Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,52
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