Page 26 of Misadventures with a Duke

That are so much like Magique.

My Magique.

I do not know how I get from beholding her to kissing her. But here I am, where I need to be. Where I should be. Taking her mouth with soft persistence. Tasting her tongue with warm languor. Not pushing or insisting. Waiting, with held breath, for her to do it. To give me all her signs.

And she does.

And I am rejoicing as she lets me inside a little more. Offers me her sighs and moans. Circles an arm under and around to score the narrow valley along my spine with long, lusty scratches.

And that easily, we are together again. Wound and wrenched and knotted around each other with heat…with heart. All the way inside our hearts. I cannot deny it. I will not deny it. And neither can she.

“Oh God!”

But she does. So fiercely and urgently.

I catch a glimpse of the sheen in her eyes as she pushes back and shoves to her feet. It develops into salty rivers, flowing down and seeping beneath her fingers as she smashes them against her lips. As if she’s trying to push her frantic breaths all the way back to her lungs.

“OhGodOhGodOhGod.” The words pour out in a matching torrent, almost indecipherable. Thankfully, she lets them fall before demanding, “What was that? What the fuck is going on?”

Surprising her, and likely myself, a smirk takes over my lips. “You said the same thing when I kissed you the first time.”

She frowns. It is more adorable than her profanity. “Last night?”

“Last year.”

Her expression changes. Still beautiful but not so adorable. I loathe making her look so sad. “No, Bast. No, I didn’t.”

Bast.

My casual name…on her trembling lips. It sounds stilted and unsure, as if it is the first time she has uttered it in that way. So softly. So intimately. But I know it is not…

It cannot be.

She presses a hand to my jaw, scraping at the scruff that lines it. “Damn it, how I want to tell you differently. How I long for all of that to be true. How I want this piece of my heart with your name already on it to be okay about pretending for you. But you deserve better. And…so does Magique.”

As she rasps those last words, she shifts back by small, unsteady steps. From the darker expression on her face, I expect her to cross herself any moment. Or vomit. Or both.

I do not wait for either. There is too much at stake now. Too much about her rasps that nonetheless feel like screams. Worse, like the truth.

“What the hell are you saying?” I do not rein back my seethe. “The complete truth of it, woman.”

Her chest, beneath that painstakingly flimsy chemise, billows in and out. “You kissed Magique last year…but that was her, not me. I don’t remember a thing about it because I wasn’t there.”

My head rolls in something like a denying shake. “Is that the part I am supposed to understand now?”

She readjusts until securing my forearms beneath her grip. “I wasn’t there last year because for me, last year was twenty—”

She completes the assertion, but my mind does not register her last numbers. They are inconsequential beyond her century marker.

Her century marker.

My head rolls around again. For a moment, I wonder if it will just easily snap off. It will be easier to realign all the contents. Clearly, something has gone wrong. Very wrong. She has not just told me…if so, she cannot be serious…

“Bastien? Hey, are you ok—” Her harsh huff penetrates my mental vortex more than her babbling. Which is only that, oui? Her own way of explaining all of this. Her personal denial of being murdered by her own brother. “All right, you aren’t okay. Come here. Maybe you’d better sit down again.”

I jerk away. I must. Sanity will not come when being so close to her.

“Leave me be.” I march across the room while stabbing hands through my hair. “Just…leave me be. Please.”