Page 71 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Whatever he’s feeling, the stuff tempts the corners of his mouth again. “Did you worry, chérie?”

I knit my brows until they hurt. “Yes, damn it. Of course I worried.”

Worry. That’s such an understatement, I almost laugh. That’s been just the tip of my emotional iceberg since he bolted out the door after Dmitri’s announcement. Not that the bastard has to know that, especially with a ticking clock on my time left here. Metaphorical chit-chat is not how I want to be spending the rest of these precious hours with the man. I want to be reaching for him. Smashing him close. Letting him tear off my towel. Letting him kiss me, caress me, fuck me. Making sure there’s nothing between us but breath and heat until Dmitri has to bust in here and pry me off him…

And knowing, even then, it’ll feel like having my own skin peeled off.

“How are you faring?” He taps nervously at his thighs with his fingertips.

Those elegant, decadent fingers…

“Faring?” I blurt it like the absurdity it seems but prepare to save my dignity with a lob of sarcasm. That’s before the man glides closer. Closer still. Until we’re just inches apart.

His stance is neutral but strong. His scrutiny is fixed and molten. There’s a hint of whiskey on his breath. “Just answer me,” he rasps, as if the fate of nations teeters on my answer. “Tell me the truth. Are you happy, Alessandra?”

And then he waits.

And I squirm.

And ache. And throb. And need. Ohhh, especially all that.

“Wh-What do you want me to say?” I choke out. “I…I don’t know what to tell you, Max.”

What can I do to make you happy?

Yeah. I could say that.

But something ineffable holds me back. Something terrifying. The part my psyche still has in a chokehold, all the while screaming about how a man would never make such a difference to my happiness. That a man wouldn’t ever matter enough to.

Damn it.

Here he is…

Mattering.

The recognition snaps me. I reach for him as he grabs me in return. He hauls me in hard. At once, he’s yanking back my head. My stare is full of him. His sculpted jaw. His regal mouth. His bold nose. His Versailles-gold eyes.

His perfect adoration.

“Just say that you are happy.” He dips in, brushing my lips with the hoarse words. “You deserve to be happy, mon miracle. You have given so much of it to me. I know that all this has been but a blink of time to you, but—”

“Don’t.” I nearly growl it, I’m so peeved at him. No. At the craptastic timing of all this. At the advent of him. At the perfect, ironic, what-sin-did-I-commit-for-this glory of him. “Please,” I gulp against the wet fire at the backs of my eyes. “Just…don’t.”

But he does anyway.

Kisses me. Deeply. Intently. As if it’s our last embrace.

No!

But he persists, kneading the seam of my lips with his probing tongue. Absorbs all my confusion with all of his passion, letting me drench his beautiful, ardent face with my tears before he pulls back to show me his own.

“Shit,” I sob out. “Max…”

My voice dies away as he plummets to the floor with an animalistic groan, pulling my towel free as he goes. I shiver as the chilled night air hits all the damp places of my exposed nudity—and as he clamps his mouth over my trembling mound.

“Ma raison,” he murmurs, lapping at the dampness between my legs. “My reason. My heart. My calling. My goddess.”

“Oh.” It’s the only sound I can muster as he usurps my sorrow with the ecstasy of his mouth. “Oh…”