Page 42 of The Rogue's Curse

“I’m a mess. My life is a shitshow these days,” Paris said. He felt suddenly off-kilter; it was rare that he was pursued, rare to be prey in the shadow of a hungry predator. It wasn’t such a bad thing. He could smell the warm spice of Misha’s desire, could see it in the way his pupils dilated against the ruby gems of his eyes.

“I’m aware. That shitshow is why I’m here,” Misha said. “Your life is a mess, and I’m only in Atlanta on business. What’s your point? Are you saying you won’t let me kiss you because you don’t have all the answers? Does that sound logical to you?”

“I didn’t say that,” Paris said shakily, staring up at those brilliant red eyes. The warm scent of Misha’s desire draped over his senses like a heavy mantle. Suddenly, Misha’s hands were on his face, guiding him to his feet, holding him so gently as he leaned in to brush his lips on Paris’s.

I found you. You’re mine.

Parting his lips, Paris welcomed the gentle kiss. He had barely gotten a taste when Misha let out a satisfied mm and teased at his tongue, searching and seeking. One strong hand slid around Paris’s waist and pulled him closer. The sense of relief, of being held, of being wanted, made him want to weep. Misha’s touch was like the long-denied kiss of sunlight.

For a moment,he let himself think, This could be right. This could be mine.

His mind caught up, and he thought, What the hell are you doing? But before he could pull away, Misha broke from the sinful siege on his lips and tilted up his chin to nip at his throat. Paris groaned as heat pooled in his groin.

A shiver rippled up his spine as Misha slid his hands under his shirt and peeled it upward. He was still caught in the dreamy haze of pleasure when Misha stopped and gasped. “Jesus,” he muttered.

Paris glanced down and recoiled. Misha stared at the crater-like wound on his chest. It had closed, but remained surrounded by ugly bruising and bloody red edges. Shame overwhelmed him, and he backed away. “I hate to disappoint,” he said. “Normally I look much more appealing naked.”

Misha caught his hands before he could put his shirt back down. “I was just surprised,” he said. He gently stroked Paris’s cheek. “Please don’t hide from me.”

Paris hesitated, then slid his shirt down. But Misha didn’t back away, didn’t clear his throat awkwardly and make some excuse about long flights and work to do. Instead, he just stared at Paris, one eyebrow arched slightly. His eyes drifted down, then back up to meet Paris’s gaze. He didn’t speak, but there was an invitation, maybe a command, in that look.

You come to me.

And he did. Emboldened by Misha’s hungry look, Paris darted forward and grabbed the other man’s hips. Curling his fingers around the waistband of his pants, he found smooth, warm skin over his hips, velvety soft beneath his fingertips.

With a low growl, Misha smiled and parted his lips to invite a deep, desperate kiss. The sweet venom of his fangs dripped over Paris’s tongue. It was a strong liquor, sweet and fiery, enough to make him dizzy.

He let out a groan of displeasure when Misha pulled away, holding his jaw firmly. “When was the last time someone took care of you?”

“What happened to speaking bluntly?” Paris asked. “Rhys takes care of me every single day. I think you mean something else.”

Misha smirked. “When was the last time someone got on their knees and swallowed your cock like their life depended on it?”

The gorgeous Russian was, in fact, a magician. His words cast an immediate spell on Paris, sending a shivering wave of heat through him.“It’s been a while,” Paris said. “Are you offering?”

“Offering. Threatening. It’s a matter of interpretation, I guess,” Misha said coyly. He released Paris, smacked him lightly on the ass, then pointed to the bedroom door. “In there.”

Paris nearly tripped over his feet as he bolted for the bedroom, plopping back on the bed and watching appreciatively as Misha stripped off his shirt, then his trousers to reveal a pair of snug boxer briefs that did his ass plenty of favors. He was hard as a rock. “Is this part of your duties as a fixer?” Paris asked. “If so, the Sanguine Crown is even more generous than I thought.”

With a chuckle, Misha shook his head and said, “Special treatment for you. Consider it one of my other duties to be performed at my personal discretion.”He grabbed Paris’s loose pants and yanked them down firmly. Then he smiled and said, “Hand me a pillow.”

Good God. This was actually happening. He had been with countless attractive men and women, all of them aflame with desire, but he had always been the pursuer, always the one who declared what he wanted to make it safe for them to express their own desires. Misha was a tidal wave, a fucking hurricane of want that obliterated doubt and made itimpossible to resist.

Misha took his time kissing Paris’s thighs, down the sensitive inner curve, down to his calf, before making his way back up. Then with a little chuckle, he flicked his tongue across the crown of Paris’s cock, nearly sending him flying into orbit. And because he could never shut his damned mouth, Paris reached down and grabbed Misha’s jaw before he lost the ability to speak.

“You don’t have to do this just because of the conversation we had. You don’t owe me anything. We’re good,” Paris said.

Misha raised an eyebrow. “I know. Trust me, I don’t regularly apologize by giving head. I’m doing this because I want to. I want you. Any other concerns?” He gave Paris no time to answer, instead bending his head to lick him from root to crown. His warm tongue rasped against the sensitive skin, sending a lovely shiver through Paris’s entire soul.

He’d seen Misha at work, carefully drawing his little diagrams, and he’d seen him in a fight, quick, brutal, and so efficient with every move. Misha brought that same focused intensity to giving head, it seemed. It shouldn’t have been a surprise after everything he’d seen.

Strong hands splayed over Paris’s thighs as Misha took him deep, withdrawing slowly before capturing him again. The man’s mouth was a warm, wet marvel, and Paris was soon drifting in a hazy half-consciousness.

“You’re so fucking good,” he crooned.

Misha let out an appreciative mm around him, sending another thrill up his spine. When he withdrew, he stroked Paris firmly and gazed up at him, lips flushed and wet. “You taste even better than you smell,” he said, licking his crown again. “You know the best part about being a vampire?”

“Besides immortality and stunning good looks?”

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