Sinful Nights: Sinful Love Part 13

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

She was a s.e.xy vixen. A fiery lover-a woman who liked to take and who, evidently, liked to give, too, judging from how she rubbed her palm against the outline of his erection.

"Last night," she said, breathy and s.e.xy, her lips near his neck, "I couldn't sleep. I was thinking of you. What you did to me in the dressing room."

"Yeah?"

She lifted her face to meet his eyes. She nodded, her lips now on his jaw as she slipped a soft hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs then wrapped it around his hard c.o.c.k.

He hitched in a breath, and time f.u.c.king stood still as she grasped his hard length, skin against skin at last. It was relief and torture all at once. Her touch was electric. As the town car rolled along the concrete stretch of road away from the airport, she stroked his c.o.c.k and whispered, her breath ghosting over his skin, "I couldn't stop thinking about you. All the things we didn't do."

He flexed his hips, thrusting up into her soft nimble hand. He didn't want her to ever stop. "Like what? What did you want most?"

She skimmed her hand lower, down to his b.a.l.l.s, cupping them, playing with them. Oh h.e.l.l, that was f.u.c.king fantastic, especially as she dragged her nails across his skin.

"What do you think I wanted?" she countered.

He grabbed the back of her head in his palm and shut his mouth. He wanted her to voice her fantasies. He needed her to want him as desperately as he wanted her. It took every ounce of restraint not to answer her with "Suck me off." Instead, he gritted his teeth and managed in a low rumble: "Tell me what you wanted. Say it."

His chest rose and fell as she played with his d.i.c.k then moved her hand up his shaft, rubbing a bead of liquid over the head. He groaned, closing his eyes as unholy pleasure swept through him.

With a tight grip, she twisted her hand, rubbing him up and down. He opened his eyes. Hers seemed to twinkle with l.u.s.t and mischief. She had such a naughty side, and he wanted to explore that aspect of Annalise to the fullest. He had never known this part of her. All he knew when they were younger was that she liked everything he did to her, and that she came easily on his fingers, her moans and cries so s.e.xy when her o.r.g.a.s.m washed over her. He was learning that the woman with him now was dirtier, bolder, and so d.a.m.n pa.s.sionate.

She bent her head closer, pressing her forehead to his, and whispered, "I want to taste you. Lick you. I want to feel your come in my throat. I want to swallow it all."

He thrust upward into her eager fist as her words scorched a path through his chest, spreading like fire throughout his body. She'd set him ablaze with the match of her l.u.s.t.

"Did you get yourself off to that?" he asked. "Was that what did it for you-picturing your lips on my c.o.c.k? Did you spread your legs wide for me, and f.u.c.k yourself with your fingers?"

She panted as she pumped him faster. "Yes. I was naked on my bed, knees raised, legs spread, my hand between them, f.u.c.king myself as I took you deep in my mouth."

"f.u.c.king Christ." He groaned. His head fell back against the leather seat, hitting the headrest. That was the hottest image he'd ever pictured, and it was scored into his mind now. This naked beauty with her creamy skin, her sheets of red hair, her full t.i.ts, and most of all, her abandon.

Her need.

"You tasted so good." She moaned on an upstroke, her lips parted and wet from licking them with the tip of her tongue. He wanted that red-hot mouth on him.

"Take it," he commanded. "Show me how you did it."

In a flash, her red hair spilled across his thighs, and her head was between his legs. Her lips greeted his hard shaft with the warmest f.u.c.king h.e.l.lo he'd ever had.

"f.u.c.k me, Annalise," he murmured, dragging a hand roughly through his hair, trying to absorb the enormity of this moment.

His girl.

His first love.

This wild woman.

Doing something he'd craved desperately when he was a teenager. Something he'd jerked off to countless times in those days. A fantasy that had sent him soaring into release on many solo flights.

He'd never had her mouth on him before. Now, as a man he was finally able to experience the gloriousness of those lips, and in a whole new way. Because she'd never have blown him like this in high school.

This was an adult b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

Her warm, eager lips wrapped tightly around his c.o.c.k. Then, in mere seconds, he was all the way in, and she sucked his d.i.c.k without any teasing. She didn't bother with little kisses, or lollipop licks of the head. She didn't brush her tongue along the underside of his shaft. No, she went full-speed ahead like a hungry, starving creature. The head of his d.i.c.k hit the back of her throat, and he cursed from the mind-blowing, blackout-worthy pleasure of her mouth.

His entire body vibrated with l.u.s.t. It spread from his pelvis to every G.o.dd.a.m.n corner. His nerves were hot, his skin was sizzling, and his brain was lit up from this amazingly sensual woman who loved sucking his d.i.c.k as much he loved having her do it. He roped his fingers through her hair, grasping her head tightly. Lifting an arm, she grabbed his other hand, and guided it back to her head.

That was hotter than h.e.l.l. She wanted it hard and deep. She wanted him to hold her head, control her mouth, shove in far.

"You can handle it like this?" he grunted, needing the confirmation.

She nodded as she sucked him deeper, her lips nice and snug.

"Like your mouth belongs to my c.o.c.k?"

Another nod.

"What am I going to do with you?" he whispered, almost to himself, as he gave in to the way they both wanted it, his big hands wrapping around her skull, her gorgeous dark red hair spilling like silk through his fingers. She wanted him to keep her immobile as he f.u.c.ked up into her mouth. She wanted him to be unforgiving in his desire.

The b.l.o.w. .j.o.b was both too much, and never enough.

His d.i.c.k thickened even more in her warm mouth, as white-hot sparks sped through his bloodstream. Flexing his hips, he pumped into her as he held her in his grip in the backseat of a town car speeding into Manhattan. She hummed around his c.o.c.k. The vibration. Oh, f.u.c.k. It made him dizzy. His skin burned. His organs heated. His brain was bathed in pleasure from this most fantastic trip of all-this kind of dirty intimacy with his Annalise. His eyes locked on her swollen lips, racing up and down on his shaft, then she was s.h.i.+fting in her leather seat, her hips rocking the slightest bit, like she needed to be f.u.c.ked, too.

He'd be taking care of her soon enough.

But first this. Her wicked, wonderful mouth. Her eager tongue. Her soft, talented hands that played with his b.a.l.l.s as she sucked him without mercy and he f.u.c.ked her mouth right back.

Unrelenting.

Until he started to lose control. His quads tightened, his spine ignited, and he was helpless to stop the rush. He thrust harder as his vision blurred. "Coming," he grunted, barely even managing that one word of warning as his o.r.g.a.s.m pulsed through him, fast and hot. He groaned her name, and came in her throat.

He shuddered and cursed. "Holy f.u.c.k. That was..."

As the aftershocks subsided, she released his d.i.c.k from her mouth. She sat up, sighing happily as she ran a hand through her messy hair. She leaned back in her seat like she was spent.

"Um," he began. "No. Just no."

"No?"

He patted his thighs. "Get on me."

"Are you going to f.u.c.k me now?"

"No, but I've got a good feeling I'm going to be making you come in a hot minute."

She climbed on him, straddling his thighs, her hands on his shoulders. "You know I've always wanted your tongue, Michael," she whispered against his lips.

"I know. You'll get it. You'll get it tonight. But for some reason I like making you wait for it, getting you all worked up." He craved her taste fiercely, but he wanted to be able to spread her legs, to feel her bare skin pressed against his cheeks and give her room to wrap those s.e.xy legs around his neck as he licked her sweet p.u.s.s.y.

As he worked open her zipper, he sighed in frustration. "These jeans are so d.a.m.n tight." He could barely get them off. But he was up to the challenge, and he didn't really need them down far anyway. All he needed was just enough room to glide his fingers beneath the fabric of her light blue panties.

Like that.

Oh, just like that. His fingers slid across her wetness, hot and slippery and fantastic.

"You're soaked."

"I know," she murmured as her fingers curled around his shoulders. "You turn me on. You drive me crazy."

He drew lingering, luxurious circles across her silky, hot c.l.i.t, coating his fingers in her arousal, but never thrusting inside. She didn't need penetration right now. She was near the edge already. A few strokes. A couple of circles. Some faster, fevered sweeps of his fingers against her c.l.i.t, and her hips were arching, swaying, rocking mindlessly against his hand until she cried out and came in less than sixty seconds.

Afterward, he kissed her face, her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. Then her lips. That sweet, intoxicating mouth that had driven him wild. She opened her lips for him, her tongue seeking his, kissing like they were drunk on each other. They kissed like they could do it for ages, never wanting to stop.

But eventually they did, and he clasped his hand on her thigh. "Now listen. I have drinks with a client this evening. Then I'm taking you to dinner, and I would really appreciate it if you were wearing a skirt instead of jeans. Can you do that for me?"

She grinned coquettishly. "I can do better. I won't wear panties."

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Ten years ago He shouldered his bag and scanned the arrivals and departures board, checking for his flight.

Delayed. For two hours.

He sighed and then shrugged. What can you do? He patted his carry-on. It was all he had brought on his short trip, and now he was returning to base. He had a paperback, and music to listen to-a new band that a college buddy had sent him. He'd find his gate, grab a seat, pop in his earbuds, and check out some tunes as he turned the pages.

Heading for security, he reached into his pocket and took out his boarding pa.s.s and pa.s.sport, and ten minutes later, he was on the other side at the small airport in Ma.r.s.eilles. As he strolled past a coffee shop, he focused on the tasks ahead for the week, and the work he had going on in his army intelligence division, doing his best to keep his mind off whether Annalise had responded to his letter yet. Maybe, just maybe, he'd find a reply from her on his return, and perhaps it would be the answer to his greatest wish. Her yes. It would be stained with tears of happiness, and it would smell like her.

The sensory memory ran through him of the girl he still loved, now a woman he desperately wanted to see again. He allowed himself that moment, then he blinked, refocused, and turned into the gift shop to grab a bottle of water. Soon enough, he'd have her answer. No need to linger on the unknown until it was certain.

After he paid for the drink and spun around to leave, he spotted the magazine racks. Most of the magazines were French and local, but there were others, including Vanity Fair. From behind the column next to the racks, a woman stretched out her arm to grab an issue.

He only saw a sliver of her profile, the shape of her nose, but she was haltingly familiar.

His heart slammed against his ribs. It couldn't be. There was no way. And yet, what if? A fragile sort of hope raced in him as he took a tentative step. He swallowed dryly, peering around the rack for a better look at the woman with the long red hair, flipping through a magazine.

And he knew.

The hair on his arms stood on end. Goose b.u.mps scattered over his skin. She was his ghost, his memory, but she was all real now-creamy skin, green eyes, long fingers, and red lips that he'd kissed more times than he could ever count.

Ma pet.i.te fraise.

My little strawberry. He'd called her that because of her hair, and because her lips tasted so sweet. He hadn't seen her in eight years, not since he put her on the flight back to Paris and said good-bye, his heart cratering as she flew across the ocean, far away from him.

He hadn't talked to her in five years, not since he was a soph.o.m.ore in college.

But here she was, and if ever there was a sign, this was it. He'd never believed in them before, but he'd once believed in her. She was his religion. His first love.

His only love.

He took another step and then parted his lips and spoke-a dry crackling sound that became her name. "Annalise?"

She raised her chin, her eyes widening. Her expression changed from curiosity over who was asking her name, to a wistful sort of wonder and surprise. She said his name like a question, too, but it sounded more like amazement that they were both here. "Michael?"

He nodded. "Yeah." His chest warmed, like suns.h.i.+ne was spreading from the inside out. "In the flesh."

As if to test his statement, she dropped a quick kiss on each cheek, then wrapped her arms around him.

It was like falling back in time, landing softly on your favorite moment in the past. All those moments were with her. All his favorite times. She smelled like raindrops and pa.s.sion, just like he'd remembered, and he inhaled her scent briefly before they separated.

He gestured to her, standing before him in the shop. "How are you?"

It was such an ordinary question, the kind you would ask an acquaintance, but after all the years, it was the only natural way to begin again. Even after he'd sent her a letter a week ago.

"My flight is late. I was annoyed, but now I'm not," she said, her lips curving up in a wide, crazy smile.

Oh s.h.i.+t. He was grinning now, too. Smiling like a f.u.c.king fool. She still had that effect on him. His pulse thundered under his skin, hammered in his throat. She had to be saying yes. That must be her answer to his letter.

"Mine, too. Late flight, that is. Also, I'm not annoyed at all now," he said, as hope rose inside him-the hope that they were flying in the same direction.

But when he asked, she was heading to Paris.

"Do you want to get a coffee?" she asked. "Or do you still detest coffee?"

"I would love to...have a tea," he said with a smile, and she laughed, and this was good. So good. Like old times.

They headed to an ordinary airport cafe, ordered black coffee for her and tea for him, and sat at a small iron table as travelers filtered past them, talking about their trips, their plans, what they needed before their planes took off. It was white noise, the elevator music to this surreal slice of time.

Sitting here with her.

He wanted to cup this moment in the palm of his hands, to carry it and treat it like a precious object, like it could become what he'd once longed for so terribly-a future with her.

He had so much he wanted to say. Things like: "You're beautiful. I miss you. Why couldn't we find a way to stay together? Why did we have to drift apart? Did you get my letter and will you please, please, please tell me it's the same for you?"