Page 9 of Undo Me

And yet she’d fallen for him. Ached for him for months and lived for those walks in the park.

After their first meeting, Catherine had wasted no time in giving her the explicit details of her new acquaintance. Their mothers both studied under Marie Laveau, mentoring to be hairdressers by day and voodoo priestesses by night. Catherine and Marcel traveled in the same circles. The circles her father would have beaten Isabel soundly for even being aware of.

According to her friend, Marcel’s mother had been the belle of her quadroon ball, the most beautiful and most desired. His father was a Frenchman Isabel knew well, since his acknowledged heir from his recognized marriage had been attempting to court her all season.

Isabel’s father was enamored of the man, ignoring the arrangement of plaçage he’d made with a Creole woman, and the son that had come from that union. As long as it wasn’t acknowledged, it was tolerated. As long as Marcel wasn’t acknowledged and didn’t cause trouble, he and his mother would be safe and cared for.

Which was why Marcel had not been allowed into the party that night. Yet he had come. For her, he swore, and she believed him. She should be ashamed at how swiftly she’d allowed him to show her that some of the rumors she’d heard about him were true.

He was an exquisitely skilled lover.

When he’d set her on the desk and knelt at her feet, she offered no more than token resistance. She’d had no idea a mouth could do such things. It was she who begged for more, for all, who eagerly lay back on her friend’s father’s desk and lifted her skirts for him.

Perhaps there was something wrong with her. She had searched her heart these past few days for regret and resolve, but she knew she would do it again in a heartbeat.

“What is in your mind, Isabel?”

Had any man ever asked her and meant it as he did? Still, she fought to act unaffected by his nearness, at least until she’d settled the doubt in her mind. “You have other lovers. I’ve heard the women whispering about you. Even Catherine says you dallied with one of her cousins for a time. I wonder that you would seek out one so unskilled when you could fulfill your needs with them instead. Or is it because your brother has shown an interest?”

He was naked and aroused, but that didn’t curb the anger that flashed in his eyes. Her thighs quivered, her skin flushing as he stalked her like a jungle predator, backing her up until her thighs hit the bed. “Catherine is no authority on my love life, my sweet. And I have no need to compete with any man.” He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and she shivered. “I will never lie to you, Isabel. Not even to appease your ego. There have been others. Virgins, as you were, who offered themselves to me. Experienced women who craved more than their fat, pale husbands could provide. Pleasing them was something I took great pride in. Perhaps too much pride, and it now comes back to haunt me.”

Isabel flinched and turned her back on him, but he gripped her shoulders firmly, holding her against him. “You will hear this. The stories are true, but they are all in the past. I knew you, Isabel. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that no other would do. I tried to resist you, despite my desire, but it was a battle I was doomed to lose. I’d risk everything for another taste of you, for one smile from those perfect lips. I need you. Only you. Look into my eyes and know I speak the truth.”

He turned her to face him and she found herself lost in his blazing amber gaze. She saw it there. Conviction and love in equal measure. All her resistance melted away in that moment. What was between them was too powerful to be a lie. Too strong to deny, despite logic and sense. She was his. He was hers. It was as true and inevitable as the tides.

She cupped his jaw with her slender hand, marveling at how swiftly love had come to two whose lives were forbidden to touch. “Touch me. Please.”

“I’ve been dreaming of you saying those words for days, sweet Isabel. I think I’ve been dreaming of you forever.”

He slipped off her nightgown and lowered her gently onto the bed. But she didn’t want gentle from him. Everyone else treated her as though she were made of porcelain. To be admired and shelved, but not touched. Marcel called to the fire inside her. He knew her need was as great as his own. She wanted to be taken as he took her that first night. Impatiently. Passionately.

He lifted his head from her neck and she could see in his expression that he felt the same. Her hands lifted from their lax position by her head, reaching up to run her fingers through his dark velvet curls. She tugged. A silent, untutored demand.

Marcel’s smile was knowing and wicked. “There’s no rush, Isabel. We have all night.”

She nearly howled in frustration. One of his other lovers might know how to entice him, how to show him that the slow kisses he was peppering her shoulders with, her breasts with... yes, just there... were not enough.

His erection telegraphed his heartbeat against the curve of her hip and she held her breath. Did she dare to touch him? To taste him as he had tasted her? Could she be so bold?

One of her hands left his hair and slid down his tensing back. His lips paused on her hard nipple, his body still as he waited to see what she would do. Her fingers tingled as they glanced over his hip, feeling the bone and sinew, the fine hairs on his body. Her hand slipped between them and curled around his hot shaft, lashes fluttering at the bolt of electricity that shot up her arm and into her core at his size. The silken feel of him.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Marcel growled playfully. “Is that all you can say when you hold your man’s pride in your hands?”

“T-teach me what to say. What to do to make you mad with desire.”

His expression transformed to one of exquisite pain and longing. “Grip it tighter, Isabel. Yes, like that. I promise you won’t hurt me. Merde, love, it feels so...”

Present Day

New Orleans

“Perfect.”

Bethany nearly tumbled out of bed as the masculine groan echoed through the room before fading into silence. She noticed the letter, slightly crumpled in her hand, and swore. How could she have fallen asleep in the middle of reading such a fragile, priceless letter? She should have been more careful. She was always more careful.

Marcel.

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