Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

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 fucking 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.”

He held up a hand. “Wait. Now I’m not manly? Because I ordered champagne?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “This is coming out all wrong. You’re very manly. And champagne is very good. I’m glad we didn’t have to sneak around to find some. Do you remember the time on New Year’s Eve when we tried to figure out how to steal some from Becky and Sanders’s collection?”

“Never found that damn champagne,” he said, but the sparkle in his eyes as they latched onto hers told her he remembered the other way they’d rang in that new year—a long, lingering kiss at midnight that didn’t stop at the lips. It went on and on, and led to hands under shirts, and below belts, and low, muffled groans, heated sighs, and their names falling off each other’s lips.

The memory moved through her, heating her up. Or maybe it was just being near him now that did that.

“And now we don’t have to track it down like thieves,” he said.

“We have permission to drink it,” she said. “I suppose that’s a benefit of being older.”

He nodded. “One of them.”

“And, now it turns out champagne is good for you. Did you know that?”

“I read that recently. What’s the story there?”

She tapped the side of her temple. “Supposedly, it helps improve memory.”

“Ah,” he said with a nod. “Sometimes, that’s not my strongest suit. But that’s what Post-It notes are for.”

*

Post-It notes. Champagne. Jokes about the color of clothes.