Page 65 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

For many minutes afterward, we remain like that, entwined and sweaty, his cock still seated deep inside me. I settle my ankles against his taut ass and my arms around his rippled shoulders. A sigh leaves me, filled with enough of a sated hum that it belongs in a damn movie. Max replies with a soft snarl. When I shiver from the reverberations, he presses his lips to my neck and does it again. I twist a hand into his thick waves and giggle.

“I’m getting real chills from that, mister.”

“And they are making me hard again, mademoiselle.”

“You know what? You’re a really impressive machine.”

“Hmmm. Does that mean I get to fuck you again?”

I laugh while lifting my legs higher. I pull his head down toward mine. “That’s exactly what that means, Hotness.”

An hour later, we’re sated with pleasure and spooning without shame—though my bewilderment hasn’t waned. Max is caressing me with a combination of his fingertips and knuckles, savoring every inch like I’m a decadent dessert. Something melted, since that’s how I feel by this point. He glides those graceful digits over and over, quiet and sensual and sure, responding to my shameless sighs with his soft but arrogant snarls.

There goes my theory about him being some local hunk getting by between gigs at the family’s vineyard. The man has serious postcoital game. He didn’t learn this erotic elegance in a barn. But it’s also impossible to think of him as some displaced ghost. No way is the man curled around me, warm and hard and ripped, some lost and cold spirit.

Another breath of bliss spills out as he scoops the hair off my neck. He tucks his lips in, nuzzling heated attention along my tingling skin.

“Alessandra,” he whispers into my ear. “Alessandra Sophia…”

“Hmmm.” My core temperature climbs again. “Yesssss?”

“You are a goddess.”

More tremors. Yet another sigh. “Well,” I murmur. “I’m fun if you love curves.” A laugh swirls out as he thumbs one of my nipples. “Which you clearly do.”

He growls into my nape. “There are those who don’t?”

Wry huff. “There are plenty of those who don’t, and you’re fully aware of that, monsieur.”

“Quoi?”

For a long second, all I do is gawk. Is he for real with all the incredulity?

“Come on, Max,” I finally chide. “I work in the fashion industry, remember? In the world I run in, a twenty-five-inch waist is heifer status and five slices of lettuce with a cherry tomato are a full meal.”

He rocks his head back. The shock in his stare intensifies. “People…choose to live like this? To behold stick figures as beauty?”

And now I’m officially mute. Either the guys in Loire really don’t get out that much, or he actually is the time-traveling lord who nearly made Pascaline pass out. Either way, he’s clearly not going to accept my answer alone on this.

I crawl around until locating my clothes and then yank my phone out of the built-in pocket in my leggings. After swiping through Raegan’s half-dozen texts to remind me about tonight’s plan—pajamas, fine wine, and an eighties music video bingefest—I tap at the buttons leading me to the New York Fashion Week photo file. The entire time, I’m aware of Max watching me like an infant captivated by a prism.

Finally finding the shot I’m after, displaying one of the industry’s hottest models strutting the catwalk in an Alexander Wang catsuit, I turn the screen toward him. “There. In my world, that’s a goddess.”

His stare bugs but instantly narrows. “But that is a boy. Or a walking twig. Or a breadstick. Or a—”

“Point taken.” I laugh out the words. “You’re a boobs and hips dude.”

“I am a…dude…who likes to feel the flesh I am sinking into.”

“Oh, hell.” I giggle it out. “You know, you’re adorable—even if you are insane.”

“You call me insane, when you belong to a vocation that venerates walking twigs?”

“Well, I’m trying my damnedest to change that.” I glance over, making sure I haven’t lost him. At this point, I’m usually dealing with a glazed stare and some noncommittal hums from a lover, but Max’s attention is still cranked at full power. Wow. “When I first started in the business, nobody would give me or my blog the time of day.”

He jerks up a little, making me stop. “Pretend I am still crazy and do not know what a blog is.”

Because he doesn’t?