"Like this."

Gently at first, he pressed his lips to hers. His heart stopped, and his blood stilled, as if it simply had to make sense of this new input before it could reengage. Kissing Annalise again. It was as if a new map were being written, a new route sketched out. So this was what it was like to kiss her once more.

Sublime.

His heart ticked again, catching up as he swept his tongue over her lower lip. She murmured. Soft, like a purr. That sound was new from her. She'd always been quiet.

And she'd once liked lingering kisses that were like melting chocolate, like the rising sun. Their kisses had been easy and carefree. They'd turned him on, riled him up, and made him want so much more of her. They were tongues, and lips, and mouths, and heat.

But now, there were teeth.

Hers.

She pressed her teeth against his lower lip and drew it into her mouth like she was trying to suck on it, and with that, whatever wisp of apprehension she'd seemed to feel moments ago must have evaporated. His thoughts spun out of control, slipping into darker, more urgent territory. He moved his hand from her hair, held her face, and angled his mouth over hers, resuming control of the kiss and devouring her lips.

He drew the corner of her mouth into his and nipped her. Her murmurs intensified. Louder. Hotter.

She'd never been like this before, but now she demanded more. Her own hungry lips slanted over his, saying mark me.

"Oh G.o.d," she gasped, her eyes squeezed closed. "Oh my G.o.d."

He broke the kiss, whispering, "You okay?"

She nodded against him. "Yes. So okay."

"Good." He quickly moved his mouth to her jawline, kissing a trail there as he traveled along her skin. Each press brought out a tiny little growl from Annalise, a s.e.xy sigh, a needy gasp. It made him want to rip off her clothes, push her against the wall and see how rough she liked it. He bent his head to her collarbone and grazed the exposed flesh with his teeth. Her hands shot up, roping through his hair as she moaned. Annalise was under some kind of spell, her body moving and flowing against his. She clutched his skull tighter, her nails digging in as he kissed her shoulder then returned to her mouth. That gorgeous red mouth. The lips he'd been obsessed with. The ones he'd memorized.

The lips he'd missed for so many years.

Like a persistent, aching hole in his chest, the missing had defined him. Propelled him. Given him a focus when he'd needed one. Now, the missing disintegrated, and turned into a white-hot desire to have her. To have all of her, as he'd never had before. Now. Tonight. No more G.o.dd.a.m.n waiting. He pressed his forehead to hers, and ran his thumb over her mouth. "It's different now."

She nodded. "Yes. But so good," she said, breathless.

"Not good. It's better."

"It is," she said, her eyes wild.

"Think everyone's watching?"

She shook her head against him. "It's Vegas. No one cares."

"Do you care?" he whispered as he traced her lips, the sweetness of her breath on his fingertips.

"That you're kissing me like crazy on the terrace of a nightclub in a hotel?"

"Yes." He dragged his thumb along her teeth.

"No. I don't care where we are," she said, darting out the tip of her tongue to meet his thumb. She bit down. "I want more."

His mouth twitched in a knowing grin. "No, you don't care at all," he said, then crushed his lips to hers, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing her with everything he had. Greedy kisses that promised red, swollen lips tomorrow.

This kiss was dizzying. It was a rush of blood to the head, then everywhere else. When they were younger, they'd held back because they were sixteen and foolish romantics. They'd done plenty below the belt with hands, but hadn't come close to going all the way. Tonight, they seemed to be charging in that direction. Good. He was no fool anymore, and he was hardly romantic. He had the distinct impression life had hardened her, too.

And that tonight she wanted hardness from him.

The sound of clinking gla.s.ses echoed from many feet away. The noise jarred him, and he pulled apart from her briefly. He swept her hair away from her face then bent his head to her ear. "Where are you staying?"

"Across the street. The Cosmopolitan," she said, her voice like a torch song.

"Do you want to leave? With me?"

Her lips parted, and he felt her soft breath on his neck. He pulled back to look into her green eyes. In them, he saw a l.u.s.t that matched his, but a fear, too.

"Yes," she said, but in a second she shook her head. Then she nodded and said, "No."

Opposites. Okay, maybe she didn't want the same thing.

She sighed. "I mean..."

He pressed his finger to her lips. No way was he pushing her into this. He wanted Annalise with a fierceness he hadn't felt in ages, but she was either in it all the way or not at all. "It's okay. It's good to see you."

"Is that it? You're just leaving?" she said, her voice angry.

He pretended to look around. "Did I say I was leaving? Did I get up to go? I'm still here."

"I'm sorry. This is just..."

"You don't have to explain anything."

"I know. But I don't want you to think I don't want to."

"Do you want to?"

"Yes, but it's been a..." She didn't finish her thought, and he didn't push. Changing gears, she said, "It's late. I'm shooting tomorrow. Do you want to come by?"

"Visit you at a lingerie shoot?"

"You always used to come by my shoots."

"You shot bands. The soccer team. The pep rallies," he said, reminding her of her days as a yearbook photographer.

"And now I shoot beautiful women. Do you like beautiful women?"

His lips twitched, and he eyed her from head to toe. "Very much."

"Come by," she said, her fingers darting out quickly to touch his cheek for a moment. "I want to see you again before I go."

He swallowed dryly, but didn't ask when she was leaving. He'd rather linger on the feeling of her hand on his face instead.

"Give me the time and place."

She told him where, then added, "Tomorrow at one. You can see the end of the shoot, and maybe we can..."

Her words went unfinished.

Whatever she meant, he wasn't in the business of filling in her thoughts. All he knew was one taste wasn't nearly enough to forget her.

CHAPTER SIX.

The elevator was too loud, too bright, too full of people.

As the couple in the far corner waxed on about their dinner of small plates and the fratty guys by the number pad debated how many more shots they could plow through, Annalise asked herself how long she could wait.

She'd been on ice, cryogenically frozen in a state of suspended animation for two years. Her body was still working, going through the motions. One foot in front of the other.

But inside? Beneath her skin?

All those parts had been dormant.

Turned off.

Now, she was turned all the way on. She was like one of those blow-up balloons in an old cartoon, shooting through the air, ready to pop. She was sure everyone in the elevator saw the desire written all over her skin. But as the car shot up past the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth floors, they continued in their own worlds.

She wanted her own world now. She wanted to live in the bubble of l.u.s.t.

The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor, and the couple exited. The trio of guys remained, and the tall one in the crew once again stabbed the silver b.u.t.ton for the penthouse. "They'll be here soon. C'mon."

Hookers?

She almost breathed it aloud.

Instead, she covered her mouth with her hand, her fingers touching her greedy lips. But that was stupid. Because that only made her want to touch herself more. She couldn't help it. She dragged her index finger once across her top lip.

Like a match to a flame, it reignited her. My G.o.d, those kisses. Her lips were bruised with Michael's mouth. He'd imprinted himself on her, and she felt him everywhere-on her skin, inside her organs, and deep in the dark, protected corners of her heart.

And yes, most exquisitely, between her legs.

"Vite, vite," she muttered to herself.

If she'd stayed a moment longer at the club, she'd have grabbed his hand and dragged him to the restroom. Even the return to her hotel had felt terribly long, a new and cruel sort of torture as she'd walked with a wet, needy ache between her thighs.

For so long, she hadn't let herself feel a thing. Now, she was nothing but nerve endings rubbed raw, cells crying out for relief.

The elevator dinged at the seventeenth floor. She practically vaulted out the open doors and quickstepped down the hall in a mad dash for her room. She reached it, fumbled for her key card from the back pocket of her jeans, slid open the door, and stepped inside.

Her room was dark, cool, and the lights from the Strip winked through the windows. The door shut with a heavy groan.

Her breath was hot and fast, her hands even faster. She dropped her purse to the floor, unb.u.t.toned her jeans, and dipped her hand into her panties.

"Oh G.o.d," she groaned, fingertips slipping through her wetness, hot, fevered, and so f.u.c.king delirious.

This was what happened when you banished s.e.x, what happened when you extradited it from your life, your heart, your bed. When you told yourself you weren't ready. You're better off without it. She hadn't wanted anyone to touch her, and she hadn't even touched herself in a long time, as if the mere act of masturbation would have sullied the memories of her husband and said something to the universe about her not loving him enough. Everything had conflated in the last two grief-filled years-s.e.x, and love, and moving on, and hope, and even touching herself.

She couldn't stop now. She was a rocket, flying to the atmosphere, h.e.l.l-bent on a jet-fueled trip to the stars. The floodgates were unleashed, and she stroked herself, riding her own hand urgently as a flash of images sparked before her closed eyes. Michael's kisses. Michael's lips. His voice in her ear. His teeth. He hadn't kissed like that before. Like he wanted to consume her. Bite her. f.u.c.k her hard.

"Michael."

She moaned his name, feeling its familiarity yet utter newness on her tongue as her fingers flew faster between her legs. There, standing against her hotel room door, shoulders rising and falling, breath tumbling rapidly from her lungs, s.e.x on her brain, Annalise made herself come for the first time in two years.

Her o.r.g.a.s.m slammed into her, fast and sharp as a hot knife. Seizing her body. Lighting her up. Racing across every inch of her skin. It was everywhere, rapid and furious, pulsing, and over far too soon. She was left panting, and not nearly sated enough.

His name fell from her lips once more.

She didn't feel cold tonight.

She was burning up.

Her body was alive again, and she feared she would become addicted to this feeling before her heart was ready.

The dog's legs flew, like a flip-book at high speed, as Michael cruised down the trail.

No one ever beat the dog. Not even Colin, and he'd recently finished the Bada.s.s Triathlon. But today Michael was a few footfalls behind Johnny Cash, and his brothers Colin and Ryan, were eating his dust.

Pent-up l.u.s.t could do that to a man. Desire could drive him to finish faster, push harder, focus more intensely.

With sweat slicking down his chest and his heart pounding, Michael ran as the sun peeked over the hills at Red Rock Canyon. His thoughts cycled between the bare-bones one-foot-in-front-of-the-other adrenaline and sheer, unrepentant want.

Last night was intense, sure. But it was only physical. It had to be that way. His ex-girlfriends had simply been wrong. As he whipped around a switchback, the black and white border collie in his crosshairs, Michael felt more confident than ever that his past relationship woes were never about Annalise. He wasn't a player. He didn't have a string of three-and-out dates trailing behind him. He'd had plenty of serious girlfriends over the years. He hadn't settled down with any of them because he simply hadn't met the right woman.

Not because he was hung up on her.

That was so not the case.

As the dust churned up beneath his sneakers, his mind flashed back to his ex-girlfriend Katrina's comments from a year ago. He'd been with her for ten solid months-so long Colin had placed bets on him getting down on one knee. Funny that the proposal possibility had crossed Colin's mind but never Michael's. Katrina was a ma.s.sage therapist, and he'd met her working out at his gym, his home away from home. They'd had a good time together. At least, it had felt that way to him.

They'd done dinners and movies, and had fun trading gym playlists. Their favorite activity after a late-night gym visit was getting sweaty in another way. They'd f.u.c.ked well, and often. But apparently that hadn't been enough for Katrina.

When she'd ended it, she simply shook her head in frustration and said, "You're in love with the past."