Page 50 of Misadventures with a Duke

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.”