Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(7)

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 f*cking 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.”