They had finished eating, both of them ordering the signature chicken dish, and he poured a third glass of wine for Michelle. She held up a hand when her glass was half full.
“That’s all you want?”
“I want to be relaxed and all loosened up, but not drunk,” she said, sliding closer to him. They were on the same side of the booth. He couldn’t stand to be far away from her, and he’d had his hands on her all throughout dinner. On her shoulder, in her hair, on her leg.
“That gift should have you all loosened up,” he teased, pretending to peer at her backside.
Knowing she was wearing one of his toys all throughout the meal had made it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything she said. He’d done his best, though, and they’d chatted about their travels, the places they’d been, the places they wanted to go, and many other topics. The whole time his mind kept drifting downward to her body, and forward to later tonight.
A few times she’d seemed to want to talk more, and had even mentioned last night. She’d seemed so carefree when she said those words, as if all that was said and unsaid was no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal that he hadn’t returned her words twenty-four hours ago.
Last night.
Big deal or not, those two words still felt heavy, like a brick weighing him down. He didn’t want to fuck up this night, or last night, or any other night. He feared that if he said anything else, if he revealed too much or too little, that he’d simply say the wrong thing.
That fear of fucking up had him in its clutches; it was gripping him, holding him tenaciously in a tight fist. He felt more for this woman next to him than he’d ever felt for Aubrey, which was at once a beautiful realization, and also a cruel punch in the gut. Comparing Michelle to Aubrey made him feel like complete shit. His lack of enough feelings for Aubrey had led to the worst thing possible. The fact that he felt anything should be a weight lifting, but it dredged up all the self-loathing that he thought he was finally letting go, thanks to these nights with her.
She was so much more effective than therapy. Being with her was the only thing that eased the ache.
And yet he couldn’t shake the fear that the more he said, the greater the chance he’d mess up something. Or hurt her. He had a track record, and maybe it was a track record of one, but that was enough to have to protect her from him.
After he paid the check, she dropped her hand on top of his. “Jack,” she said, and her voice was serious. “About last night, and the things I said—”
He cut her off. “Last night was amazing. All of it. And tonight will be amazing too. And so will the next night,” he said.
“Yes. They will be. The rest of these thirty nights will be amazing, and then we’ll move on,” she said, flashing him a smile that seemed to exist on the surface only. “Like we planned.”
His gut twisted at the thought. He wanted to stay here, in Paris, in this moment in time with her. But they’d made a deal, and they’d never mapped out a contingency plan for more days. Besides, why would they need them? He couldn’t give her more than this, even though he hated the thought of the thirty-first day. He didn’t want to see that day or the ones that followed it.
“Yes. Like we planned,” he echoed, even as he felt something well up in his chest. A desire to say more. To ask for more time. But that wasn’t fair, so he kissed her.
Maybe it made him an ass, but the kiss served many purposes. Not only the physical, but it also distracted her, judging from the way goose bumps rose on her bare arms. And it kept his mouth shut. He wanted the night to be perfect for her, so he kept the focus on the one thing he couldn’t mess up—sex. He did everything he could to avoid returning to the ‘I’m falling in love with you conversation’ because that conversation was what had ruined Aubrey, and he didn’t want to ruin Michelle.
He wanted to worship her, so after she’d excused herself to stop in the restroom, he took her back to the hotel, his focus solely on the purity of the pleasure he wanted to give her.
He’d spread a small hand towel on the bed and left the lube and some massage oil on it. As the door to the room shut, he dimmed the lights, but didn’t turn them all the way off. He couldn’t bear not to look at her.
She turned to face him. He couldn’t read her expression.
“Are you okay? Are you nervous?”
She shook her head. “No. Not at all.”
“Good,” he said, grasping her hand and leading her to the bed. He backed her up against it, and when her knees hit the mattress she sank down, her hair spreading across the royal blue bedspread. She looked like a dream to him, her hair in waves, her breasts free under the soft cotton, and her eyes hooked on him the whole time. She propped herself on her elbows and watched as he unknotted the tie he’d worn to dinner and tossed it on a chair somewhere behind him.
It staggered him. Her desire. Her heart. How much she gave of herself. He moved up to her face, cupped her cheeks in his hands, and looked her in the eyes. He didn’t say it, wouldn’t say—couldn’t say it.
But he could say this. “About last night,” he began, trying again to fix his mistake.
She placed her finger on his lips. “Don’t say a word,” she whispered.
He shook his head and kept going. “When I said I can’t get enough of you, I meant it. I can’t,” he whispered, and it wasn’t a return of her sentiment, but it was as close as he could possibly come.