“But your point is valid,” she inserts. “Though I’m not in a hurry to get across the room. The less I wake that thing up, the better. If Dick Gorgeous has figured out I’m really not Degas’s long-lost-great-great-grand-something-or-other and is already tracking my apps for location alerts…”
I am proud of following the majority of her comment now. I am not comfortable with the meaning it infers. “Tracking. Logan can do that to you without actual tracks? Through the phone device?”
“If he tries hard enough, yes.”
“But he has to thread a few fine needles.”
“Or get permission from the proper authorities. Which, I imagine, is a little of the same thing.”
I suck in a sizable breath. “What about other things to distract him, as you and Drue discussed?”
“That’s a possibility too,” she offers. “And obviously the scenario we want. But traipsing out of here now, assuming that’s how all the morsels have melted, would be a big mistake. They gave me a dining guide when I ventured over to the front desk to ask for a phone charger. I think we can find some decent take-out, once we’re hungry.”
“Take what? Out of where?”
She snickers softly. “It’s one of the better things about living in New York. I guarantee you’ll approve.”
I huff. “That is welcome news, since my list of the good things about this place is sparse.”
Her focus spikes up by an obvious notch. “What’s on the list so far?”
“You.”
She laughs again. “Excellent start. What else?”
“That is all.”
“Then that’s a shitty list, buster.”
My own chuckle comes quickly, due mostly to the enchanting flush that flows over her cheeks. At once, I want more of it. The demand does not even scream solely from my cock anymore. The pulses between my legs have expanded to unmistakable intensity in my mind and a primal pull from the center of my chest.
Primal…and undefeatable.
And intimidating.
Because, for the first time in my existence, I cannot explain away any part of it.
This attraction is unlike any other, including my passion for Magique, because there is no logical reason for it. Every woman in my life, most especially in my bed, has always been there with valid justification. The way that female has excited me with a flirting stare or engaged me with a silken jest. And, oui, loath as I am to admit it, the advantage of gaining some new court gossip.
Raegan Tavish is none of these things and yet all of them. And beyond. So far beyond. She is open flirtation and racing excitement. She is a gateway to a thousand unexpected jests and has even given me her own version of court gossip: the intriguing tales about the celebrities of this time, their personages often occupying entire windows in the Madison Avenue boutiques. She was in the middle of such a story when I ruined the day for her, adding another canto to the chaos I have wreaked upon her life.
And yet here I am, ready to do it again. So weak about fighting the spell of it…the enchantment of her. The unabashed intensity of her eyes. The small squirms of her whole form. I cannot resist.
I cannot resist.
That makes me one hell of a pathetic man.
And yet, as I hover my mouth above hers, I have never felt like more of one.
“The list is fine the way it is, ma chérie,” I murmur, letting the syllable puff across her slightly parted lips. “It simply lacks certain elements.”
“El…ements? Like…ermmm…what?”
She is suddenly not so glib, and I savor every pretty drop of her agitation. Every adorable inch of her uncertain thoughts…while her body responds in very definite ways to mine.
“Like subheadings.” I dip in a little more, teasing every syllable along the plush cushions of her mouth. There are fresh skitterings up and down her form, new beacons of her inexplicable hold over me. “Perhaps you can help me fill a few in.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RAEGAN
He’s looking at me like that again.
The way he didn’t rip his gaze from me back at Allie and Max’s. Those incredible minutes right after he emerged from the wardrobe. The hour of carnality that turned into one of the best and worst things that’s ever happened to me.
Except this time, it’s different. There’s something missing.
But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
The moment Bastien presses in, transparent about his intention to kiss me, the recognition gongs through my mind.
This time, there’s no sadness in his attention. Not a shred of desperation in his tender passion. He doesn’t kiss me like I’ll disappear when our lips graze and tingle. He doesn’t pull away to impale me with raw stress from his worried goldens. His attention is still reverent but not in that memorial service kind of way. He’s taking his time with all his caresses because he wants to this time, not because he’s afraid he’ll shatter me.
This time, he’s looking at me because I’m me…not Magique.
Which should have me rejoicing, right? It’s good to be the real person in his head. The correct person receiving his soft caresses.
But for some reason, I’m trembling. And this time, it’s not a great development.
I’m scared. In the big league fire-and-brimstone way.
Which is so freaking ridiculous. Because that first encounter over in Midtown…it was my own game of show-don’t-tell too. A medley of all my defensive mantras. Show skin, not what’s within. Give him the screaming O but not the lonely tears. And I’d done just that—which meant the discovery about Magique was a not-so-small blessing in disguise. The pressure was off, and I was damn grateful. I still am. I mean, I think.
Aren’t I?
I don’t really have to be the Allie to his Max. Because clearly, I’ve got some work to do in the knowing a guy’s needs department. Having to figure that out with a twenty-eight-day limit due to an old gypsy curse that will end his life without the magic of true love’s kiss is pressure I don’t need right now. It’s been shitty enough to figure out what Sylver Savoy is going to wear to the Emmys.
This way, everything is blessedly simpler. We just have to get Bastien back to the time travel machine for his journey back to Magique’s arms. No mess. No confusion. And thank God, no awful aches in my heart.
Or so I thought.
Until right now.
This time, there’s way more meaning in this man’s exquisite kiss. More intent in the longer mashes of his lips, the heated sweeps of his tongue. The kind of more that makes me moan, beyond conflicted, as he opens me wider and delves to my tonsils with his ardent assault. And as he groans in return, pushing his beastly roughness through my system, it’s the kind of more that has me not even caring.
I whimper again. Louder. Longer. I bury my hands in his gloriously thick hair, twisting at the thick beauty of it. He keeps up our primitive conversation, growling in return. Not making it possible to breathe for fear of missing a moment of his bold carnality. His magnificent force. The addicting heaven of his passion.
As more thunder rolls through the clouds above the city, a similar sound rolls from the mighty depths of his beautiful chest. “Ahhh, ma chérie. How I savor this sweet, succulent mouth… Now here is a fine subheading item for my list.”