He was having an effect on her she hadn’t expected. She’d thought maybe she could enjoy a physical relationship with him, but it was going deeper. So much deeper. She liked him, liked his daughter, loved feeling in some small way like they were starting to become a family. It was dangerous, but she couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t make smart decisions about this man.

He was addictive. She softened and let his tongue invade her mouth, sliding against hers and causing a fresh rush of arousal to make her head spin. She ran her hands over the strong muscles of his back and enjoyed the sensation of being caught between his warm male form and the heat of the shower. Sometimes the world seemed so cold, but she was safe here.

Maybe that’s what she was truly getting addicted to—feeling safe. Oh, she knew the world wasn’t safe. That damn accident and what had happened with Carrie reinforced what she already knew, but there was a place that was safe. This place she’d found with Armie.

“Tu me rends fou, mon ange.” The words were whispered over her skin as he kissed his way down her throat.

“I want you to teach me. I want to learn how to speak French.” It might help with some of her patients. Some of them spoke a combination of French and English and pure Cajun that she couldn’t completely understand.

His head came up and his lips split in the sexiest grin. “I can teach you. Repeat after me. Armie est le meilleur amant du monde.”

She knew a trap when she heard one. “Am I saying something about you being the sexiest man?”

He shook his head. “The best lover.”

She could learn those words because they were true. She went on her toes and lightly kissed his lips. “Armie est le mellar amour da mande.”

He grinned. “I have no idea what you said, but I love the way you say it.” One hand came back up to find the nape of her neck. “Let’s go slow. Repeat this. Armand est mon homme.”

“Armand est mon homme.”

“I’m your man, chérie. It’s all I want to be.”

“You’re my man.” They weren’t words she’d thought she would ever say. They were words meant for romance novels, not ones she would claim for her own. Now she realized it was because she’d viewed them in the wrong way. Armie wasn’t saying he owned her or she owned him. Those words were a declaration of intent, the intent to try, to be together, to support each other. He was telling her she could count on him. “I’m your woman.”

“Tu es ma femme,” he agreed and took her mouth again.