Smoldering Nights by Lisa Carlisle Page B

that’s the only time you’d see me,” he said.
    I smiled. If only there were other times.
    “I’m Michel,” he said, pronouncing it with French accentuation on the syllables. Damn, that was hot. He put out his hand.
    “ Mee-shell, ” I repeated softly the way he had said it, letting his name roll over my tongue like a smooth whiskey. “I’m Nike,” I answered, shaking his hand.
    The touch of his skin arrested me and I hoped he didn’t catch my quick intake of breath.
    “Like the goddess of victory,” he said. “Fitting. I’ve seen you conquer many tough climbs.”
    He held on to my hand for a few seconds longer than what was customary and lightly ran his thumb across my knuckles. My skin felt electrified where he touched it and I resisted closing my eyes to revel in the sensation. I tried not to let his remark go to my head and set my fantasies in motion again, but that slight caress made it inevitable.
    I pushed away a vision of us in bed together, rolling in satin sheets as I whispered his name through hot, passionate kisses. He’s just being polite, I told myself. He’d do the same to any other person he recognized from the gym.
    “Yes. Thank you. Most people say, ‘Like the sneaker?’ My mother was into Greek mythology.”
    “I see,” he said. “Ni-kee,” he drew out the syllables in a low rasp.
    Hearing him say my name with his French accent excited me in ways I couldn’t understand.
    “Can I get you a drink?”
    My heart began beating faster again as I realized a drink meant I would be talking to him a bit longer. This was better—and faster—than any fantasy I had concocted on my own slow timeline.
    “Yes, please. I’d love the Sepulchre by the Sea.” Many of Vamps’ specialty drinks gave a nod to classic literature, especially Edgar Allan Poe.
    “Nice choice,” he said. “I’m keen on the Dorian Gray . ”
    “Well then, may you never age.”
    He looked off into the distance with an odd smile. “Yet his soul paid the price.”
    As he turned to the bartender, I stole a glance at his profile. His features were so chiseled, as if carved from granite. His sandy-brown hair fell slightly past his chin. Not quite long, yet long enough to give him a devil-may-care look. I admired the tapered cheekbones, the strong jawline, and the rough stubble.
    How many times had I imagined myself reaching out and stroking his jawline, feeling the rough stubble lightly caress against my fingertips. Feeling the contrast of the stubble against the sensitive skin as he kissed my lips. As he kissed down my neck, down to my breasts, tickling and teasing my nipples, kissing down the front of my body, driving me wild with soft kisses and the rough feel of his cheek against my skin.
    I hadn’t known his name so I would make one up in my fantasies of the two of us together. Johnny, maybe. Jake. Names from the hot guys in the eighties movies I loved. But Michel was even better. So French. So cool. Michel .
    He handed me my drink. Now at least I would have something to do with my hands. The bartender lingered in front of Michel although she had plenty of customers vying to get her attention, waving twenties. With her tight red leather corset and pink bob, she was definitely dressed to be noticed.
    He wasn’t paying any attention to this scarlet vixen’s embellished assets. He was looking at me with those eyes. Those eyes. So intense I could barely breathe.
    “Do you need anything else, Michel?” she interrupted, leaning forward to display her breasts even more advantageously, if that was possible.
    “Thank you, Tracy. That’ll be all,” he said.
    Tracy retreated her twin girls off the bar, pouted slightly and went back to tend to other customers.
    “Do you know her?” I asked.
    “Yes,” he said.
    That was it? I didn’t want to pry, but didn’t want to flirt with some girl’s honey right in front of her either.
    When he didn’t elaborate, I asked, I hoped sounding nonchalant, “Are you two