Page 57 of Wished

Max nods. His hand pauses, cradling my cheek. A family pushes past, leaving us suspended above the great hall.

“I have a question.”

“Yes?” I ask.

“Tonight,” he says in a low, scraping growl.

I nod. Sway toward him. “Yes.”

I grip Max’s hand, afraid the dizzy rush cascading through me will cause me to stumble and then tumble headfirst off the suspended footbridge.

“If nothing else. If never again. Tonight,” he says, his words low, dragging over me like calloused hands spreading my naked thighs open and delving higher and higher.

I nod, my tongue thick, my blood pulsing in a steady thrumming beat. “You want to make love?” I ask, and the question comes out as a whisper in the giant, echoing white marble hall.

Max’s expression tightens, his gaze burning into mine. “I want to make you come so hard you forget your name.”

Holy crap.

He’s not finished. “I want to bend you over and bury myself so deep that when you scream your orgasm they hear you at the top of the Eiffel Tower. While you’re still senseless, I want to lick you and taste you until you’re begging for more, so that when I flip you over and work you, you’llwishyou could stop coming. But sadly, that wish won’t come true. You’ll keep coming until I tell you to stop. Which won’t be until the sun comes up.That’swhat I want.”

Oh my word.Max Barone is a dirty talker. Smooth, charming, put-together Max Barone has a filthy mouth. And apparently, I find that wildly, unbelievably attractive.

“Holy ...” I stare at him, wide-eyed.

His eyes narrow and he searches my face, looking for hints at how turned-on I am. The pinkening heat in my cheeks, the hard points of my nipples visible through my dress, the tightness of my shallow breath. I’m flushed. I’m out of breath. I’m ... imagining.

When my cheeks feel as hot as a furnace Max smiles.

It’s a wicked, happy, triumphant smile.

“I agree. To ... to ...” I trip over my tongue and then say in a rush, “All of that.”

His smile breaks into a grin. A delighted, eager, wolfish grin. It’s as if he’s an apex predator anticipating the first juicy bite of a fresh kill. It’s as if he’s been starving himself on scraps and bits of old meat for his whole life and I’ve just offered him a fleshy, passionate bite of me.

I stare at him as wide-eyed and naïve as a deer, struck dumb by a pair of headlights.

I have a feeling a night with a passionate Max will be like standing naked under the onslaught of a hurricane.

As we stand there imagining tonight, the same feeling overcoming me as when we kissed, a woman strides across the marble, her heels clicking hurriedly on the floor.

“Monsieur Barone? Madame Barone?”

I break eye contact with Max and glance at the smartly dressed, well-put-together woman.

It’s three o’clock.

It’s time for our appointment with the conservatrice en chef.

It’s time to get unmarried.

19

As we walkthrough the Galerie des Bijoux, I can’t help but slow my pace to gaze in wonder at the glittering jewels and centuries of adornment encased behind the walls of glass. There are hundreds of necklaces, bracelets, brooches, rings, tiaras, and more. It’s hard for my gaze to land on any one piece; instead my attention jumps from diamond to ruby to gold to silver as if I’m a beam of light reflecting off all the glittering surfaces.

“The collection spans from Middle Ages to present day.” Edith Cloutier, the chief curator, waves a hand at the long glass wall to our right.

She’s a small, neat woman in a black sheath dress that sets off her matching art nouveau bracelets, necklace, and earrings. She’s left her clothing as flat and unobtrusive as possible to set off the art of her jewelry. Since I spent an inordinate amount of time researching the jewelry industry all those years ago, I recognize her set as Henri Vever—one of the most well-known Parisian art nouveau jewelers from the Gilded Age. She has a particularly beautiful yellow enamel, gold, and ruby pendant in the shape of a winged woman on her breast.

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