Page 24 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

And the full essence of my heart.

I do not stop until she knows the power of all three. Until they soar her to a star of orgasmic fulfillment.

As her cries vibrate in my ears and her body flutters around mine, I am catapulted to the same heaven. My cock burns brilliant as the sun, filled with white-gold fire from my pounding balls. It erupts, thick and wild. I mark her everywhere with it. I am the power inside her clenching core. The force through her throbbing sex.

As the climax overtakes my body, so does a deeper truth throughout my psyche. And my soul.

Kavia called my quest an enchantment. But now I see past that. I comprehend the term she really should have used.

It is a homecoming.

Alessandra.

It is good to know her name now, though it hardly matters. She could go by Lily Dragbottom and I would still know her. The contentment in her outcries confirms my hope that she feels the same—and will be ready to declare her love before witnesses as soon as the sun rises.

Right now, that simple truth is all I want. All I need.

We have all the time in the world to deal with the silliness of the rest.

Chapter Four

Allie

Time is not my friend this morning.

I groan and trudge across the château’s frilly-to-the-point-of-gaudy breakfast room, hoping I don’t trip over one of the ten thousand knick-knacky statues in my quest for more coffee from the sideboard. The service staff steps back, knowing better than to interfere in my quest for a caffeine IV drip after three hours of sleep. Raegan and Drue’s not-so-little birthday gift is the reason I’m in this state.

Which, despite the coffee deprivation, is actually not such a bad one. Sometimes, sleep really is overrated—especially when a girl has given it up to be pounded into every inch of her chamber’s mattress.

When I slipped out of bed this morning, he was sleeping like a dead man. I succumbed to the urge to steal another peek at that magnificent organ between his thighs—but had been proud of myself for letting better sense prevail and sneaking away. It’d been a clean and fair getaway—a perfect chance to stash the man away into the Perfect One-Nighters file.

All right, so maybe he’s only one of three in the file, but at least I have a file. I’m not pathetic; I’m a workaholic. On top of that, I’m weird. On top of that, I’m built with curves. Lots of them. Most men don’t know what the hell to do with my hips, my boobs, and my sarcasm, let alone the ultimate nail in my sex-appeal coffin. Just a teeny character flaw called intensity.

Honestly, the stuff does something strange to men. Yeah, even a few gay ones. I’m the girl nobody can handle. It’s much easier and safer for everyone to watch from the friend zone.

So what if my rent-a-hunk from last night could actually deal with me?

So what if he made me do things…say things…feel things…no man has ever drawn out of me before?

So what if I let my mental defenses slip?

And I actually considered…

What if this guy is serious?

What if this connection is real?

“And what if you need to get the hell over yourself?”

I mumble it while grabbing a gorgeous croissant to go with my industrial-strength java. At the same time, I picture Max already sneaking down the mansion’s back stairs, climbing into his Marquis de Sexy coupe, and enjoying the morning mist while laughing about how he shagged the horny American tourist.

All right, then. Fine by me. I can laugh about it too.

As soon as I dislodge the fist from my chest.

“Bonjour, mes belles amies!”

So much for the wallowing I planned to indulge before stuffing Max away into a permanent mental lockbox. Raegan’s entrance is a center-stage affair, even without her I-Am-Gigi-Hear-Me-Roar singsong. Her sunflower-yellow boyfriend shirt, tucked into red and black cigarette capris and finished by rhinestone-studded flats, is as cute as it is loud.