotter, made him burn. He reached down and stroked his c.o.c.k, letting her watch and loving her reaction.

"Are you thinking of me?" she said naughtily. "When you do that?"

"Now. And always."

She trembled and then joined him, wrapping her hand over his, stroking along with him. "I think of you so much now. I'm so worked up being near you. So wound up. You drive me crazy with want."

He gripped her shoulders, guided her to the bed, and regarded her naked frame.

"f.u.c.k." He groaned as she lay back on the sheets, resting on her elbows. "So beautiful. All I want is to make you feel so f.u.c.king good."

"You already do," she said, then raised her knees and let them fall open.