Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

“Do you want to?”

“Yes, but it’s been a…” She didn’t finish her thought, and he didn’t push. Changing gears, she said, “It’s late. I’m shooting tomorrow. Do you want to come by?”

“Visit you at a lingerie shoot?”

“You always used to come by my shoots.”

“You shot bands. The soccer team. The pep rallies,” he said, reminding her of her days as a yearbook photographer.

“And now I shoot beautiful women. Do you like beautiful women?”

His lips twitched, and he eyed her from head to toe. “Very much.”

“Come by,” she said, her fingers darting out quickly to touch his cheek for a moment. “I want to see you again before I go.”

He swallowed dryly, but didn’t ask when she was leaving. He’d rather linger on the feeling of her hand on his face instead.

“Give me the time and place.”

She told him where, then added, “Tomorrow at one. You can see the end of the shoot, and maybe we can…”

Her words went unfinished.

Whatever she meant, he wasn’t in the business of filling in her thoughts. All he knew was one taste wasn’t nearly enough to forget her.





CHAPTER SIX


The elevator was too loud, too bright, too full of people.

As the couple in the far corner waxed on about their dinner of small plates and the fratty guys by the number pad debated how many more shots they could plow through, Annalise asked herself how long she could wait.

She’d been on ice, cryogenically frozen in a state of suspended animation for two years. Her body was still working, going through the motions. One foot in front of the other.

But inside? Beneath her skin?

All those parts had been dormant.

Turned off.

Now, she was turned all the way on. She was like one of those blow-up balloons in an old cartoon, shooting through the air, ready to pop. She was sure everyone in the elevator saw the desire written all over her skin. But as the car shot up past the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth floors, they continued in their own worlds.

She wanted her own world now. She wanted to live in the bubble of lust.

The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor, and the couple exited. The trio of guys remained, and the tall one in the crew once again stabbed the silver button for the penthouse. “They’ll be here soon. C’mon.”

Hookers?

She almost breathed it aloud.

Instead, she covered her mouth with her hand, her fingers touching her greedy lips. But that was stupid. Because that only made her want to touch herself more. She couldn’t help it. She dragged her index finger once across her top lip.

Like a match to a flame, it reignited her. My God, those kisses. Her lips were bruised with Michael’s mouth. He’d imprinted himself on her, and she felt him everywhere—on her skin, inside her organs, and deep in the dark, protected corners of her heart.

And yes, most exquisitely, between her legs.

“Vite, vite,” she muttered to herself.

If she’d stayed a moment longer at the club, she’d have grabbed his hand and dragged him to the restroom. Even the return to her hotel had felt terribly long, a new and cruel sort of torture as she’d walked with a wet, needy ache between her thighs.

For so long, she hadn’t let herself feel a thing. Now, she was nothing but nerve endings rubbed raw, cells crying out for relief.

The elevator dinged at the seventeenth floor. She practically vaulted out the open doors and quickstepped down the hall in a mad dash for her room. She reached it, fumbled for her key card from the back pocket of her jeans, slid open the door, and stepped inside.

Her room was dark, cool, and the lights from the Strip winked through the windows. The door shut with a heavy groan.

Her breath was hot and fast, her hands even faster. She dropped her purse to the floor, unbuttoned her jeans, and dipped her hand into her panties.

“Oh God,” she groaned, fingertips slipping through her wetness, hot, fevered, and so fucking delirious.

This was what happened when you banished sex, what happened when you extradited it from your life, your heart, your bed. When you told yourself you weren’t ready. You’re better off without it. She hadn’t wanted anyone to touch her, and she hadn’t even touched herself in a long time, as if the mere act of masturbation would have sullied the memories of her husband and said something to the universe about her not loving him enough. Everything had conflated in the last two grief-filled years—sex, and love, and moving on, and hope, and even touching herself.

She couldn’t stop now. She was a rocket, flying to the atmosphere, hell-bent on a jet-fueled trip to the stars. The floodgates were unleashed, and she stroked herself, riding her own hand urgently as a flash of images sparked before her closed eyes. Michael’s kisses. Michael’s lips. His voice in her ear. His teeth. He hadn’t kissed like that before. Like he wanted to consume her. Bite her. Fuck her hard.