MarieBelle would actually be a better place for me right now.
No. Hell would be.
Not that it isn’t already swinging the gates wide, getting ready to send out the welcome wagon. How many commandments in the book am I breaking? Do I want to know? This man—Maximillian De Leon’s brother—has somehow accomplished the same feat as his older sibling, despite the accounts of all the history books.
According to them, his body and head were officially separated in early March 1789, right after a mob of revolutionaries killed his parents in similar fashion. So are the records wrong—or has he rewritten them? Did he elude the executioner by jumping into the family time machine as well? How did he even know to do it?
Max told us the only guiding light he had was his heart—that he had clung to a vision of Allie and then found himself in this century. It seems Bastien has followed the same premise, except his true love is someone named Magique.
Not me.
Really not me.
How do I tell him that?
Correction: how do I tell him that, when his mouth is like tendrils of fire along my neck, across my collarbone…down and over the peak of one breast? Oh, holy shit, and now the other?
And then…as he flicks his tongue into the space between the corset and my flesh…and snags my nipple with that hot, wet brand…
“Unhhh!”
Wow.
Wow.
Triple wow.
At this point, I’ll even take help from the other side of the River Styx. I just need words. Lots of them.
“Ohhh, dear fuck!”
Better words than that.
“Well. You remember liking that, oui?” he drawls, gliding his licks across the valley toward my other aching peak.
Already my nipple pushes at the corset’s confines, all but whimpering for his wanton attention. But I struggle to yank back. I can’t keep doing this to him. Deceiving him.
No matter how much I like it.
“Wait,” I insist, pulling at his hair until he raises his head. How have I already forgotten the mesmerizing alloy of his eyes? They’re a darker gold than his brother’s. Better. So much better. “Please. We need to…take a time out.”
He hauls the rest of the air out of my throat with his slow, sideways smile. “What is this ‘time’ that you speak of, ma chérie?”
I huff. “You know what I mean.”
“No.” He’s damn determined about it, turning him into the duke with the hands—and voice and smile and hip rolls—I can barely deny anymore. “I have absolutely no idea what you mean. We have left time behind, remember? Every day, every hour, every moment before this…it does not matter.” He enforces that with a dip of his head, kissing me tenderly but deeply. “There is only this, my Magique. Only here and now. There is only me…marveling at the sheer perfection of you.”
My Magique.
Shit, shit, shit.
The adoration in his whisper unravels me—in too many directions at too many speeds. I’m headed for disaster, a catastrophic collision, but I’m almost watching in glee as it happens. My mind doesn’t feel attached to my body, which tremors in delight from his knowing, skating fingers. During every moment of the contact, I’m mewling like a dazed and stupid virgin. At the very least, like someone who wasn’t quivering like this just a few weeks ago. All right, probably because I wasn’t. Things with Justin…they were sideways before they went upside-down. So many signs were on the proverbial wall, especially when he begged out of Christmas with my family. I just kept refusing to look.
I never want to look away from this dazzling man. From every damn thing he’s doing to fray me from the inside out.
He’s already started anew, ignoring my sharp yelp as he expertly unties the corset. Next, before the thing even hits my feet, sliding his commanding fingers between the fabric of my panties and the swell of my ass. Last but absolutely not least, blending his growl to my hiss as the silk thong whispers through its own descent.
“Oh…my.”
“Oh…oui.” His hum, so satisfied and so male, dances through the inches between us. “My exquisite Magique.”
My Magique.
Damn it, why won’t he stop saying it?
Perhaps because that’s who I’m supposed to be? The woman he clearly, adamantly craves—with intensity that has my whole body vibrating and my mind racing.
How would it feel…to really be her? To be drenched in the flood of his praise? To be basking in his worship and wonder? To be watching his gaze drop and center on that spot between my breasts, giving a look of nothing but awe in return?
To actually be his adored duchess?
“Ohhh.” I softly moan it as he presses several fingers at the center of my scar. “Keep that up and I’ll be talking about dreams again, buddy.”
“Dreams?” He leans in to replace his touch with his kiss. “Oh, no. This is surely naught but true magic.”
Not her name again, but too damn close for my comfort—until he gets to work on my flesh with his beautiful mouth, spreading heat throughout my breasts that has the word tumbling from my own lips.
“Abra…cadabra,” I blurt, twisting at his hair until I’m afraid of ripping his scalp off.
But the man must be a stud or a pain freak because his growl grows deeper as he suckles my left nipple with focused vigor.
“My God,” I manage to croak as he trails toward my right peak. “My fucking God.”
“Hmm. I do not think he is inclined to fuck right now, ma magie. But if you are open to a reasonable substitute…”
As he resumes his suction, my urgent scream spills out.
“Damn it! Keep that up, Duke Desperado, and the neighbors are going to call the boys in blue on us.”
He lifts his head with a ferocious look. “No other boys on you. No boys, no men. Not in blue or any other color. Understood?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Only makes me moan once more with his awestriking animalism. His shoulders, tensing until they look and feel like the Adirondacks. His hands, digging into my waist to haul me close again. His bulge, pushing at my middle until my imagination conjures the NYPD again—at least in a few ways…
“I understand that you’re packing one hell of a riot stick here, buddy.”
He hums again, so knowing and sensual. “Only if you plan on rioting, mademoiselle.”
I give up a light laugh. More and more, I’m forgetting what I’m not—and reveling in what I’m becoming. Discovering what he’s seeing. Slowly but surprisingly, believing his words. Perhaps this really is just an intense dream, or a feat of incredible magic, but the man and his astounding body are obviously in for every second of the fantasy.
A bubble I could pop now, or later…
My inner Eeyore pushes for doing it now. My inner Tigger insists on taking over that narrative at once—especially when Bastien and I kiss again. This carnal, commanding man doesn’t let up, dominating me with ruthless rushes of his tongue and grinding rolls of his magical hips. In return, I sigh and groan and suck on him with the same insane abandon. I breathe in, savoring his sweaty whiskey taste and his leathery, woodsy smell.
But this man isn’t from some fictional forest with dancing tigers and pantsless bears. He’s a warrior from a dark wilderness in another era, unafraid of kissing a woman with his whole being…and, God help me, all the mounting heat of his massive body.