Page 145 of The Rogue's Curse

In the middle of writing his notes about the stake he’d carved for Shea, sheets rustled. Misha nearly launched out of the chair in his surprise. Paris rolled onto his side, hummed quietly, and opened his eyes, lovely and blue as ever. He blinked slowly, eyes focusing on Misha. Then he sat bolt upright, staring at his hands.Then he threw back the sheet. “Bordel du merde, where are my pants? Where are we?”

Misha looked toward the drawer, wondering if it was time to get a bit of revenge by drugging the poor bastard. Then Paris looked at him and said, “Are you real?” Then he shook his head and said, “It’s not real. But at least it’s nice.”

He climbed into bed with Paris and took his face in his hands, tilting it up. “Hey, look at me,” he said. “I’m real.”

“That’s what you would say if you were a hallucination,” Paris said quietly. Misha held his face firm and kissed him, teasing at his lips until they parted, and their tongues met. Paris was tentative at first, so unlike him, but he finally relaxed, letting out a soft moan as he kissed Misha hungrily.

Desire spiked through the air, and instead of that sense of instability, he felt only certainty, a solid, burning hunger for Paris. He grabbed the other man’s hand and said, “You want to get out of here?”

“Hell, yes,” Paris muttered.

In a lusty blur, Misha snuck Paris down the hall and out a side door, and they sprinted across the lawn to Building Five, laughing like teenagers. They had barely gotten in the building before he yanked off Paris’s shirt, leaving it halfway down the hall to his makeshift apartment.

“They’re going to come looking for us,” Misha said, roughly shoving Paris back onto the bed before kneeling in front of him to yank down his loose pants. Paris’s eyes went wide as he lifted his hips.

“Let them come and watch,” Paris said.He tried to reach for Misha, but Misha caught his wrists and gently pinned them to the bed.

“No,” he scolded. He leaned in to kiss Paris’s brow, then the graceful lines of his neck. Back and forth he went, as Paris tipped up his jaw, exposing his throat for Misha’s attention. A low moan vibrated beneath his skin. When Misha was ready to move lower, he released one wrist, then said, “You keep those hands right there.”

Paris raised an eyebrow. “Bossy.”

“You deserve it for drugging me,” Misha said.

Despite his command, Paris caught his chin. There was fear in his eyes. “Do you promise this is real?”

“I promise,” Misha said, gently taking his hand and kissing it. “You know how to wake yourself up, remember? Do it.”

Paris frowned, closed his eyes, then opened them again. “I can’t. What if I’ve lost my mind?”

“You haven’t,” Misha said. He took Paris’s left hand, where he knew that powerful bond was the strongest. With his mind, he gave it a mighty tug, watching as his lover’s body shuddered. Warm contentment billowed through Misha, a sense that they were utterly safe and secure. “This is real. This is the most real thing that has ever happened to me,” he said.

Still, Paris looked frightened, and Misha felt desperate to fix things.

He gently stroked his lover’s cheek. “Look at me. Do you think that if you were being punished by some terrible fate spirit, you’d be having such a good time?”

“Well—”

“Would they let you have me? Would they let you feel this?” he interrupted. He slowly kissed Paris’s face, hoping that each light touch would anchor him to reality.

Eyes shining, Paris nodded eagerly. “You’re real.”

“We’re real,” Misha corrected. Paris nodded, and he finally smiled. With one last kiss to his lips, Misha asked, “Can I get back to kissing every inch of you?”

A weak little laugh. “Yes, please.”

Misha raised an eyebrow and pointed up, then smiled when Paris put his hands back by his head. Slowly, he kissed his way over Paris’s bruised chest, careful of the still-bandaged wounds. Over that flat belly, tracing the lines of muscle with his fingers and his tongue, prompting a little laugh. Down those wiry legs, along the pronounced curve of his calves, every inch of him beautifully carved. With each kiss, the smell of desire thickened in the air, until it was dense and heady as incense.

When he rose again, Misha grabbed a bottle of lube from his bag and slicked his fingers carefully. He nudged Paris’s legs apart, pulling him closer for easier access. Kissing the inside of his thigh, he gently eased his fingers into the tight passage. With a soft sigh, Paris writhed, lifting his hips.

Sliding deeper, he hooked his fingers slightly until he saw the jolt of sensation ripple through Paris. He groaned something that might have been oui, and Misha smiled to himself. Keeping a gentle rhythm with his fingers, he bowed his head and took Paris’s cock deep into his mouth. The taste of him was intoxicating, his skin so warm and suede-soft over his lips.

This is real. This is who we are together.

He broke away, not to catch his breath, but to murmur, “I love you. You’re mine.”

“I love you,” Paris whispered, his voice cracking as his body arched. “I want you.”

“I want you,” Misha agreed, still stroking rhythmically inside him. His legs were beginning to tremble, his hips moving erratically. It delighted him to see Paris losing control.

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