Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(68)

His fingers dug into her ass as he thrust. Deeper. Harder. Farther.

He pumped, swiveling his hips, pushing, his cock moving in sharp jabs that sent ripples of desire everywhere. Each one was more powerful than the last. He dipped his face to her neck, whispering her name as he f*cked her. Whispering kisses across her skin that made her shiver. That made her burn. “You knew it would be like this with us, right?”

She nodded on a breathless pant as he stroked inside her. “Yes, God yes. I knew.”

“You knew I would need to take you like this.” He growled as his shaft rubbed against her clit, hitting her just right.

“Anywhere. Everywhere,” she said.

His breath came fast, ragged against her skin. “I can’t hold back from wanting you like this. From f*cking you against doors. From making you come.”

His hips moved in relentless thrusts; her back slammed against the wood. Her body sought more of him, chasing the release. “Michael,” she groaned. “I need to come so badly.”

“Come on me, my love. All over me,” he said, and she knew from his pace, from the low timbre of his voice that his climax was imminent, too. She knew also from this deep, exquisite ache in her body, and most of all from the mad fury in her heart, that he was f*cking her into falling. That his words and his deeds and his care and his love made it impossible not to fall for him again.

With his dirty voice in her ear, alternating between sweet nothings like you’re so f*cking beautiful, and harsh growls of get there, f*cking come for me, she broke. Her orgasm crashed over her, swept through her, stole her senses.

She cried out.

He grunted, with a deep, powerful thrust. His orgasm followed hers, their bodies shuddering, their hearts beating fast. A minute later he lowered her, holding her waist, letting her find her land legs again.

When she did, she cupped his cheeks and looked deeply in his eyes. “I’m falling.”

He sighed happily, as if she’d taken the weight of the world off his shoulders. His eyes shimmered with something that looked like joy. “Then I’ll catch you.”

She pressed her face to his jawline, rubbing her cheek against his stubble, terrified and elated at the same damn time.

Terrified that now that she loved again, she could lose again, and that her heart couldn’t be put back together a second time.

*

They crossed the Seine on the walk to his hotel, stopping to gaze at the slate-gray river and the city unfolding on each side. Fog drifted over the water, curling like smoke as night fell on Paris. Streetlamps cast their halo glow on the sidewalks. He’d only been to Paris once before, for a brief stay during his overseas service. That was a functional trip.

This was a dream come true.

Especially when Annalise tilted her face to look at him, a sweet smile on her red lips. “How are we going to do this, Michael?”

He brushed a thumb across her cheek. Not touching her was impossible. “Like we’ve been doing,” he said, since he wasn’t going to let time zones be an issue.

“Does the distance scare you?”

He shook his head. “Nothing scares me now that you’re back in my life,” he said, though that wasn’t entirely true. He was afraid of something. He was terribly fearful that she’d never love him like she’d loved her husband. That was why he wouldn’t go to her home. He was afraid she only had so much to give, and that he would get the crumbs of her broken heart and always long for more of her.

“I don’t want us to fall apart. I don’t want us to lose touch,” she said, gripping his shirt. “I want a chance with you. A real chance.”

His fears evaporated into the night. Her words were a blanket wrapped around him. “We’ll make this work. You’ll come see me, I’ll come see you, and we’ll meet in the middle.”

She grinned, her bright smile lighting up her emerald eyes. “We will meet in the middle,” she repeated.

They resumed their pace. As they neared his hotel, she stopped and pointed. “That’s my favorite passage. I just want to grab a coffee,” she said, and they headed into the covered shopping arcade, still open in the evening. They strolled past a map shop, and he glanced in the window. “Cool maps,” he remarked.

“We used to love that store,” she said casually, then cut her words off like they’d been sliced.

We.

He winced. The reminder that she’d been a “we.” That she was still, somehow, part of that we.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, trying to let it go.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

That was the thing. She probably didn’t. It was simply her baseline, her norm, her we.

And it was his hurdle. His Achilles’ heel. His wish that they could be her we.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


A glass display case stacked with chocolate tartes, raspberry cakes, and flaky croissants beckoned to him. Across from the hotel, the Roussillon bakery had long lines, but boasted the arrondissement’s speediest bakers, or so Annalise had told him. “The line moves quickly.”

“Good. Because I’m hungry. You keep me working hard all night long,” he said with a wink.

She nudged him. “And you love my workouts.”

“I do. And right now, I’d love breakfast,” he said, his mouth watering as he surveyed the shelves of baked goods, from baguettes and rolls, to éclairs and strawberry pastries.