Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

“You,” he gritted out as he climbed on the bed and brought his dick to her ass, rubbing it against the soft flesh of her rear. She moaned, rising up into him as his hard length slid between her cheeks, like a filthy tease of what he wanted to do to her someday. She pushed back, and he filed that reaction away in the dirty vault to bring out again when they were both ready. For now, he moved lower, gliding the head of his dick against her heat. Fuck, she was slick and wet, and so damn ready for him. Her soft velvet folds were like a beacon, and his dick pointed its way home.

“I want you so much. I love wanting you. It feels so good,” she said, her eyes on his, and he fell even harder for her as she let herself open up to him, and to pleasure, and to this chance to feel again, to live again, and hell, he hoped maybe, just maybe, to love again. He covered her with his body, and she let out the sexiest purr, then the most intoxicating moan as he pushed the head of his dick into her slippery sweet entrance. He sank inside in one slow, deep, decadent move. So snug—so fucking perfect for him. They moaned in unison. She fit him deliciously, and he couldn’t imagine not having her like this.

“Did you like it when I took your picture?” he asked once he was fully nestled in her.

“God, yes,” she panted.

He pushed deeper. “Why? Why did you like it so much?”

She moaned. “Because I love being naked with you. I love being with you. You make me feel so good.”

“Just let me make you feel this way. Let me.”

“I will. I am. Oh God, please.”

As he fucked her like that, slow and unhurried, she moved with him, shifting her hips, aligning her body, sliding against him. He cupped her tits, squeezing, then pinched the nipples.

She gasped as he tugged at them, and that drove him. Burying himself deeper in her, he gripped her hair in his hand.

“Yes,” she said, urging him on, and he knew she meant both the fucking and the tugging. He wrapped those gorgeous red strands around his fist. “Hard. Pull hard.”

Yanking her hair, he pulled her head back, raising it off the pillow.

“Oh God, yes, like that, like that.”

“You like it rough?”

“With you, I do. So rough.”

He gave it to her the way she wanted. Driving in deep. Gripping her hard. Fucking her relentlessly.

With each thrust, she cried in pleasure. With each pinch, she groaned his name. With every nip of his teeth, she gushed.

And he was consumed. Utterly consumed.

Sex with her was a revelation. It was as if he’d discovered life on another planet, to know that it was possible to have this kind of sex. Savage yet tender. Cruel but gentle. To know she wanted it the same way. Her sounds told him she wanted to feel it everywhere. In her body. On her skin. In her heart. Oh God, he fucking hoped she wanted him in her heart. So deep in her heart that he could never be removed. Always. Like he was the end of the line for her. Just like she was for him.

Love me, he wanted to say. Just fucking love me.

But he couldn’t say that. Not now. Not yet. Instead, with her hair tight in his hand, and her throat exposed, he gripped her shoulder, digging his thumb into her collarbone.

“Like that, just like that,” she cried out, this time in French, in that heated way she spoke when she was close to the edge. Her * clenched around his shaft, so tight, so fucking perfect.

“And this?” he asked, biting down on her shoulder. Love me.

“Oh God.”

He thrust harder. Brought his lips to the shell of her ear. Spoke harshly. “Do you want me to leave marks? Ones that say you’re mine? You’re fucking mine. I want to fuck you till you’re mine.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” she urged, and he let himself believe she was answering his greatest wish. I’m yours.

He pressed his lips hard to her neck, his teeth biting down, digging in as she went crazy beneath him, rocking and thrusting and losing all control as she cried out and came undone in a fevered frenzy.

Then his balls tightened, and his vision blurred. The rarest pleasure, the kind that came from total carnal bliss, surged in his bones, igniting him until he came long and deep inside the woman he loved.

He just fucking loved her.

And it was so goddamn hard not to tell her, in her language or his. He tried to swallow the words, to choke them down, but the moment got the better of him. “I’m so mad about you. So completely crazy for you. All the time. I can’t stop this feeling,” he whispered, barely scratching the surface of how he felt.

She tensed all over. Then she scooted out from under him, her hands on his chest, her eyes meeting his. “You speak French. You speak perfect French.”

Fuck.

He hadn’t meant to say it in French. He hadn’t meant to let on he’d understood everything he’d heard her say in her native tongue.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Sixteen years ago

As he rounded the corner of the long hallway in the languages building, he opened the note yet again. The one he’d found scattered in his driveway, wreckage from his father’s wallet. Like a treasure hunter, Michael had salvaged it, clutched it in his hand, gripped it tight that night, like a precious thing. And it was. He’d held onto it ever since. He probably always would.

He folded the note and tucked it back into his wallet when he reached room 403.