“Shoes off,” I say, switching on the light. “The floor is squeaky clean, so you can walk around in socks or barefoot.”

I sit on the tiny bench by the door and remove my sandals.

Ooh, the relief.

Raphael pulls off his shoes and socks. Then he moves to the center of the room and surveys my studio apartment.

“How much are you paying for this?” he asks.

“Seven hundred euros.”

“It’s a rip-off.”

I arch an eyebrow. “It’s the market price for this neighborhood. When was the last time you paid rent in Paris?”

He gives me an apologetic look. “Never.”

“Thought so.”

He points to the small desk with tall piles of books and printed pages on it. “Is this where you write about the respectable and less respectable women of the Middle Ages?”

“Yep.”

“Did you finish the new chapter? Can I read it?”

I nod. “Once I’ve cleaned it up.”

Raphael turns the handle on the door next to my desk. “This must be the bedroom.”

It’s a broom closet.

“Seven hundred? Really?” He shuts the door. “The whole place is smaller than my kitchen. And I don’t have a very big kitchen.”

I shrug.

“No wonder you need a second job.” He nods in sympathy. “So, where’s the bedroom?”

“Right here.” I march to the wall bed and pull it down. “Et voilà!”

“Wow. It must be black magic!” Raphael drops to his knees and stretches himself out the floor. “Madam, you must be a powerful sorceress.”

I throw two pillows onto the bed and go over to my prostrating boss. “And what are you, my good sir?”

“A frog prince.” He sits on his heels and puts his hands on my hips. “How do you feel about frog princes?”

“Not sure.”

“Is my being green and slippery an issue?” He pulls me closer.

“It’s the least of your issues.”

“You’re too harsh, sorceress.”

He slides his hands to the front of my Le Big Ben uniform shirt, which I’d been too tired to change. With a rush of sweet anticipation, I let him undo one button after another.

“I’m not as slippery as people think,” he says, tugging on the sleeves.

I help him remove the shirt. My lacy bra comes off next.

He presses his face against my tummy and spends some time kissing and licking every inch of it. I give a small “oh” when he dips his tongue into my navel.

His hands glide along my sides, gripping and rubbing. Then they move on to my back and then my ass, which they knead and squeeze with utter dedication.

I love what he’s doing to me.

Careful, Mia.

Using the L-word in relation to Raphael is a no-no, even when it isn’t about feelings. I must not forget who he is. My lover isn’t a frog prince as he claims to be. He’s a fuck prince. As everyone knows, when a fair maiden—or a sorceress, as the case may be—kisses a fuck prince, the act doesn’t turn him into a real prince and her into his princess.

It turns both of them into fuck buddies.

And yet…

When this gorgeous male kneels before me, presses hot kisses to my stomach, and worships me like this, all caution flies to the wind. I run my hands through his hair as my gaze caresses the perfect lines of his strong neck, shoulders, and arms wrapped around me.

Throwing my head back, I close my eyes to savor the feel of his lips on me. My breathing becomes uneven as he slips his hands under my skirt and grips the backs of my thighs.

“Soon, my beautiful sorceress,” Raphael murmurs, his voice husky, “you’ll be the slippery one here.”

Oh, I think I already am.

A few long moments later, he brings his hands to my left hip and unzips my skirt. He tugs the waistband, pulling it and my panties down over my hips. I open my eyes and look at him. Raphael’s gaze is riveted to my mound. It’s hot with lust, dark and hungry with need.

Beware, Mia—it will scorch your soul.

When my skirt and panties pool around my ankles, I step out of them. He pulls me back to him immediately and brings his mouth down on my very slippery flesh. His tongue explores and strokes me, while his fingers spread me open.

I clutch his shoulders because my legs are suddenly too weak.

The orgasm that follows isn’t the deepest or most intense I’ve ever had, but it’s incredibly sweet. It’s as if my loins had grown tastebuds and savored honey.

When I return to reality, Raphael is gripping my hips, arms stretched. Sitting back, his lips glistening from what he’d been doing a moment ago, he watches me.

All of me.

I stare into his eyes.

What I see in their depths makes my heart quicken. They hold lust—tons of it—but also admiration. And tenderness. So much of it that my knees wobble and I sway forward.

He props me up and levels his gaze with mine.

I gasp.

That “funny” look I’d noticed before is back, amplified a hundred times. Do I dare name it? Could it be that the admiration and tenderness in his eyes weren’t just for my body, but also for my person? Is it possible that the country’s most notorious womanizer has a crush on a girl from work? A girl with quirks, ragged edges, and a bluestocking level of nerdiness.

I must be imagining it.

Those double shifts must be taking their toll, making me delusional. I should know better than to let myself think Raphael d’Arcy has feelings for me. Because he doesn’t. He can’t. That’s not how he’s built. A twenty-nine-year-old unapologetic bad boy can’t change his tiger stripes for someone like me.

Or can he?