The only moments that own us are these. The only people we know anymore are each other. The only existence we have is the center of our climaxes, pure molten sensation and endless vibrations. Explosions that spread through my lust cloud like electricity, fissuring but strengthening it at once. I carry new bolts of lightning and pounds of thunder. His beautiful currents buffet me. His wild winds carve my psyche into so many new shapes.
I hate knowing that with such certainty. And admitting how much that terrifies me.
Worse that, even an hour later, well after we’ve cleaned up and then reunited to cuddle—his word not mine—the fear hasn’t dissipated.
Not by one damn degree.
If anything, it claws in with deeper tenacity. Scratches hard, making my gut hurt and my heart bleed. Ruthlessly reminding me of how stupid I’ve just been. How impossibly reckless, spinning up a fantasy of raising Bastien’s baby like I’m the brave heroine who’s got to press on with my fallen soldier’s love child.
But that isn’t the case, is it? Because love doesn’t go like this. Not in any tragic war love story and certainly not in real life. Not in just two days, with a man who should be in a centuries-old grave with one woman’s name on the lips of his dismembered head.
Magique.
I pull in a long breath and wait for the strength that’s got to imbue any second. This is a lot more logic than I’m used to in one string of thought. I should be proud as hell of myself for it. The emotional walls I’m re-stacking. The safety of cold appraisal on the other side. Most of all, the mindset to take the right actions now. Well, one above the rest. To push out from the warmth of our post-coital bed and get my ass down the hall to use the Greene’s land-based line. From there, to call Drue.
To ask my friend to make a special trip to the drug store for me. The counter where she’ll have to ask the pharmacist for a morning-after packet on behalf of her head-in-the-clouds friend.
“Mon rayonnement?”
The same friend who tumbles back to earth now, courtesy of the naked warrior who dots the question with a gentle kiss to her forehead. Who’s making it impossible to think about pushing free of these blankets as he drags one around her with a possessive sweep of his thigh. Who’s staring at her with such renewed adoration, she almost forgets where she is.
But not who she is.
Because rayonnement will never be the same word again.
“Hey,” I manage to mutter. “Sorry. I was just thinking about—”
“Not being here?”
It’s impossible to miss his tell-me-I’m-wrong-please undertone, which comes with a squeeze at my shoulder. The kind of touch that’s needy but trying not to be.
“Of course not,” I chide. But before he can press for more, I rush for a subject change. “I could go for a billion soup dumplings right now. How about you?” I’m hoping for the exact expression he returns. His bafflement gives me an excuse for an excited lurch. “They’re the best heaven that’ll ever hit your tongue, I promise.”
“Then you are already a liar, sweet woman.” His drawl is as sultry as his gaze. “Because my tongue has known the succulence of your skin.”
And maybe I don’t have to call Drue right this second…
The thought is swallowed by an obnoxious growl from my stomach. “Won’t take me long to get the order in,” I vow while reaching for my pants.
After getting them on, I reach for his shirt instead of mine. The cheap cotton show shirt has dried faster than my painted denim jacket. I ignore the other benefit of the choice, watching Bastien’s male satisfaction at seeing me in something he’s already worn. But secretly, I revel in the remembrance of his stare while hurrying down the short hallway. Being quick about this ordeal is the only way I’m going to get through it.
Thankfully, somebody’s already on duty at the North Greene’s desk. Even better, it’s not the same sweet girl from last night, so I can get away with a tall tale about forgetting my phone charger. Best of all, the Liam Neeson look-a-like borrows his namesake’s sixth sense and vanishes into a back office as I press Drue’s digits onto the pink and green buttons of an eighties-era phone.
As the line begins to ring, I pray my friend will listen to her instincts in place of her suspicions. Though she’ll see the Manhattan-based digits, the majority of her mind will want to write me off as a pollster or marketer.
Listen to the Force, Drue Skywalker. It’s me, honey. It’s me.
She picks up.
Thank you, Saint Yoda.
But has she?
I don’t hear anything but breathing. And the back-up beeps from an early morning delivery truck.
But then, in a cautious mutter, “Agent…Degas?”
I can’t help a small giggle. “Present and accounted for, Agent Lautrec.”
“Oh, thank God,” Drue spurts. “I honestly didn’t know whether…” She huffs, and I hear the frantic clack of her window blinds. “Actually, I’m still not sure if he isn’t…” She exhales, underlining the sound with relief. “Okay, he seems to have finally gone home.”
“Who?” I charge. “Ohhh, wait. Don’t tell me you finally got Cy the Security Guy to notice your sweet-sweet girl parts?”
“You’re kidding, right?” she retorts entirely too quickly. “Because I’m fairly sure Cy stands for Cyborg by now. But that’s digressing, and we seriously can’t afford that.”
“Are you telling me something I don’t want to hear, missy?” My teasing tone hardly masks my rising tension. The truth my own instinct is confirming, deep in the pit of my gut. “About our friend Dick Gorgeous?”
“Who, I must say, is just as pretty in his stake-out civvies as his just-the-facts-ma’am suit.”
“Oh, no.” I twist the phone cord around a finger and jiggle my leg until I’ve burned off triple-digit calories. “So…he knows you’re you?”
D pops her lips with definition. “It would definitely seem that way.”
I groan softly. “Does that mean he’s got someone casing my place too? And what about Max and Allie’s apartment?”
“They’re good so far,” she supplies. “And you too, girlie.”
“Which you’re so sure of…why?”
“I went and looked.”
“Excuse the hell out of me? And what’d you do on the way out of your building? Toss a flash bomb at Mr. Sexy In His Civvies?”
My stunned glower invades my words. A diabolical chuckle peppers hers.
“Remember that horror movie I worked on a few months back? With that kid director who’s going to be the next Kurosawa?”
“Oh, shit.” I trade out the glower for a shudder. “The one with the zombie babies who morph into cats at night?”
“Baby Kitty,” she fills in. “Well, they let me sneak out with one of the props. I’ve been keeping it up in my closet for a special occasion. I got it out and put it into a sling that I made out of an old bedsheet. I got into one of my boho dresses and some huge shades. Our dickster friend was none the wiser.”
I give up a soft snort. “I seriously can’t decide whether to be really impressed or really scared.”