Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

He couldn’t believe these were their discussion points.

But this was all he could handle. His pulse hammered in his neck, and he hoped she couldn’t tell how goddamn hard it was to stand this close to her, to be so near to her, and not talk about the things he most wanted to know. The why.

Why she was here?

What did she want?

Did she ever think of him?

And how the hell was she doing, after everything that had happened to her?

But he couldn’t go there. Not yet. He couldn’t handle that kind of conversation. It would remind him too much of why he had loved her like crazy. Because he had talked to her about all those sorts of things once. Real things. Life, and death, and love, and hope, and dreams.

If they dared tread on that territory, he’d be lost.

Instead there were Post-It notes.

“Do you have them all over your home?” she asked, teasing him as the band began to set up on the low stage. “Little reminders of what to do? Put socks on before shoes? Insert key in lock before opening door?”

“Don’t forget things like where my office is located. Or what floor I live on, too. That’s another one.”

Yeah, this was so much easier, and as she laughed, he started to relax, and give in to this…date.

She leaned against the bar, and he stood facing her. The club hummed, even on a Sunday night, and the press of bodies warmed the air. Annalise’s green eyes seemed to know him intimately still; her voice was the sound he’d longed to hear those nights when he needed it most; and her lips were the ones he’d craved all the days they were apart. Now she was so close he could grab the hem of her shirt, tug her to him, and kiss her. He could run his hands along her arms, thread his fingers into her hair. He wondered if his thoughts were written in the air, or his wishes in his eyes.

He had to clench his fists to remember Mindy’s advice.

Don’t ask her if she ever thinks about you.

“Which floor do you live on?” she asked, and he startled, her words knocking him back to the present.

“Hmm?”

“Floor? Which floor?” Her lips curved up, soft and naughty.

“Why do you ask? Are you planning to surprise me later?”

“Perhaps, I will.”

Flirting.

Fucking flirting.

Just like they’d done in high school. When he was a teenager, he’d had a reputation as a complete flirt, and the girls had loved it. He’d always had an ease with the opposite sex, with talking to women, laughing with them, saying something laden with innuendo. Then, the beautiful, willowy redhead from Paris had arrived at his dad’s best friend’s home to stay with them for the year. His first thought had been that he had to see more of her.

“Want me to show you around town?” he’d asked her the day they’d met in Becky’s kitchen.

“I would love that.”

“Is there anything you want to see in Las Vegas?”

“Surprise me,” she’d said, with a curve of her lips, the hint of a smile.

“I will,” he’d said, and that had been the beginning of the love affair of his fucking life.

He blinked back to the present as she leaned in closer to him at the bar. “Would you like that?”

He knit his brows together, trying to stay rooted to the present instead of tripping back and forth between then and now like a time traveler caught in a slip. “Would I like what?”

“For me to surprise you?”

God, yes. So much. Surprise me. Come over. Knock on my door, dim the light, and kiss me like it’s the thing you’ve been dreaming about all day.

Before he could answer, the bartender returned with their champagne. He thanked him then raised his glass, clinking it with hers. “To…” he began, but he didn’t finish.

*

A flicker of sadness passed through his blue eyes as she lifted the glass. In that bare second, everything that had unfurled between eighteen years ago and today jabbed at her, like sharp little needles prickling her skin. Her fingers itched to run through his hair, to offer a reassuring touch, something that showed she understood what was unsaid. She resisted the impulse, not knowing how it would be taken, and afraid, too, of how it would feel. Good or bad.

“à la présente,” she said in her native language, then quickly translated, “To the present.”

“To the present,” he repeated.

As he took a long swallow of his drink, she studied him. By nature she was an observer, and she catalogued the details—his lips on the glass, full, curved, and kissable; his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he drank; his strong, sturdy fingers on the stemware. Then, the bend of his wrist, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up twice, revealing his forearms.

Muscular and corded.

Hot as fuck.

God, why were forearms so delicious? But she knew the answer. They spelled strength and power, and the ability for a man to anchor himself over a woman as he took her.

She slid her eyes away from him, trying to chase off her own dirty thoughts.