My Sinful Love (Sinful Men Book 4) Page 13

  With all of my love,

  Michael

  32

  Annalise

  Ten years ago

  I wasn’t supposed to think he was handsome. I shouldn’t be lingering on the memory of how he kissed, how I felt in his arms, or how damn good we had been together.

  But as I sat across from Michael, my heart beat furiously, crashing against my skin, fighting valiantly to escape my plans, my future, my impending marriage. I laced my fingers together under the table, and I swore I was on the verge of crushing the bones in an effort to keep my hands in my lap, my butt in the seat, my lips to myself.

  Some primal part of me was dying to lean across the table, hold his face in my hands, and kiss him like no time had passed.

  Time, that cruel mistress. Time had played us for fools. I understood now why there was no forwarding address when the letter I’d sent him two years ago, after I graduated, was returned to me. He was already gone. Already serving his country.

  It took everything I had to resist telling him I’d reached out a few years ago. Telling him about the letter I’d written him. The one that asked if he wanted to try again.

  And when he sent me his, two damn years too late in some ways, I had to resist those words he’d written—Je n’ai jamais cessé de t’aimer. I have never stopped loving you.

  Receiving that letter last week had been hard enough. Knowing how to respond was even tougher. Seeing him now was the most difficult part of all. Because as we talked, I slipped back into what we’d had in high school and that first year of college, and all that we’d been to each other.

  All and everything.

  I’d needed him for me to feel at home in America when I’d been alone, and he’d done more than that. He’d given me so much happiness. He’d needed me to survive the tragedy in his life, and I’d been there for him, even across the miles between us. I thought I would marry him. I thought I’d be with him forever. And I hated that it had been too hard to stay together when we were young and so dependent on our families.

  Now we were older and could find a way, and that was what he’d been trying to say when he sent that letter.

  Except . . . I toyed with the ring on my finger.

  My heart climbed into my throat, lodging itself there. I wanted to cry, and I wanted him, and I wanted to not want him.

  I was happy with Julien. I just wished seeing Michael wasn’t so damn tempting.

  And easy.

  And good.

  Soon enough, the clock ticked closer to boarding time. He walked me to my gate, and each step was a door closing, each second the final turn of the pages in a book. At my gate, we stopped, and unsaid words clung to the air like fog.

  There was so much to say, and yet nothing that could be spoken. This was the last goodbye.

  I swallowed my tears and choked back my emotions. “It was so good seeing you,” I said, and wished my words didn’t feel so inadequate.

  He nodded. “And you.”

  I’ll miss you. I’ll think of you. I can’t think of you. I can’t miss you. You have to understand how hard this is.

  He moved first, raising his arms, and I practically fell into his embrace then lingered for a few more seconds, breathing in his scent one last time before I pulled away.

  The past was not my future. I couldn’t look back.

  No matter how much I wanted to in that moment.

  33

  Michael

  The jeans were gone. Mercifully.

  In their place she wore a short green dress that hugged her fantastic body, showing off her breasts, her small waist, and those long, endless legs.

  At the table in the far corner of a restaurant that Brent’s brother had recommended, I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman. Ask me a month ago if I’d be having sushi dinner in the Village, listening to Annalise tell stories about her sister, and I’d have said no way. She’d been just a mirage, a sepia-tinted photograph of days gone by. Now, she was eating a salmon roll, and I was having the best time. We weren’t staying at the same hotel, so I’d picked her up at hers, the breath knocked clear out of my lungs when she’d answered the door.

  In that dress.

  And heels.

  And, very likely, no panties.

  But as much as I wanted her right then and there, I craved the anticipation too. I was a patient man, and I wanted to take her out to dinner. To savor every moment, from picking her up to walking to the restaurant to enjoying the meal. It was so simple, but this was what I’d dreamed of having with her. A freedom that wasn’t possible when we were kids, and now it was all ours. No curfews, no rules, no regulations. A real date with this woman, and as the evening unfurled, a new sensation spread through me, a freedom from all my cares I hadn’t felt in years. An ease.

  “One time when I was helping out at Noelle’s bakery, an American woman came to the counter, and she tried so hard to speak in French,” Annalise said with a smile, continuing her tales of working with her sister from time to time.

  “I bet you hate when they do that.”

  She clasped her hand to her chest. “Me? No. Why would you say that?”

  “Doesn’t it make the French people crazy when we try to speak French?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. Then a guilty little grin appeared on her face. “Only if it’s very bad French.”

  I laughed as I picked up a yellowtail slice and swirled it in soy sauce. “Was her French very bad? Tell the truth.”

  She held up her thumb and index finger. “Only a little. It wasn’t good, but she tried, so she got credit for that. She said she wanted un yaourt abricot, but she pronounced yaourt like tarte.”

  “In her defense, ‘yogurt’ is one of the hardest French words to say.”

  She gave me a curious look. “You know yaourt is ‘yogurt’?”

  “You taught me some French words,” I said, then popped the sushi in my mouth.

  “Did I teach you yaourt?”

  I nodded as I finished chewing. “Isn’t ‘yogurt’ an important word to know?”

  She set down her chopsticks, crossed her arms, and fixed me with a stare. “I taught you words like ‘kiss’ and ‘come’ and ‘fuck.’ I did not teach you ‘yogurt.’”

  “Must have picked it up on my own, then, when I was in France. I spent a few weekends there.”

  Something dark passed through her eyes. “I remember,” she said, sadness coloring her tone. She reached for my hand. “I remember seeing you at the airport.”

  I straightened. “You do?”

  “Of course. How could I ever forget?”

  I shrugged, wincing. The memory still hurt. I hadn’t forgotten a single detail.

  “I remember everything about it,” she said softly but confidently. Her bright green eyes held me captive, never looking away. “I remember the way your hair was shorter, how you looked at me in the gift shop, and the hurt in your eyes when you saw my ring. You have to know I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “I know,” I choked out, and the memory of that day slid in front of me, in all its hope and heartbreak.

  “I hated feeling like I broke your heart, but I had no idea you were going to send me that letter,” she said, and her voice sounded like she was shattering now too.

  “Of course you didn’t know.”

  “I opened it with nervous fingers. Part of me hoped it would say all that it did say, but I was so conflicted for wanting that. I loved my husband, Michael. I want you to know that.” She inhaled deeply, as if she needed the air to fuel her. “But I thought about you every day in college. I missed you every day. Getting over you was nearly impossible.” She took a beat, like she was preparing to say something hard. “I wrote you a letter when I graduated.”

  I flinched, completely unprepared for her to say that. “You did?”

  Sadness flickered across her lovely eyes. “I did.”

  “What did it say?” I asked, desperation in my tone.

  “That I’d finished. That
I was free. That I wanted to see you again.”

  Like a blow to the gut, I could barely breathe for several seconds, as the realization sank in, hard and cruel. I’d missed her letter. We were star-crossed lovers. “Fate had a field day with us, it seems,” I said, humorless. “I never received it.”

  “I know,” she said, resigned. “No forwarding address. You were already in the Army, I presumed.”

  “I was,” I said, and the corollary to that was I wouldn’t have been able to see her anyway. The United States, rightfully so, owned me then.

  “And that’s when I had to move on, Michael,” she continued. “That’s when it was time to march fully forward. And then two years later—two years too late—you blasted back into my life with that letter that was a thing of beauty, and I was unprepared for how much your words would stir up my feelings again.”

  She ran her fingers across my palm. Her touch was comforting and maddening. Because it felt right, and like the only touch I’d ever want. “I just want you to know it wasn’t easy to get over you the first time, and it was gut-wrenching to let you walk away in Marseilles.”

  “Why are you telling me this now, Annalise?” I asked, clasping her hand tighter, needing her answer.

  “Because I told you that you’re the first man I’ve been with since my husband died, but you’re also the only man I’ve even thought about. I let go of you years ago because I had to, and then when I was finally able to think about this again,” she said, gesturing from me to her, “you were the only one who I could even imagine sharing this with.”

  The only one.

  A rush of heat flooded me at those three words. I wanted to be the only one for her, even if I was only able to have her for a short moment in time. I would take what I could get, and I would savor it. She was here right now, with me and no one else.

  “You have no idea how glad I am that I’m the one you thought of, Annalise,” I whispered.

  A smile tugged at her lips.

  Then, I went for it. Just let it all out. A hope, a wish, a what-if question. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened that day if you weren’t engaged? If you’d never have met him?”

  “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 me, the rest of the restaurant fading into a blur. “Because I know what would have happened.”

  My hands shook and my heart stuttered as I rasped out, “What would have happened?”

  She leaned in closer, placing a hand on my cheek. “I’d have stolen you. Taken you away from the Army. Brought you home with me to Paris. Kept you all for myself all these years and made up for lost time,” she said, and my heart beat furiously, slamming against my chest, loving her words.

  “Stop saying those things,” I whispered, shaking my head.

  “What things?”

  “Things that make this harder for me.”

  “Why is it hard for you?”

  I 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 we had? I didn’t know if I could risk putting any more of my heart on the line for her. One thing was certain—my original notion that one touch and she’d be out of my 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 I tumbled into the land of no return with her, before I gave her every part of my heart and soul, I cleared my throat. “Are you ever going to finish the story about the yogurt?”

  She laughed, her head leaning back, her long elegant neck exposed. “She couldn’t pronounce 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.

  I laughed softly. “A tarte sounds better than yogurt.”

  “My sister’s bakery makes the best apricot tartes. Come to Paris sometime and find out.”

  I 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.”

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

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

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

  “Michael,” she said, all sexy and low.

  “Yes?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I lifted her up and set her on the sink cabinet. “Have my dessert now. I want you so much. I’ve wanted you for so damn long, and now you’re here with me, and everything that comes out of your mouth makes me crave you even more.” My voice was rough and hungry as I ran my fingertip across her bottom lip.

  Her breath rushed over me. “It does?”

  “So much. So unbelievably much.” I dragged my finger down her neck. In its wake, goosebumps rose on her skin as I traveled along her throat, down her chest, between her breasts. I 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 my lungs as I stared, just fucking stared like a starving man at her beautiful, wet pink pussy.

  “So fucking pretty.” I 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.

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

  She gasped and clutched my head, her fingers threading through my hair. I was intoxicated—utterly buzzed on her. My mind turned hazy with pleasure and possibility, with the sheer magnitude of this sensual dream becoming my visceral reality at last. She was better than all my fantasies. She was real and wet and hot, and she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

  My bones hummed, and my mind ignited as I flicked my tongue against the soft rise of her clit. She moaned, a long, delicious sound that seemed to vibrate through her whole body. I kissed her pussy deeply and then drew her swollen clit into my mouth, sucking it between my lips. She bucked against me, seeking more, and I gave it to her.

  I gave her everything, and I was sure I’d never want this with anyone but her.

  Ever.

  34

  Annalise

  His lips. His tongue. His hands gripping my thighs, holding me tight.

  At once it was all too much and not enough. I felt like I was ready to fly to the moon, to launch into orbit, and I still wanted to ride higher, go farther. Everything was silvery as my body dissolved into his touch. He caressed me with his masterful tongue then sucked hard on my clit. In some kind of delicious harmony, I moved with him, rocking into him, hips shifting, keeping a sensual pace with him as he ate me 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 space for a deliciously dirty deed—sex in a restaurant bathroom. I didn’t care where we were. I hadn’t thought I would survive a minute longer without some kind of
contact, and bless this man, he knew. He knew precisely how to meet my needs and exactly how to lick, kiss, suck, and drive me wild. I felt untamed with him, on the edge of control, ready to let it all go. My hands curled tighter around his head, my fingers laced through his hair. I looked down, and the sight of his face between my legs, devouring me, made me wetter, hotter.

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

  I felt that way right now. Nothing could compare.

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

  I squeezed my eyes and sealed my lips, trying desperately to quiet the little noises that escaped. And I shook. My body just fucking shook from the orgasm that thundered through me, blowing my mind, blasting my once-cold world into nothing but scorching heat and lust.

  All I wanted was more of him. All of him. I wanted to feel everything with him. Everything I’d denied myself, and everything good in the world.