Page 47 of Misadventures with a Duke

“Raegan. Wake up, chérie. ’Tis but an awful dream.”

I have to repeat it several times, tucking her face close to my chest, before the rumbles of my voice penetrate her in that other world. Before fully crossing the bridge back, she flails at me. “Nooo!”

“Oof.” It takes the place of my favorite profanity, even as she lands a whack to the middle of my injured cheek. Swearing about the sensitivity of this wound, despite the noble intentions that led to it, does not feel like the correct call right now.

But nor does letting her go.

Even as she sighs into the middle of my chest and softens against the middle of my body. The part of me that changes as well—toward the opposite end of that tactile spectrum.

Mon dieu. This woman’s breathtaking body…

“Huh? Oh, no. Oh my God. Bastien?”

And her voice, so effervescent even when half-awake…

“I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

And her benevolence, even when there is no reason for her to bestow it…

I chuckle. And before I can control myself, I am turning my face and kissing her sweet fingertips. “Nothing I have not deserved, n’est-ce pas?”

Her lips twist. Her gaze is dark sage, like a forest just minutes before dawn. The thought makes me wonder about the actual current time in our day. Deep shadows shroud our little room. I can only see her because of the small light from the adjoining kitchenette.

“Deserved or not, that’s going to be a hell of a shiner, buddy.”

I arch a brow, indicating toward the rain-spattered window. A low thunder roll portends of more to come. “I doubt that shining will be a viable task anytime soon, ma magnifique.”

Her lips perk but her eyes remain solemn. “And now you’re being too nice. Magnificent isn’t the word I’d go for in the Raegan media kit right now.”

“Bah.” I grunt softly. “I have never been much for mead. Should we just assume you are a sweet wine instead?”

And this is the comment that banishes her doldrums. I struggle not to let my confusion take over my scowl as her bursting giggle lights up the room much better than any daylight. “As you wish, Monsieur le Duke. But if I had my real preference, we’d be doing whiskey flights and stuffed potatoes somewhere in the Village.”

Every word of her pronouncement makes sense on its own. Together, they baffle me all over again. Still, I reply, “I will never walk away from good whiskey.”

“Then it’s settled. When we can roam freely again, I’m parking your fine ass at the Flatiron Room and treating you to—” She stops in the middle of enthusiastically patting my chest. “Oh, my. Speaking of your oh-so-fine bod, my lord…”

“Here at your service, my lady.”

I grin in time to her cute smirk. Excellent move, in time to veil my bittersweet tinge. I never had the chance to address Magique with those words. Though I am still really not, it feels close enough to feel her smile in my soul, inspiring the words that continue on my lips.

“That applies to all of my body parts, Raegan. Including everything up here.”

Her mouth purses with mirth as she watches me tug at an ear. “And exactly why do you suggest that, mister?”

I do not mirror the blitheness. “Do you want to talk about it?” I move my fingers from my ear to her forehead. “The nightmare?”

She closes her eyes and keeps them shut for a long moment and then pushes her face back into my chest. “Damn. How come you still smell so good?”

I steel my composure, fighting the effects of her moving lips and silken breaths on my skin. Directly beneath her mouth, my heartbeat surges anew…and pumps fresh blood to other body parts. Anatomy I should not be acknowledging at the moment…

“You are evading the subject.” I direct the growl at my cock as equally as her. My body ignores me. Thankfully, she does not.

“Because there is no subject.” Though she mumbles it, there is purpose to her volume. “Mack Deluise doesn’t get that honor anymore.”

“Deluise,” I echo but swiftly stamp it with a snarl. “The one who tried to stab you in the heart.”

“It was an accident,” she counters. “We were kids.” She pulls back but not completely. I am glad, despite the continuing torment she issues in the form of a light fingertip on my breastbone. Up, up, up she traces with that caress, until pausing at the hollow of my neck. “I just wish my subconscious would get that message.”