Page 67 of Wished

Anywhere that is bare and uncovered by my dress, he’s kissed.

Most of his kisses were chaste. Just his mouth on my skin, his gaze direct and watching as he lowered his mouth to me. Those chaste kisses chased over my skin and combined to drag me down into a whirling maelstrom of need.

With each step up, he dragged me further and further, heightening the sensations running over me and through me.

And now, on the last step, beneath the white rounded tours of the Sacred Heart, Max stares into my eyes. His mouth is wet, his lips red and slightly swollen. His gaze is glowing with the same heady, drunk-on-kisses, I-want-to-climb-inside-you feeling that is overwhelming me.

I reach up, thread my fingers through his thick hair, and pull his mouth to mine. His mouth is hot, still tasting of hazelnut and chocolate and thick desire. I press myself closer to him, my legs wrapped around his middle. He’s hard against me, and as he strokes my mouth and we attempt to imprint ourselves on each other, a tight tingling travels down my spine and pools at the space where we connect.

“Take me to bed,” I whisper against his mouth. “Please.”

His arms flex and he drags me closer, a ragged breath escaping hot against my mouth. “You still haven’t kissed me in front of City Hall, Palais Garnier Opera House, on the bridges spanning Canal Saint-Martin?—"

I clutch his shoulders and stare into his eyes. “Max.”

“Anna?” The corner of his mouth lifts, his gaze burning hotter. My lips tingle and ache for him to set his mouth back on mine.

“I’ve seen enough. Now I just want to see you.”

The rest of his mouth lifts into a wide, happy smile. “You don’t want dinner first?”

“Max!”

He laughs and then carries me back down all 222 steps.

22

Max’s Parishome is in the 16th arrondissement, near Trocadéro. It’s old, beautiful, and has a distinct old-money feel. The sandstone building is as stately as a Parisian museum, six stories high and wrapped in gorgeous iron balconies. Chestnut trees line the sidewalks, and after the noise and color of Montmartre, the quiet elegance of the sedate street sets off a rebellious buzz inside me.

Max’s hand shakes as he unlocks the front door. I shiver at the look he casts me, my insides vibrating, my skin tingling.

When the door swings open I step through, and the lights automatically come on, set to dim. The space is open, hushed, and looks so much like the decorating at the Barone estate that I can’t help but smile. Tall ceilings, chandeliers, ornate plaster molding, intricate paneling, nineteenth-century art, spindly-legged furniture, and luxurious rugs. The marble-floored entrance gallery sweeps into a wide sitting room with velvet-cushioned furniture and a chaise longue situated in front of a wall of windows that lead onto the iron balcony.

The tall gold satin curtains are drawn back, and right in the center of it all, there’s a view of the Eiffel Tower. It’s glowing, lit up like a Christmas tree. A beacon in the night.

Max shuts the door, and at the click of the lock we’re enfolded in a quiet, expectant hush. He steps next to me, not touching me. But I can feel the heat of him; hear the quiet whisper of his indrawn breath.

“When you said you wanted my scream to be heard at the Eiffel Tower,” I say, nodding to the shining lights reflecting off the windows, “you weren’t kidding, were you?”

He’s quiet, and when I finally look up at him I find he’s watching me.

My breath catches and my heartbeat picks up, racing through my chest. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the look my mom gave my dad, right before we took him to the hospital for the last time. It’s the look Dorene has whenever she watches the opening credits of her husband’s movies in the courtyard, the volume turned up high.

It’s the look I imagine I had the first time I saw Max.

“Anna,” he says, his voice a deep, insistent plea.

“Yes,” I say, agreeing to everything in his eyes.

And then there isn’t anything separating us anymore. I drop the bouquet of freesias and it hits the floor with a whispered sigh. Our mouths clash with a violent need. The teasing, fire-lit passion of the Montmartre steps is gone. Now it’s as if our mouths are at war, fighting to win and to be won.

I grapple with his leather jacket. He shoves at my dress. I yank free his belt. He tugs my dress over my head.

Cold air hits my skin and my nipples pucker. He swears and grabs my breasts. He cups their heaviness in his palms and pinches my nipples. I bite his lip. Lick the inside of his mouth. Shove his pants down his hips.

My bra. His shirt. My lacy thong. His boxers. All gone. Casualties in our haste, and in our fight to touch and to feel and to be.

We’re a battle of hands and mouths, tugging and tasting, and I’m breathing so hard I can’t catch my breath.

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