CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The jeans were gone. Mercifully.

In their place she wore a short green dress that hugged her fantastic body, showing off her breasts, her small waist, and those long, endless legs.

At the table in the far corner of restaurant that Brent’s brother had recommended, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. Ask him a month ago if he’d be having sushi dinner in the Village, listening to Annalise tell stories about her sister, and he’d have said no fucking way. She was nothing but a mirage, a sepia-tinted photograph of days gone by. Now, she was eating a salmon roll, and he was having the best time. They weren’t staying at the same hotel, so he’d picked her up at hers, the breath knocked clear out of his lungs when she’d answered the door.

In that dress.

And heels.

And, very likely, no panties.

But as much as he wanted her right then and there, he craved the anticipation, too. He was a patient man, and he wanted to take her out to dinner. To savor every moment from picking her up to walking to the restaurant to enjoying the meal. It was so simple, but this was what he’d dreamed of having with her. A freedom that wasn’t possible when they were kids, and now it was all theirs. No curfews, no rules, no regulations. A real date with this woman, and as the evening unfurled, a new sensation spread through him, a freedom from care he hadn’t felt in years. An ease.

“One time when I was helping out at Noelle’s bakery, an American woman came to the counter, and she tried so hard to speak in French,” Annalise said with a smile, continuing her tale of working with her sister from time to time.

“I bet you hate when they do that.”

She clasped her hand to her chest. “Me? No. Why would you say that?”

“Doesn’t it make the French people crazy when we try to speak French?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Then a guilty little grin appeared on her face. “Only if it’s very bad French.”

He laughed as he picked up a yellowtail slice and swirled it in soy sauce. “Was her French very bad? Tell the truth.”

She held up her thumb and index finger. “Only a little. It wasn’t good, but she tried, so she got credit for that. She said she wanted un yaourt abricot, but she pronounced yaourt like tarte.”

“In her defense, yogurt is one of the hardest French words to say.”

She gave him a curious look. “You know yaourt is yogurt?”

“You taught me some French words,” he said, then popped the sushi in his mouth.

“Did I teach you yaourt?”

He nodded as he finished chewing. “Isn’t yogurt an important word to know?”

She set down her chopsticks, crossed her arms, and fixed him with a stare. “I taught you words like kiss, and come, and fuck. I did not teach you yogurt.”

“Must have picked it up on my own then when I was in France. I spent a few weekends there.”

Something dark passed through her eyes. “I remember,” she said, sadness coloring her tone. She reached for his hand. “I remember seeing you at the airport.”

He straightened. “You do?”

“Of course. How would I ever forget?”

He shrugged, wincing. The memory still hurt. He hadn’t forgotten a single detail.

“I remember everything about it,” she said softly but confidently. Her bright green eyes held his captive, never looking away. “I remember the way your hair was shorter, how you looked at me in the gift shop, then the hurt in your eyes when you saw my ring. You have to know I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” he choked out, and the memory of that day slid in front of him, in all its hope and heartbreak.

“I hated feeling like I broke your heart, but I had no idea you were going to send me that letter,” she said, and her voice sounded like she was shattering now, too.

“Of course you didn’t know.”

“I opened it with nervous fingers. Part of me hoped it would say all that it did say, but I also hated myself for wanting that. Michael, I loved my husband.” She inhaled deeply, as if she needed the air to fuel her. “I loved Julien with all my heart. And though I had loved you that desperately too, you were the past. The most beautiful, wonderful part of it, but still the past. Then you sent me that note, and I was already with him, and I felt torn to pieces,” she said, pressing a fist to her heart.

“I didn’t want to make you feel that way.” A fresh wave of guilt crashed into him. He should have tried to research her relationship status, but that was hard to do a decade ago. He’d simply sent the letter to the last address he’d had for her.

“You didn’t make me feel that way. My damn heart did. I thought about you every day in college. I missed you every day. Getting over you was near impossible, but I was finally doing it. Living my life. We tried so hard to be together, but the fates were against us. We were too young. We only moved on because we had no other choice. And then you blasted back into my life with this letter that was a thing of beauty, and I was unprepared for how much your words would stir up my feelings of all that we’d had.”

He shook his head, his throat hitching. He hadn’t thought about how his words might have wounded her. “I didn’t mean to mess with your head.”

She reached for his hand and ran her fingers across his palm. Her touch was comforting and maddening. Because it felt right, and like the only touch he’d ever want.

“You didn’t,” she said, stroking his hand. “Not at all. I just want you to know it wasn’t easy to get over you the first time, and it was gut-wrenching to let you walk away in Marseilles. But I had a fiancé and what kind of wife would I be if I even let myself linger or wonder about what could have been with my first love?”

He swallowed thickly, unsure how to answer, or if it was even necessary. His whole life since then had been spent lingering on his first love. He remained silent.

“If I was like that, if I had entertained anything more than a passing notion of you, I would have been the worst wife. When I boarded my flight that day, I had to shut my heart and mind to you and give it thoroughly to Julien.” Her eyes welled with the threat of tears. A waiter walked by, balancing rectangular plates of sushi.

“And you did,” he said, and he understood deeply why she’d had to do that.

“I did,” she said, then took a drink of her water. “And I regret nothing.”

“Regret is a terrible feeling. But I’ve got to know,” he said, clasping her hand tighter now, needing her answer, “why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to know that I was faithful. Always. That I am a faithful person. And I told you that you’re the first man I’ve been with since he died, but you’re also the only man I’ve even thought about. I let go of you years ago because I had to, and then when I was finally able to think about this again,” she said, gesturing from him to her, “you were the only one who even came to mind. The only one I could even imagine sharing anything with.”

The only one.

A rush of heat flooded him at those three words. He wanted to be the only one for her, even if he was only able to have her for a small moment in time. He would take what he could get, and he would savor it. She was here right now, with him and no one else.

“You have no idea how glad I am that I’m the one you thought of, Annalise,” he whispered.

A smile tugged at her lips.

Then, he went for it. Just fucking let it all out. A hope, a wish, a what if question. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened that day if you weren’t engaged? If you’d never have met him?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think about it. I don’t have to wonder,” she said, her tone steady and certain as she looked straight at him, the rest of the restaurant fading into a blur. “Because I know what would have happened.”

His hands shook and his heart stuttered as he rasped out, “What would have happened?”

She leaned in closer, placing a hand on his cheek. “I’d have stolen you. Taken you away from the army. Brought you home with me to Paris. Kept you all for myself for all the years and made up for lost time,” she said, and his heart beat furiously, slamming against his chest, loving those words.

“Stop saying those things,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“What things?”

“Things that make this harder for me.”

“Why is it hard for you?”

He drew a breath. “Because you say things like that and it makes me want to steal you away. Maybe this is my only chance.”

“What if it is?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? What if this night, this trip, these hours were all they’d have? He didn’t know if he could risk putting any more of his heart on the line for her. One thing was certain—his original notion that one touch and she’d be out of his system was well and truly gone. “Then we make the most of it.”

She nodded. “We are making the most of it. Right now.”

Before he tumbled into the land of no return with her, before he gave her every part of his heart and soul, he cleared his throat, returning to simpler matters. “Are you ever going to tell me about the yogurt?”

She laughed, her head leaning back, her long elegant neck exposed. “She couldn’t pronounce yaourt, so it came out like tarte, and we gave her an apricot tarte. She seemed quite happy about that.” She picked up her chopsticks and grabbed a piece of sushi as the patrons at a nearby table raised their sake glasses in a toast to a new deal. So odd that a business dinner was transpiring at the same time that they were discussing love, fidelity, and possibilities.

And yogurt.

He laughed softly. “A tarte sounds better than yogurt.”

“My sister’s bakery makes the best apricot tartes. Come to Paris sometime and find out.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Come to Paris for a tarte?”

She jutted up a shoulder. “Or more.”

“Like what? What else should I have with the tarte?”

She set down her chopsticks, the sushi untouched, then tilted her head and murmured, “Me. You should have me.”

His blood heated, and his head swam with dirty thoughts. This meal seemed wholly unnecessary. He had no more interest in fish and rice. He could subsist on her, on this talking, these confessions, and these touches that promised what was to come.

He was ready to call for the check, but the waitress was nowhere to be seen. He glanced around, then tossed his napkin, stood up, and reached for her hand.

She rose, not even asking a single question. He led her past a table, around the corner, down the hallway. He knocked on the door of one of the restrooms. No one answered, so he turned the knob, pulled her inside, and locked the door.

“Michael,” she said, all sexy and low.

“Yes?”

“What are you going to do?”

He lifted her up and set her on the sink cabinet. “Have my dessert first. I want you so much. I’ve wanted you for so damn long, and now you’re here with me, and everything that comes out of your mouth makes me crave you even more.” His voice was rough and hungry as he ran his fingertip across her bottom lip.

Her breath rushed over him. “It does?”

“So much. So unbelievably much.” He dragged his finger down her neck. In its wake, goose bumps rose on her skin as he traveled along her throat, down her chest, between her breasts. He reached her waist, and squeezed her hip. Touching her was such a privilege, such a complete and utter gift. “Lift your dress. Let me see you.”

Trembling, she reached for the hem and lifted it, and all the air rushed from his lungs as he stared, just fucking stared like a starving man at her beautiful, pink, wet pussy.

“So fucking pretty.” He ran a finger through that slippery wetness. “I’ve wanted to taste you forever. I’ve wanted to have your sweetness on my mouth. Will you give it to me?”

“Please take it,” she said on a pant, arching her back, raising her hips.

He kneeled, pressed his hands on her thighs, and took his first taste. He groaned the second he touched her. She was heaven on his tongue.

She gasped and clutched his head, her fingers threading through his hair. He was intoxicated—utterly fucking buzzed on her. His mind turned hazy with pleasure and possibility, with the sheer magnitude of this sensual dream becoming his visceral reality at last. She was better than all his fantasies. She was real, and wet, and hot, and she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

His bones hummed, and his mind ignited as he flicked his tongue against the soft rise of her clit. She moaned, a long, delicious sound that seemed to vibrate through her whole body. He kissed her pussy deeply and then drew her swollen clit into his mouth, sucking it between his lips. She bucked against him, seeking more, and he gave it to her.

He gave her everything, and he was sure he’d never want this from anyone but her.

Ever.

* * *

His lips. His tongue. His hands gripping her thighs, holding her tight.

At once it was all too much and not enough. She felt like she was ready to fly to the moon, to launch into orbit, and she still wanted to ride higher, go farther. Everything was silvery as her body dissolved into his touch. He caressed her with his masterful tongue then sucked hard on her clit. In some kind of delicious harmony, she moved with him, rocking into him, hips shifting, keeping a sensual pace with him as he ate her out on the edge of the sink in the restroom.

The lights were low, a soft, blue glimmer against the black tiles on the wall, and somehow the glow fit. This was a decadently lit space for a deliciously dirty deed—sex in a restaurant bathroom. She didn’t care where they were. She hadn’t thought she would survive a minute longer without some kind of contact, and bless this man, he knew. He knew precisely how to meet her needs, and exactly how to lick, kiss, suck, and drive her wild. She felt untamed with him, on the edge of control, ready to let it all go. Her hands curled tighter around his head, her fingers laced through his hair. She looked down, and the sight of his face between her legs, devouring her, made her wetter, hotter.

She moaned his name, loved the way it felt on her tongue, the shape it took on her lips. Loved how he licked faster and hungrier each time she said it. They were like a feedback loop. His name fell from her mouth, and he consumed her. Like he was drinking her up. Like she was the only one he’d ever wanted.

Oh God, she felt that way right now. Nothing could even compare.

Pleasure climbed through her legs like vines, spreading across her whole body, filling her with a desire so deep and so far, she felt like it would never end. This feeling—this mad, crazy bliss—was everything. Gripping his head, she moved with him, moaning and sighing with every stroke of his tongue, every kiss of his soft, fuckable lips, and soon she melted into him, boneless and mindless with pleasure. She was losing touch with the world around her as her pulse beat rapidly across every inch of her skin, as heat flared in her chest, and her face flushed as she chased her climax. There it was, rising up, swelling, and her nerves blazed. Her hold on reality shattered as she thrust into his face, coming, and coming, and coming.

She squeezed her eyes and sealed her lips, trying desperately to quiet the little noises that escaped. And she shook. Her body just fucking shook from the orgasm that thundered through her, blowing her mind, blasting her once-cold world into nothing but scorching heat and lust.

All she wanted was more of him. All of him. She wanted to feel everything with him. Everything she’d denied herself, and everything good in the world.

As her release ebbed, Michael rose, cupped her cheeks, and whispered, “You taste divine. Ma petite fraise.”

“Take me back to your room,” she whispered, revealing the depth of her desire for him. “Spend the night making love to me. I need you so much.”