Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4) Read online

  “But that’s how it’s always been,” Mindy said. “This guy has supposedly been running the Royal Sinners for years, so he damn well knows how to be inconspicuous.”

  “That’s the trouble,” Michael said, as his phone buzzed.

  Annalise.

  A concert! Sounds great. I will be there.

  He promptly forgot about Luke and zoned in on those last four words. She would be there.

  His Annalise.

  * * *

  She peered in the mirror, considering the skinny jeans and boots she wore as the phone trilled in her ear and she waited for her sister to pick up.

  “It’s two in the morning,” Noelle grumbled, sleep thick in her voice.

  “I know,” Annalise said, checking out the side view. Not bad. “But you instructed me to call you the second I had a report.”

  Her older sister groaned, then Annalise heard sheets rustle, and she assumed Noelle was dragging herself out of her tiny bed in her tiny flat in the Fifteenth Arrondissement. “Fine. Report.”

  “I’m seeing him again. Tonight,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips.

  “You’ve already seen him once?”

  “Yes. This afternoon.”

  “And you didn’t think to give me a report then?”

  “I wanted to wait until I knew for certain another time would be happening. He just texted me details a few minutes ago.”

  “Mon petite papillon,” Noelle said in a playful huff, using the nickname she’d bestowed on Annalise many moons ago. Annalise froze, not because it bothered her, but because it reminded her of what Michael used to call her. Not a butterfly, but he had given her an affectionate little name, and she hadn’t thought about it in ages. She thought about it now, though, and how much she’d liked it. “Tell me more about tonight.”

  Annalise gave her the details of their coffee conversation, because it was Noelle who had encouraged her to see him in the first place. “Time to move on, mon petite papillon. No more crying in the croissants,” Noelle had said a few months ago.

  Annalise wasn’t crying in the croissants, or her pillow, anymore, thank you very much. She hadn’t for many months. Still, was she truly ready? And ready for what?

  “To love again,” Noelle had said, and Annalise had scoffed and shaken her head.

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Then just go on a date.”

  Fine, a date seemed reasonable, if she could call it that. Finding Michael had been no easy task, but persistence had paid off, and she’d tracked him down, then sent the letter to his office.

  He’d seemed a safe bet for her first time out with a man in two years. Comforting, even. High school sweethearts, and all that.

  Falling for Michael Sloan—back when he was Michael Paige-Prince—had been the easiest thing in the world when she was sixteen and living far, far away from home. He ran the radio station at their school, and played guitar in a band with some friends in the afternoons. He was laidback, easy-going, and quick with a joke. She was the arty French girl who liked the same indie music, and who took pictures of him and the other guys playing their instruments in the garage. They were late-90s teens in love, bonding over Pearl Jam and Nirvana, grunge and flannel, American jargon, and kisses that lasted well past midnight. Endless kisses, the kind that made her feel like her skin was humming.

  “Call me when you’re done with the concert,” Noelle said from the other end of the line.

  “So you do like my report at any time of day,” Annalise teased.

  “I’m a glutton for punishment when it comes to you. Just make sure it’s a good report.”

  “What would make for a good report?”

  “You know precisely what would make for a good report.”

  Yes. Yes, she did. Was it so wrong to hope he’d kiss her tonight? The flutter in her chest said a kiss would only be right; the spate of nerves flying across her skin told her the opposite.

  She inched closer to the mirror, pursing her lips, studying them, wondering what it would feel like…. It had been so long since she’d felt anything. She ran her index finger over her top lip, both wanting something desperately from Michael, and terrified of how she’d feel if anything happened.

  Anything at all.

  A few hours later, she entered the dark, pulsing nightclub and found him at the far end of the steel bar, his eyes on her the whole time she walked toward him.

  The way he looked at her told her this night had the potential to take her breath away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He’d changed his clothes.

  She wasn’t sure why this detail mattered, but she liked the chance to see him in a different outfit than earlier. Maybe because she’d changed, too. Or maybe because he looked so damn good in those dark jeans and the untucked navy blue button-down. He’d been so put-together and crisp earlier, and now he was a touch more casual. Still sharp, though, and still so fucking beautiful.

  She wanted to photograph him. She imagined raising the lens to her eye so she could capture the cut of his jaw, the determination in his gaze, and the tiniest twinkle of a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

  Framing him in her mind’s eye, she snapped the shot. There—she’d have it later to linger on.

  “You look handsome in your navy shirt,” she said when she reached him. She lifted her hand as if to run a finger across the collar or down the buttons. Then she scolded herself and dropped her hand to her side. That was muscle memory, an echo of the past.

  She had no more permission to touch his clothes than she did to kiss him.

  His eyes raked over her, as if he, too, was recording all the details. A flush crept across her neck from the intensity of his gaze, and then from his words as he spoke. “And you look as stunning in dark green as you did in black.”

  Stunning.

  He’d never failed to compliment her when they were younger, and he excelled at the pursuit as an adult, too. “Even in this dark club you can tell the color of my top? And that it’s different than earlier? I’m so impressed, Mr. Sloan. I never knew your color-matching skills were so top-notch.”

  He shrugged casually. “Impressive, I know. I’ve been working on it for some time. Can I get you a drink?”

  “A drink sounds fantastic,” she said, and he gestured to the bar, then placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her through the press of people waiting to get service. A spark zipped through her from the possessive touch, his palm pressed lightly against the silk of her top. The hum of music surrounded them, the low thump of the nightclub, though the band hadn’t started yet.

  At the bar Michael raised a finger, and the bartender at the far end nodded, indicating he’d be on his way.

  “That was quick. Do they know you?” she asked.

  “No. Brent just has really good bartenders. They’re fast with all customers. Which is one of the reasons this place does so well.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And he’s married to Shan now?”

  Michael nodded. “They eloped this summer. Translation: Got back together and went to a twenty-four-hour chapel to tie the knot.”

  She laughed. “Perfect for them. And congratulations to the happy couple. How is your sister doing?”

  Michael made an arc with his hand over his belly.

  A morsel of glee spread through Annalise. “How exciting! When is she due?”

  “Five months,” he said as the bartender arrived, a young man with a goatee who asked what he could get for them.

  Michael turned to Annalise, letting her go first. “Champagne,” she said to the man behind the bar.

  “Make that two,” Michael added.

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a champagne fan,” she mused as the bartender set to work.

  He arched a brow. “Why not? Do I seem like I have a dislike for drinks that are delicious?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’d just have figured beer, or scotch, or something strong and manly.”

  He held up
a hand. “Wait. Now I’m not manly? Because I ordered champagne?”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “This is coming out all wrong. You’re very manly. And champagne is very good. I’m glad we didn’t have to sneak around to find some. Do you remember the time on New Year’s Eve when we tried to figure out how to steal some from Becky and Sanders’s collection?”

  “Never found that damn champagne,” he said, but the sparkle in his eyes as they latched onto hers told her he remembered the other way they’d rang in that new year—a long, lingering kiss at midnight that didn’t stop at the lips. It went on and on, and led to hands under shirts, and below belts, and low, muffled groans, heated sighs, and their names falling off each other’s lips.

  The memory moved through her, heating her up. Or maybe it was just being near him now that did that.

  “And now we don’t have to track it down like thieves,” he said.

  “We have permission to drink it,” she said. “I suppose that’s a benefit of being older.”

  He nodded. “One of them.”

  “And, now it turns out champagne is good for you. Did you know that?”

  “I read that recently. What’s the story there?”

  She tapped the side of her temple. “Supposedly, it helps improve memory.”

  “Ah,” he said with a nod. “Sometimes, that’s not my strongest suit. But that’s what Post-It notes are for.”

  * * *

  Post-It notes. Champagne. Jokes about the color of clothes.

  He couldn’t believe these were their discussion points.

  But this was all he could handle. His pulse hammered in his neck, and he hoped she couldn’t tell how goddamn hard it was to stand this close to her, to be so near to her, and not talk about the things he most wanted to know. The why.

  Why she was here?

  What did she want?

  Did she ever think of him?

  And how the hell was she doing, after everything that had happened to her?

  But he couldn’t go there. Not yet. He couldn’t handle that kind of conversation. It would remind him too much of why he had loved her like crazy. Because he had talked to her about all those sorts of things once. Real things. Life, and death, and love, and hope, and dreams.

  If they dared tread on that territory, he’d be lost.

  Instead there were Post-It notes.

  “Do you have them all over your home?” she asked, teasing him as the band began to set up on the low stage. “Little reminders of what to do? Put socks on before shoes? Insert key in lock before opening door?”

  “Don’t forget things like where my office is located. Or what floor I live on, too. That’s another one.”

  Yeah, this was so much easier, and as she laughed, he started to relax, and give in to this…date.

  She leaned against the bar, and he stood facing her. The club hummed, even on a Sunday night, and the press of bodies warmed the air. Annalise’s green eyes seemed to know him intimately still; her voice was the sound he’d longed to hear those nights when he needed it most; and her lips were the ones he’d craved all the days they were apart. Now she was so close he could grab the hem of her shirt, tug her to him, and kiss her. He could run his hands along her arms, thread his fingers into her hair. He wondered if his thoughts were written in the air, or his wishes in his eyes.

  He had to clench his fists to remember Mindy’s advice.

  Don’t ask her if she ever thinks about you.

  “Which floor do you live on?” she asked, and he startled, her words knocking him back to the present.

  “Hmm?”

  “Floor? Which floor?” Her lips curved up, soft and naughty.

  “Why do you ask? Are you planning to surprise me later?”

  “Perhaps, I will.”

  Flirting.

  Fucking flirting.

  Just like they’d done in high school. When he was a teenager, he’d had a reputation as a complete flirt, and the girls had loved it. He’d always had an ease with the opposite sex, with talking to women, laughing with them, saying something laden with innuendo. Then, the beautiful, willowy redhead from Paris had arrived at his dad’s best friend’s home to stay with them for the year. His first thought had been that he had to see more of her.

  “Want me to show you around town?” he’d asked her the day they’d met in Becky’s kitchen.

  “I would love that.”

  “Is there anything you want to see in Las Vegas?”

  “Surprise me,” she’d said, with a curve of her lips, the hint of a smile.

  “I will,” he’d said, and that had been the beginning of the love affair of his fucking life.

  He blinked back to the present as she leaned in closer to him at the bar. “Would you like that?”

  He knit his brows together, trying to stay rooted to the present instead of tripping back and forth between then and now like a time traveler caught in a slip. “Would I like what?”

  “For me to surprise you?”

  God, yes. So much. Surprise me. Come over. Knock on my door, dim the light, and kiss me like it’s the thing you’ve been dreaming about all day.

  Before he could answer, the bartender returned with their champagne. He thanked him then raised his glass, clinking it with hers. “To…” he began, but he didn’t finish.

  * * *

  A flicker of sadness passed through his blue eyes as she lifted the glass. In that bare second, everything that had unfurled between eighteen years ago and today jabbed at her, like sharp little needles prickling her skin. Her fingers itched to run through his hair, to offer a reassuring touch, something that showed she understood what was unsaid. She resisted the impulse, not knowing how it would be taken, and afraid, too, of how it would feel. Good or bad.

  “À la présente,” she said in her native language, then quickly translated, “To the present.”

  “To the present,” he repeated.

  As he took a long swallow of his drink, she studied him. By nature she was an observer, and she catalogued the details—his lips on the glass, full, curved, and kissable; his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he drank; his strong, sturdy fingers on the stemware. Then, the bend of his wrist, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up twice, revealing his forearms.

  Muscular and corded.

  Hot as fuck.

  God, why were forearms so delicious? But she knew the answer. They spelled strength and power, and the ability for a man to anchor himself over a woman as he took her.

  She slid her eyes away from him, trying to chase off her own dirty thoughts.

  He set down his glass on the counter. “You said work brought you to town, that you’re shooting the catalogue all over the city. Are you enjoying it?”

  “Immensely,” she said with a nod. “The models are beautiful, the locations are playful, and the lingerie is, as you say, to die for.”

  His eyes flashed with mischief as he made a noise of approval. “Big fan of lingerie myself.”

  “That so? Something you want to tell me?” she said, coyness coloring her tone as they bantered, so much that it filled her with an effervescence that rivaled the champagne’s effect.

  “Very funny.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I meant…on women.”

  That buzzing intensified. This was chemistry. This was the electricity in the air before a storm. She was wrong about him being a safe choice for her first time out in years.

  Now that she was centimeters rather than an ocean away, she was intensely aware of how not-safe he was.

  She threw caution to the wind. “Anything in particular when it comes to lingerie? Baby-dolls? Corsets? Garters? Hip-huggers? Bikinis? Cheektinis? Stockings? Bikini briefs? Boy-cut shorts? Thongs?” she said with the speed of a freight train, rattling off anything and everything silky that hugged a woman’s bare flesh.

  His lips quirked up as he took a drink. “That one,” he said dryly, tapping the air with his index finger.

  “Which one, Michael?”


  He made a rolling gesture with his hand. “All of them. Every. Single. One.” Then he scratched his chin. “Question, though. What on earth is a cheektini?”

  Annalise lowered her arm to her hip, shifted her pose, and drew a line mid-cheek across the denim of her jeans. “They go right here.”

  Heat flashed in his gaze as he stared at her ass. “Right there, you say?”

  “Yes.” She traced the line once more across her rear. “The panties cut across, so your cheeks…” She paused, searching for the right words in English. “They hang out?”

  He nodded his understanding, his eyes on her the whole time, darkening. She hadn’t expected the intensity of his stare. Nor had she expected the rush it sent through her. It had been so long since she’d felt like this. “Yes. And the one I’m wearing right now is red with lace trim.”

  She shocked herself when she said that. She hadn’t expected to be so bold. But it felt easy, and right, and so damn good.

  Perhaps she’d surprised him, too, because he licked his lips, then groaned softly as he uttered, “Red.”

  Like it had six syllables. Like it was the sexiest word in the world.

  Before the conversation could turn naughtier, the music shifted, and the lead singer tapped the microphone, said hello, and launched into the first song.

  “More champagne and then we go stage-dive?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s start a mosh pit.”

  They did neither, but a few minutes later, they were watching the band, listening to the music, and drinking another round. Someone bumped into Annalise, and she moved closer to Michael. Before she knew it, they were shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, swaying to the music.

  By the time the band finished, they’d polished off another glass or two. The buzz was headier, and so was the intoxication from the music, the low lights, the energy, and this whole night that felt like a cocoon of possibility.

  She wiped a hand over her brow. The club was hot.

  “Let’s step outside,” he said. “Where it’s cooler.”

  She nodded, and once again, his hand was on her back. He guided her to the tall glass doors that spilled onto a terrace attached to the club. As he opened the door, he reached for her hand, holding it as they walked to a bench and sat down. Groups of club-goers were scattered at nearby tables.