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Authors: Tina Donahue

Claiming Magique: 1

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Claiming
Magique

Tina Donahue

 

Book one in the Appointment with
Pleasure series.

 

A
man at the center of power.
A woman who won’t be ruled.
They call her
Magique

 

Sought out by
the District’s elite, she’s no ordinary call girl, deciding who will pleasure
her for the evening. Her preference is for several men at once. Games of
bondage and submission heighten her desire to be taken by a strong male.

Hunter is
only looking for a good time, not a woman who unleashes a hunger so deep it
changes his world. He won’t stop until
Magique
is his
alone. He’s a prisoner of his lust, powerless against his growing need for her
body and heart.

With this
man, resistance isn’t allowed. For this woman, he’ll create a world of sensual
delight and yearning like none she’s ever known.

Claiming
Magique

Tina Donahue

Dedication

 

To libraries—my favorite places on
earth—may they always have funding and never go out of style.

 

 

Author
Note

 

Lust transformed to tenderness…attraction
that becomes intolerable need. These elements fuel
Claiming
Magique
, the first book in my
Appointment with
Pleasure
series. Join me in a world of wealth, power and sex where a
woman’s past has colored her future. Meet the man who’ll do anything to have
her.

 

 

 Chapter One

 

She’s not your ordinary call girl.

Hunter Prescott recalled that
assertion he’d heard from a client—or was it simply a tease—as he and his
friends arrived at the private residence on R Street.

The historic building was three stories
and of a French design, its façade a pale yellow. To the average individual it
might have belonged to a senator or housed a foreign dignitary, rather than
being used for what Hunt knew would go on in its rooms tonight.
A female intent on pleasure greeting him, her delicate hands
stroking the planes of his body, her sweet little tongue licking his balls and
cock, preparing his shaft for her welcoming cunt.

Warmth settled in his groin,
radiating to his belly and thighs.

It was an effort, but he waited on
the sidewalk, his erection hurting as Tim paid the cabdriver in cash and David
scanned the tree-lined street, ever alert to see if they’d been set up.

Not an impossible prospect. The
public loathed Washington’s lobbyists—known as K
Streeters
in this part of the world—even though they fought for policy that made sense
and kept things equal in a decidedly unequal world. Hunt figured some reporters
would have given up their own vices for a chance to expose him and his friends
in a compromising position, bringing them down, along with the international
corporations they represented.

While the risk worried David, it
energized Hunt. Heat continued to suffuse his body. He lifted his face to the
cooling breeze, mild with spring, perfumed by the area’s ubiquitous cherry
blossoms. Falling petals danced on air currents before raining down, creating a
surreal scene some might have found romantic and sensual. The deserted street
was almost too quiet. Even the night seemed to be waiting for what would happen
next.

The name she uses is
Magique
.

French for
magic.
According to Hunt’s client, who’d
paid close to twenty grand for tonight’s “date”,
Magique
was available only when the mood hit her.

Hunt had laughed at the notion,
asking, “Seriously?”

“You won’t be grinning if she
doesn’t choose you,” Jack
Kilhan
had said.

Nearly as rich as Facebook’s Mark
Zuckerberg
, Jack was a VIP client at Givens and Strobe, the
firm where Hunt, David and Tim worked. Hunt had helped get legislation passed
that saved Jack’s companies a lot of bucks and regulatory headaches. As a
reward, Jack was providing the coming hours with
Magique
.

That is, if she chose Hunt.

“Seriously?” he’d asked the man
again, dutifully sobered this time.

Jack pursed his lips and drew hard
on his illegal Cuban cigar, releasing aromatic smoke with his words. “She
doesn’t do this for the money, Hunt.” He offered a knowing smile. “She doesn’t
need to.”

Really.
“She has a day job? She’s a lobbyist too?
Someone’s aide?
Part of the POTUS’s inner circle?
His mistress?”

Jack smoked his cigar.

Hunt pressed on. “If she doesn’t
need the money for living expenses, then why does she do it?”

“Why do you or any man?”

Dumb
question.
They craved sex, the high of an
orgasm, the warmth of a body and close comfort without any of the nasty
complications.

“Hey,” David
said,
real quiet as though he feared being overheard. His Asian features were tight
with concern as he studied Hunt.
“You all right?”

He was horny as hell and hadn’t even
seen her. What the fuck was the matter with him? He enjoyed women, always
had—for sex and an occasional friendship, not anything soul shattering, knowing
how easily love could become a weapon. He’d seen enough of that shit as a
child.

Had Jack been putting him on with
that she-might-be-inaccessible crap? There was only one purpose for
tonight…unrestrained indulgence.
For her, him and his
buddies.

“She prefers three guys at once,”
Jack had informed.
“Rather than one on one.”

Hunt wasn’t about to question why.

“I’m fine,” he said in answer to
David, then cleared the tightness in his throat as he headed for the front
door.

Tim followed, his strides decisive,
his blond good looks downright preppy and at home in this well-to-do
neighborhood.

The cab hummed down the street,
leaving a whiff of diesel the breeze washed away. Branches tapped the home’s
windows. The glass glowed with amber-colored lights, the gentle illumination
spilling onto the darkened walk. Hunt thumbed the doorbell. Its chime was
feminine and soft, tempering his impatience, though it didn’t keep him from
jabbing it again.

A woman answered. She wore black
slacks and a demure white blouse.
Hardly the stuff of any
man’s X-rated fantasy.
Given the faint lines at the corners of her eyes
and around her generous mouth, Hunt guessed her to be around thirty-two, the
same as him.

She was
Magique
?

He warned himself against
disappointment or asking the wrong questions as he regarded her. Compared to
his six-three, she was possibly five-five and as scrawny as he’d been as a
pre-teen. From his peripheral vision, he saw Tim was also sizing her up. David
remained focused on the street and coming doom from reporters, cops, whatever.

“Welcome,” she said without a hint
of warmth, a trace of an accent or any inquiry as to who they might be. “Please
come in.”

The foyer was expansive, its walls
the color of butter, the same as the outside façade. Recessed lighting coupled
with mahogany furniture and gold-leather wing chairs added to its erotic
allure, creating images of an upscale brothel where scantily clad women waited
for a man to choose them, the rosy tips of their nipples evident through sheer
lingerie. Intricate floral designs were inlaid into the beige marble floor. A
sweeping staircase with wrought iron railings led to the upper rooms.

She locked the door and gestured to
the stairs.
“Second floor, to the left.
All the way
down the hall to the double doors.”

With that, she pivoted and went into
a side room.

David leaned close to Hunt and Tim.
“Who was that?” he whispered.

Tim mumbled, “You noticed it too?”

David stared at the wedge of light
spilling from the room she’d disappeared into. “Noticed what?”

“How familiar she looks.” Tim rubbed
his temple,
then
dropped his hand. “Oh shit, didn’t
she used to report for CBS?”

David looked like he wanted to hurl.
Hunt elbowed Tim’s gut.


Ow
,” he
complained and continued to laugh.

Privileged from birth, Tim expected
the world to cave to his every whim, never to question his motives no matter
how base. His father owned most of the land in New England, his mother the
majority of the buildings on it. No one denied Tim Bellamy, nor did anything
worry him.

David on the other hand… He’d been
poor like Hunt, clawing through a lot of unpleasant shit to get where he was
now. He released a quiet groan. “Quit screwing with me.”

“Relax,” Hunt said. “
Magique’s
going to be doing that.” That is, if she found
David fuck-worthy.

Hunt frowned, trying to picture her
denying David or himself. He didn’t much like the prospect. Ever since high
school he’d pretty much had it easy with women. They liked how he looked. He
adored their silken voices, the way they smelled and felt beneath his body and
hands. In college, he’d fallen hard, craving his girlfriend’s love. He would
have done anything for Paula.

She rewarded his loyalty and trust
by sleeping with one of his best friends.

To this day, Hunt wasn’t certain
which had come first, his pain or anger. However, the intensity of his rage
disturbed him the most. No way would he ever be like his mother’s boyfriends,
battering women to ease his hurt or to get his way.
Reining
in his emotions, he’d ordered himself to move on and had, enjoying the sex, not
hoping for anything more.
The same as tonight.

Magique
might not be an ordinary call girl, but he wasn’t her usual
client, trapped in a bad or boring marriage, wanting a female to mother him.
Hunt damn well knew how to make a woman whimper in delight, which excited him
more than anything else. Her satisfaction, that drowsy look of a lady well
fucked fueled his passion.

He took the stairs two at a time.
Tim caught up but didn’t pass. Good choice. Shoulder to shoulder they marched
to the landing.

Expensive prints of pastoral scenes
graced the walls, lit from above by brass light fixtures that made the artwork
seem older than it probably was. Oriental vases in lacquered greens and
golds
stood on cherry wood accent tables, the roses, lilies
and other flowers they held sweetening the air.

“This place is amazing,” David said
from behind.

Hunt turned to him. So did Tim.

Mussed by the breeze, David’s
straight black hair grazed his forehead and right cheek, making him appear more
boyish than his thirty-four years should have allowed.


Magique
must really be something,” he added.

“Definitely not ordinary,” Hunt
said,
then
went down the hall to where the woman had
directed them.

Smoky jazz played from inside the
room, a sax and strings making the piece sultry and tempting. Not bothering to
knock, he opened the doors.

Japanese murals decorated the walls,
depicting gardens in tones of beige, light brown and pale green. The faint
scent of newly mown grass and something citrusy provided a refreshing touch.
Crystal chandeliers drizzled light onto the polished hardwood floors, a
buff-colored fireplace, the sofa and chairs in bronze leather. A bank of tall
windows stood to the right, the raw silk drapes drawn over the panes. To the
side of them was a door. Leading to a bedroom?
Possibly.

On the other end of the room was a
wet bar.
And
Magique
.

BOOK: Claiming Magique: 1
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