Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(44)
Oh God, 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*ckable 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*cking shook from the orgasm that thundered through her, blowing her mind, blasting her once-cold world into nothing but scorching heat and lust.
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 petite 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 breasts, 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 substitute 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 breasts 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. God, 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 assessment 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 compassion, 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, sexy 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 buttons 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.