Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

He nodded. “I like that you feel that way. Ever shoot guys?”

“Shockingly, most men don’t do boudoir sessions,” she said in a deadpan voice. “But I have photographed a few couples.”

He arched an eyebrow, then made a rolling gesture, telling her to elaborate. “Are they getting it on?”

She shook her head. “I’m not a pornographer. But sometimes a newly engaged couple will do a sexy shoot. They want to take photos of their passion for each other. To showcase it.”

“They ever invite you to join them?”

She rolled her eyes. “Again, not a pornographer, or a third wheel.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“And to answer your question, no, they don’t. They’re happy together. They don’t want a threesome with the photographer.”

“I guess it’s just me then.”

“You’d want a threesome with the photographer?”

“No. I want a one-on-one with her. Only a one-on-one. That’s what I want,” he said, running his fingers across the ends of her hair, watching it fall from his hand onto her shoulder. “I want to be the one behind the camera, shooting photos of her looking gorgeous in anything and nothing.” His blue eyes were fiery, intense. “Then I want to set down the camera and have her invite me to join her on the bed, and all the sensuality she poured into the pose, she gives to me.”

Annalise shuddered and swallowed. Her throat was dry. Her skin heated up and then, out of nowhere, a flash of worry touched down. Goddammit. She didn’t want to feel an ounce of regret again about her choice to be with him. This time, she made a deliberate decision. She seized hold of that bit of remorse and tossed it in the trash. Instead, she let the heat and the sparks and the sizzle slide through her. “I would do that,” she whispered. “I would do that with you. I would give that to you.”

The flight attendant began the announcements, and Annalise settled into her seat, her skin on fire, a pulse beating between her legs, desire cloaking her once more. She closed her eyes and breathed, trying to get some sort of hold on these raging hormones, but with him next to her it was futile.

She resigned herself to being wet the whole flight.

It was all his fault. That fucking hot, sexy man.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Once they were airborne, Michael returned to the topic of her family. “So you and Noelle help out your mom?”

“Yes. We want to be there as much as we can for her. That’s why I try to keep my jobs out of town as short as they can be. Especially since Noelle is so busy.”

“How is your sister? Did she ever start the bakery like she wanted to?” he asked, and Annalise loved that he remembered that little detail from their phone conversations years ago.

“Yes, she did. She runs it with her husband now, and she has three kids. So she’s been busy.” She pictured Noelle and Patrick up before dawn, peddling baguettes and croissants, and loving their little corner shop in Paris. Annalise adored that bakery too. When her sister had struggled to secure a loan to start it up, Annalise had given her the money she’d saved from her café job in college – the money she’d once earmarked to see Michael. But they’d lost touch, and her sister needed the help, so it seemed as if fate had intended something else for her savings. She was glad to have helped her sister start up her business, and that business had provided the foundation for Noelle’s family.

“I’d say they’ve both been busy,” he said with a wink, and she returned her focus to him.

“True,” she said, laughing. “The kids are great. Nine, eleven, and twelve. She’s exhausted all the time.”

“I’m exhausted just hearing that. Does that mean you have to take care of your mom more?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, but that’s okay. My mom took care of me. It’s only fair,” she said, then softened her voice, placing her hand on his arm. “Is it weird to hear other people talk about their mothers?”

His eyes darkened briefly, then he shook his head. “No. It’s the way it should be.”

“Do you ever see her? I know you did at first, but then you didn’t ever want to anymore.” They’d talked about his mother, and he’d told her that he’d visited her in prison a few times when he was in high school and college. He’d stopped after that, though.

His jaw was set hard, and he heaved a sigh. “You’re right. I used to, a long time ago because I wanted to try—I don’t know—maybe to understand what had happened, and why she’d done it. But soon enough it was clear there was no way to make sense of it. I couldn’t be near her anymore. I don’t think of her as my mother, and I haven’t in years.”

She ran her hand down his arm. “I understand why.”

He turned his head and met her gaze. “Not everyone does,” he said in a quiet voice.