Like a straight shot of desire, his body thrummed with need from her heated request. Lust took over, even as he glanced down the hallway. They were all alone, but the risk was palpable. They could be caught, seen, spotted. Or they could be seen and ignored. The more likely option. But as his zipper came undone and she reached into his boxers, wrapping those soft, talented fingers around him, nothing else mattered.
He didn’t care about anything but her. He couldn’t care. His need for her was all he felt. Not having her now felt like the bigger risk.
He reached under her skirt, palming her. “Your panties are drenched,” he said, yanking them to the side, revealing her, so wet and ready for him. He hitched up her thigh, wrapped her leg around his waist, and guided his cock into her. She drew a sharp breath and moaned loudly.
Instantly, he covered her mouth with his hand. “I’m going to fuck you in public, and you’re going to be quiet. Nod if you understand.”
She nodded, and he kept his hand over her lips as he thrust into her. Her wet heat coated his cock. “Oh, beautiful, your pussy is soaking wet. You love Paris, don’t you?”
A muffled yes.
“And you love being able to fuck me in public, don’t you?”
Another nod as she grabbed his hip bones, holding on tight.
“And you love needing me so badly that you can’t even wait for the hotel, don’t you?” he said, releasing his hold ever so briefly to let her speak.
“Yes,” she moaned.
“Quiet,” he warned, covering her mouth once more. With his other hand, he held tight to her hip, his thumb digging into her flesh as he pumped. “You love that I want to fuck you anywhere. That I want to be inside your beautiful body everywhere. That I can’t ever get enough of you.”
She bit down on his palm, and he yanked his hand back. “I love needing you,” she said on a pant, her erratic breaths telling him she was so close to coming. She dug her nails into his skin. He could feel them deeply, like daggers, starting to draw blood. The possibility that she was going to come so hard she’d break his skin made his dick throb harder inside her.
“Come on me,” he whispered harshly. “Come on me in public. Mark me with your nails.”
He felt her tighten around his erection, clenching against him, her body drawing him deep into her. She shuddered, and trembled violently, then shuddered again and again, her cries muffled by his hand.
While still covering her mouth, he dropped his face into her neck, tasting the slightest bit of sweat, mixed with rain. He drove into her, the pressure in his body building, his balls drawing up as his climax started to overtake him. “Michelle,” he said on a groan as his orgasm plowed through him relentlessly. Crashing through him, pulling him under.
He gripped her body harder, probably breaking skin too, needing to be as fucking close as he possibly could as he released himself in her, biting back his own groans of pleasure. He collapsed against her, and he was vaguely aware that he might be crushing her against the wall. He managed to slide away an inch so he wouldn’t hurt her. She looked more beautiful than she had earlier.
Finally, he released his hold on her mouth. “I need you so much,” he said, and it was the barest truth. He had to be with her.
“I need you too, Jack,” she whispered, looking up at his eyes. Never breaking the hold. “I’m falling in love with you.”
The second the words made landfall, he tensed. Like a coil, tightening inside him, locking him up. A warning bell that this was the moment he needed to prevent. This was the line in the sand that neither one of them should even come remotely near.
A little voice told him to bolt, to run, to get the fuck away. Because saying those words could change everything.
But then just as quickly, he quieted that fear. He’d come far. He’d made progress, hadn’t he? He had to let go of the grip the past had on him. He had to let go of anything but his deep and absolute need for this woman who gave herself to him so completely.
He could give her what she’d given him.
Surely, he could.
He parted his lips to speak, but an invisible hand gripped his throat. Came down hard on his mouth. The dark cloak of regret was like a silencer that choked all the words he wanted to say, turning them into dust on his tongue. The old familiar standby had resurfaced inside him, wormed his way through his conscious with the reminders of where words could lead. Right words, wrong time. Wrong words, wrong time. They were one and the same, and held too much possibility for pain.
He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her he was so afraid of saying the wrong thing, of hurting the right person, of loving the wrong way. Most of all, he was terrified of not loving enough. He wanted her to know all that was true and dark and painful inside of him.
But he didn’t know how to give voice to that without causing more hurt. So he bottled it up. He tried to contain all that he felt for her in a small space so that it was manageable, so that it never could slither out and wound her.
The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, even though her words both scared him and thrilled him.
He took the easy way out. He brushed his lips softly against her cheek. Then kissed her neck. Then her ear.
“I can’t ever get enough of you,” he said, whispering words that were wholly inadequate. But when he returned to her mouth, he hoped she knew in the soft press of his lips all the things he couldn’t say. He hoped that this—the physical—would be enough to assure her.
But he knew deep down it would never be sufficient. Not for a woman like her. Not for anyone who felt the way she did.
* * *
As the sun peeked through the windows early the next morning, she stretched in bed, reaching her arms over her head, then casting her gaze at him. He was gorgeous next to her, still sound asleep on his side, breathing the slow rhythmic breath of a deep sleeper. She was tempted to run a hand down his bare arm, his muscles so strong. Then to his trim waist, his hips exposed above the sheets.
But she turned away, slid out of bed, and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face.
She was safer by herself.
Perhaps Paris had been a bad idea.
Maybe they should have gotten separate rooms. Because here she was, exactly where she didn’t want to be. She didn’t want to share a bed, a night, a morning with someone who didn’t feel the same.
The night before had been magic; it had been stitched from a dream—the rain, the doorway, the perfume bottles. Him. All the things he’d said until that moment. She was sure he’d felt the same.