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“Marrok…”
He plants his forearm against the door, plastering his chest to mine. Of their own accord, my hips jerk in desperate invitation. I’m embarrassingly wet.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be.
But it is. And his every touch feels sublime. My thoughts grow hazy. My body sings, especially when Marrok nudges my clit with a tortured groan.
Lightning tears through me. My eyes flash open. Our stares collide. I can’t breathe. I’m drowning in need. It makes no sense. I should be looking for a weapon, not wondering how fast I can lose my clothes for this man.
Frantically, I glance around.
He takes hold of my chin and forces me to meet his stare. “I remember you, Morgana. Your tricks. Your teasing. Every bit of your body.” He wrenches open the front clasp of my bra, all but exposing my breasts. “Including that strawberry birthmark.”
Shock reverberates inside me as he stares at the discoloration I’ve possessed all my life. How did he know exactly where it is and what it looks like? From the dream?
His words are like a bucket of ice. “I’m not Morgana, I swear.”
His gaze sweeps my face, then sears a furious path over my half-exposed breasts. “Stop lying.”
Rage dominates his expression…but he’s panting. He’s harder than ever. His heart thuds against mine.
Suddenly, he tears himself away with a curse. His spell over me lifts.
With shaking hands, I right my bra and tug together the edges of my ruined blouse. “How did you know about…?”
“Play not the innocent. I touched your body, witch. More than fifteen hundred years ago, aye, but I recall every inch of you.”
More than fifteen hundred years ago? As in…what, the fifth or sixth century?
Oh, my god. He’s delusional.
And you’re insanely hot for him. What does that say about you?
“I’ve told you. I’m not Morgana. I-I’m only twenty-three. Are you into past lives?”
He scoffs. “You and your accursed Book of Doomsday made certain there is no death for me. You ensured I would live this hellish existence forever.”
“I don’t know about any doomsday book. You have me confused with this Morgana person. We might have the same birthmark, but—”
“Because of you, I lost my knighthood.” His eyes darken with wrath. “King Arthur banished me for touching you. Still, your greed for revenge was not satisfied until you cursed me with immortality and never-ending solitude.”
He thinks he’s…immortal? Then again, isn’t that the “logical” conclusion for anyone who believes he’s been alive for fifteen centuries? But he’s also convinced he was one of King Arthur’s knights, and that I’m Morgana? As in Le Fay, Arthur’s evil half sister? And that, after becoming his lover, I somehow cursed him so he couldn’t die?
Not even in my most fertile imaginings could I conjure up anything that crazy.
Too bad my phone is dead. I need to call emergency services. Or poll social media about how to calm a madman.
“No.” My voice trembles.
“Aye. And what was my great sin? Insulting your vanity because I moved to another’s bed before you had your fill of my cock.”
“Maybe I resemble this woman, but I never met you before this morning. I don’t know anything—”
“Not another word.” His fingers curl around my nape like fiery clamps before he hauls me closer.
All my fear and confusion? Replaced by desire as soon as he touches me. Why?
“Marrok—”
