Sweet Sinful Nights(51)

Michael spoke, low, but powerful. Like a hiss. “My sister is one of the most important people in the world to me. I swear,” he said, letting his voice trail off like the smoke from a fired gun. Brent parted his lips to say something, anything, but Michael left him no room. This was not a conversation. It was a speech. “If it were up to me, you’d never get close enough to hurt her again. You have no idea what you did to her. You f*cking broke her heart—”

He held up a hand. “I know, man. And I am sorry. And I have told her that—”

Michael didn’t even acknowledge the words. “And if you do it again, you will know a new kind of hell.” Michael’s hand moved to Brent’s collar. He smoothed it out. Brent’s collar didn’t need smoothing. “I will not hurt you with fists, because I am not that kind of a man, but I will make sure you are f*cked in this town. Is that clear?”

Brent shrugged off Michael’s hand. As much as he understood where Michael was coming from, he wasn’t going to let himself be manhandled.

He raised his chin. “Message is loud and clear, Michael. But I want you to know I’m not the same guy I was ten years ago, and I will do whatever I have to do to prove that to your sister,” he said, then paused, because as much as he didn’t intend to get pushed around, he also knew he had to show some respect to a man who looked out for his own. “And to you.”

Michael didn’t answer. He simply stared at him and breathed out hard. He lifted his chin slightly, a nearly imperceptible nod.

“You better,” Michael said, then resumed his pace, walking down the stairs, the confrontation over. Each man had said his piece.

Brent cleared the moment from his head and made his way to Shannon’s door, knocking twice. When she answered, there was no real estate in his brain for anything but her. He forgot about everything else in the world—schedules, plans, flights? Gone.

“Wow.”

He’d never been short of words. Never.

But as he repeated himself, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to speak again. She knocked the breath from his lungs and stole the words from his tongue. “Wow.”

Her eyes sparkled, and she jutted out her hip. The dress she wore had been painted on. The color of champagne, and with some kind of shimmer to the fabric, it hugged her hips, her thighs, her flat belly, and her beautiful breasts. He wished he had been there to watch her slip it on and zip it up. More than that, he hoped he’d be taking it off tonight. Feeling everything underneath. Tasting every inch of her skin. Watching her arch beneath him.

“You like?”

He shook his head. “I love.”

He loved everything about her. The dress that was caressing her body. The bare legs boldly on display. The red leather shoes that he’d bought for her.

Most of all, what she’d said about those shoes the other day. And is this your way of trying to f*ck me again?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Right now.

Skip the show. Spin her around. Fuck her against the wall.

Wait. No. Spread her on the table. Get those legs of hers where he wanted—up on his shoulders.

She stepped closer to him, ran her hands down the front of his dark blue button-down shirt. Her touch was electric. It torched his blood. It was a bolt of lust slammed through his body. She trailed her fingernails down the buttons on his shirt, and he was sure she was reading his mind, seeing straight through him.

“You look so handsome tonight,” she said, and there was softness in her voice, an affection that surprised him, maybe because his mind was so damn focused on the rest of her. On having her body.

But this side, this sweet side…it worked its way through him like a good drug. He wanted this side of her, too. All of her.

“Thank you,” he said, once again robbed of quips and wit.

She raised a hand and cupped his cheek. “So damn handsome,” she repeated, and that tenderness turned him speechless. There was vulnerability in her voice tonight and he wanted to handle her with care. To shove all this lust and desire aside and give her whatever she wanted, whatever she needed.

He threaded his hands up the back of her hair, letting the soft strands spill all over his fingers. She closed her eyes and sighed contentedly. Oh hell, he stood no chance. He didn’t want to stand a chance of fighting anything he was feeling for her.

Because he felt everything.

He whispered her name.

She whispered something better. “Kiss me.”

He ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. She murmured and melted into his arms. She fit him so perfectly, sliding against him, their bodies like magnets, seeking their opposite, finding their way home.

He kissed her, soft and tender, and he could have gone on all night. Could have kissed her forever. But he wanted to take her to the theater, too. To prove he’d changed. That he could put her first. Ahead of himself.

When he pulled away, he spotted a picture on her kitchen counter, a close-up of sunflowers, lit from the sun with a bright, golden glow around the petals.

He tipped his chin to the image. “Did you take that?”

“I did,” she answered without looking at him, as she gathered her purse from the table.

“Didn’t know you were into photography.”

“I’m not,” she said.

In the corner of the photo, he could barely make out the edge of a stone. He was about to ask where she’d taken the picture, but when he turned around she was on the other side of the door, ready and eager to go.